Clovehitch had just finished making himself a pot of Rho tea when Slick and Antares entered the mess hall. Imogen, at the table, greeted them.
“Clovehitch. I cracked the girl’s PDA and found a gig worth of school notes, but also something that corroborates the father’s story, and the profile of his you got from the Fet-Club.”
“Oh yeah?” He blew on his cup of steaming tea. “Got anything on a possible location?”
“Yes sir. Last entry of a diary mentions her running away with her boyfriend to a place called The Ritzy Toad Cornerclub in the Lower City.”
“A Nadir joint?” Clovehitch said, taking a tentative sip. He hadn’t figured there would be any cornerclubs in the Sunless Citadel.
“That would be my guess.”
“That’s our next destination. Might be some bullets flying so you and Antares stay home.”
“Null sweat, cap,” Antares said with a wheeze-cough of a laugh. “Though, if I were that girl, I think I’d rather turn up dead than return home.”
“How’s that?”
“I read some of those diary pages,” he said with a cruel coughing laugh. He and Slick were already out of the room and down the hall to the cockpit before he thought to ask for details.
He looked at Imogen, who gave him a hard look. She’d put two and two together as well. Clovehitch just took another sip and grabbed his coat. The lead was already four days cold, they’d have to spring on it quick.
The Captain and his two top mates rolled out to the Lower City in the Jingle Horse. This time they were packing guns, not just small hold outs. The Captain had an Oeuvre pistol strapped to his thigh, covered by the width of his coat. The blocky sloped barrel against his pant leg was a comforting feeling. He ran a finger down the trigger guard, which connected on a slight slant to the bottom of the grip. He eyed Imogen’s Orcish hunting rifle, sawn down and modified for her own tastes, resting beside the Jingle Horse’s steering column.
“I hope there is a High Violence Factor on this ride, Ellie,” Ierx said excitedly.
“I hope not. I’m not trying to catch a bullet or plasma burn on a search and rescue.”
“Agreed, Captain,” Imogen replied, turn the Jingle Horse into a parking slot. “On foot from here. About two blocks to the Ritzy Toad.”
The conspicuous trio piled from off-roader to the dirty and dark streets of the Lower City. Clovehitch felt a tired ring around his eyes. He’d gotten too used to actually sleeping at night.
They got a few looks from the Dusklings stalking the streets of the Lower City. A lot of them wore casual clothing, bright colors and prismatic geometric patterns woven into their coats and pants. The Captain thought they looked like ponces, but they were mostly teenagers or young adults, he could give a small pass for idiocy at that age.
The three tossed open the door to the Ritzy Toad like gangbusters and let it swing shut behind them. The patrons, some with deathsticks drooping from their lips, gave them a look before turning away and restarting their riotous conversation. Clovehitch thought he even heard a chuckle or two his way.
The layout was certainly that of an old country Nadir Cornerclub, but he noticed remarkably few of them actually inside. The booths and tables were occupied almost entirely by Dusklings. Must be their community in this part of town.
Clovehitch approached the barman while his crew stood by and looked tough. “Seen this girl?” He held out a photo.
“Dunno. Mem’ries a lil fuzzy.” He polished a horn with his rag, running it along the reddish-black protrusion of bone to the base at his forehead, scratching flakes of dry skin from his black hair. The flakes fell into a cup that he set aside for the next customer.
“Her name is Ayelet Sonrimor, came here with her boyfriend about 3 nights ago?”
“Three nights.” His eyes when wide and he leaned back like he’d been hit with a pan. “You’re asking about a long time ago. Dust’s got a hol’ a me, ya see? Hard to recall this from that.”
Clovehitch turned to Ierx and whispered to him, asking if he had any of his stash on him. The Rhousettus gave him a pained, pathetic expression, like a begging animal. Clovehitch gave him a rasped order and a dime bag fell into his palm, shaken from some hidden pocket in his tough’s furry hide. It was slightly moist, which soured Clovehitch’s expression, but he flashed it to the barman all the same.
“Now talk. And the information better be decent or I’ll come back and knock the dust back out from your nose.”
The barman nodded happily and leaned in on his elbows, looking left and right conspiratorially. No one in the establishment gave a rat’s ass enough to turn their heads. “I seen the girl, and the boy, I even know ‘im. Name is Sakeri. Runs with the Anarchs. New initiate and all that. Rolled through here three nights ago just like you said.”
He held out his hand for the bag with a smile.
“I already knew all of that. Now give me something useful.”
“Urgh, fine, man. Sakeri met up with some of his buddies a few hours ago and they rolled over to a friend’s apartment in the Complexes.”
“What is that?”
“Housing for workers. Just a couple blocks north of here. Ask for Jem. The Anarchs ain’t half bad, they’ll talk to you as long as you ain’t violent, man.”
Clovehitch slapped the little tied up baggie of silvery powder before the barman and hustled out.
“Head over to the Complexes and start asking questions?” Imogen ventured.
Clovehitch gave her a nod that said ‘of course’. They hurried back to the Jingle Horse and rolled the thing over to the Complexes. He stepped a boot from the vehicle to the floor when they’d parked, looking up at the great ugly dome scraper of an apartment block.
Lights were on in the honeycomb of windows. Some windows had laundry hanging from them, or residents leaning out to smoke. Clovehitch wondered why they were even there, there wasn’t anything worth seeing on the streets. A huddle of thugs flocked by the entrance, some glared at the Jingle Horse.
“Let’s get this wrapped up and bring it--” but before he could finish, the sound of sizzling plasma rang out. Then bullets, sounded like a spiker. The sounds were only barely muffled by the interior of the complex.
Clovehitch’s hand shot for his gun, and he heard Imogen and Ierx tense up too, folding out of the vehicle. The youths by the entrance, huddled in their dark clothing, took a tentative look inside, and heard more shooting. They scrambled down the stairs and away, hollering and yelping. Residents blipped from their windows, lights went out. Shooting continued.
“Careful who the fuck you shoot, keep your heads down.” Clovehitch barked, his voice was a snarl now, ducking low and flying up the stairs to the double doors. Imogen was a step behind him, and Ierx quietly moved a pace or two to his side.
There was a lull in the shooting, some shouting barks in voices that sounded Duskling, Saurian, Orcish. Curses in Saurian rumbled down the lobby. Clovehitch saw the poorly lit lobby dashed with pockmarks of plasma fire and projectiles. The harsh smell of burnt flesh and blood hit his nose and watered his eyes. A single, narrow flight of stairs headed up.
Slumped up against the mailboxes was Sakeri. Half his face was plasma slag, and the black turtleneck sweater of the Anarchs was charred and flickered with dying embers of fire. In his hands a shattered bottle of alcohol, mixing with the dirt on the tile floor, and a pile of dropped groceries. He looked unarmed.
This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.
Twenty stairs up lay the crumbled body of another Duskling, this one in casual clothing. His loose grip held a weapon and a bristling of four spikes stuck out his back and side. Imogen darted her head quickly around the corner of the stairwell, peering into the long hallway. She stole point from Clovehitch, her rifle hip level and forward.
Ierx, silent for all his shaggy fur and weight, moved past him too. Clovehitch took up the rear, gun leveled at the stairway in case anyone else showed. They passed rows and rows of apartment doors, occasionally hearing the clicks of locks and grind of furniture being moved to block the doors.
Clovehitch noticed a door squeak open. A little eyeball looked up at him, a small Duskling boy. The Captain’s breath caught in his throat and his vision warbled. “Stay the fuck inside,” he barked, and grabbed the doorknob shut. His breath unsteadied and he paused to make it level.
A specter from his NLF days crept up behind him. He felt a small presence. It dissipated at the sound of gunfire.
“Captain, a visual!” Imogen called back, she was at the foot of another coil of stairs. “Two thugs, they’re trying to bust into an apartment. Couple dead Anarchs too.”
Clovehitch rushed up, taking his own look. Three more bodies. Two of them in all black. A Saurian appeared at the top of the stairs and barked something in his native tongue, sounded like jagged bits of glass rolling down stone. It was accompanied by a few bolts of plasma.
“City Guard, put those guns down or be killed!” Clovehitch called, bluffing.
“Fuck off!” an Orc called back.
“Ice ‘em,” the Captain whispered to his companions. He strode shoulder to shoulder with Imogen. His blood bumped, vision narrowed. He’d stormed plenty of apartments as an NLF. This one was no different. Filthy air came in through his nose, swirled in his lungs, and was expelled again.
They reached the top of the stairs and caught the Saurian looking them. Imogen put a round in his gut. Clovehitch followed up with a pair of rounds not four centimeters apart in his throat and jaw. The Orc pounding on an apartment door wheeled on his heel, tried to bring up his gun but it slipped from his hand and he threw his arms up in surrender. His head was shaven save for a mohawk died hot red that hung to the left in gelled spikes.
“Don’t move.” Clovehitch snapped. His eyes drifted to the left of him, past the tips of his hair and over his ear, down the hall. A little Nobel girl was standing there, hands clutching her chest, a red and wet hole there. He squeezed the trigger in shock.
He peeled his eyes from the hall and looked to Imogen who gave him a sharp glower but it faded instantly. Ierx had taken rear guard, and called that more were coming. His machine pistol rang out in bursts of three. Imogen hurried back down to help. The Captain was loathe to look down the hall, but needed to know if she was there.
Not a sign. Not a single hint. Just a couple dead thugs.
“We spooked ‘em off, Cap!” Ixxy said a second later. His snotty nose was moist and huffing hot hair on the Captain’s neck.
“Good job. Now let’s see who was in the apartment, shall we?”
One rap at the door, then another, pounding. “Jem, that you inside? We’re friends of Ayelet and Sakeri. Ayelet? You there?” Clovehitch called, pressing his pointed ear to the door and hearing a spot of whimpering.
“Jem’s dead man. S-sakeri…” A male voice croaked back, young and the accent sounded Duskling.
“Open up, the gang bangers are dead.” Imogen ventured.
The maglock clicked off, and the door slid open. A Duskling in a ripped up black sweater stood. One hand cupped his left horn, it had gotten grazed. His other arm hung limply, it dripped blood from under his sleeve.
“Got hit?” Clovehitch asked.
The kid nodded. He was unarmed. “Imogen, see to his arm. Ierx case this joint, weapons raised.”
“Anybody else in here?” Clovehitch asked, gripping the kid’s shoulder hard. He got a shaky ‘no’ as a reply.
“OY! LAST WARNIN’ TO ANY GIT, IT IS. Come out or be hole’d,” Ixxy called in his gibbering way.
Clovehitch left Imogen to her first aid and helped search the apartment. There wasn’t much to case. Ierx’s foot broke through an unlocked door to the bedroom and found nothing but a bachelor’s tossed and messy room. The Captain’s peek into the bathroom wasn’t much more exciting.
Place looked lived in for sure. Half-eaten takeout lay in piles. Unwashed clothes. Porngraphic mags and an unattended qalyan still hot from use lay on the living room table. Whole place stunk of unwashed clothes and devilgrass.
“What did those thugs want?” Imogen asked, patting the tied off wound. The kid winced and looked at his ripped sleeve with an upset glance. He was a year younger than Sakeri by Clovehitch’s eye.
“You guys friends of Sakeri and Ayelet?”
“You know where she is?” Clovehitch asked, coming closer. Ierx loomed over him, hot breath on his neck and the smell of food. The damn beast was stuffing his face with some salvaged takeout.
The kid looked down to his shoes and back up. He was about to spill his guts. “She’s in the Underrail with Big Bro. Did you see Sakeri on your way up? Is he okay?”
Imogen shook her head no and patted his good arm. The kid’s eyes watered a bit and he sniffled. He wiped his nose and eyes on his sleeve and took a shuddering breath. He slid to the floor against the wall and brought his knees up to his chest.
“Can you take us to Ayelet?”
“I’m not suppose to take people who ain’t in the club to see Big Bro.”
“Not even friends?” Imogen pressed.
“Yeah, frens!” Ierx gulped a fat mouthful of noodles with a slurping sound, a flick of sauce hitting the back of the Captain's ear. He slapped it off with a hand and stood over the kid.
“Streets are going to have more of those gangers. And dressed like that everyone knows you’re an Anarch. We could get you to the Underrail safely if you escort us once we’re there.”
“Okay but there is something we have to take!” He said in a rush to stand. He weaved past the three of them to the bathroom. Clovehitch followed just in time to watch him unclick a removable panel from the wall. The edge of the metal grate scraped the wall and a trickle of dust fell. In the dark space a little medicine chest lay, and the kid retrieved it.
“This is what the gangers wanted.” He opened the chest and flashed its contents. Ierx nearly dropped, his heavy hand clasping the Captain’s shoulder tightly. About three dozen bags of dust, and double that in illicit drugs. Small white capsules with little blue smileys poorly inked into them. Longer yellow ones with black tips.
“Looks like twenty-eight tengoes in drugs, kid.” Clovehitch turned over a bag in his hands, prodding with his fingers and watching the dust displace before tossing it back in.
“Thirty.” The kid bite back. “Stolen from the Party Gangers right from under them. We were going to turn them over to Big Bro for our initiation.”
Clovehitch got the feeling the Anarchs weren’t looking for that type of attention with the Gangers. The kid shut the box. “You can get me there safe, I can get you in.” There was an unearned confidence in his voice.
Clovehitch agreed and the four were descending down the staircase. Their Duskling tagalong shut his eyes tight at the gore outside the apartment. The Captain turned his head more than once over his shoulder. He told himself it was to check on the Duskling, but his neck hair’s tingled with the prospect of seeing the Nobel girl’s shade.
Ierx was the first out of the apartment. Before he, or anyone else, could react, three rounds caught him in the side. He groaned and fell with a thud. Imogen and the Captain moved on pure muscle memory and iced a lone ganger who had waited in ambush and shot him to a bloody pulp.
Clovehitch’s heart skipped when he looked over at the hairy lump splayed out on the steps of the Complex. “What the fuck,” he barely managed. “Help me roll him over. And by fuck don’t you dare tell me he died on this piss run.”
Imogen and he rolled him over, a rattling wheeze of a breath sprung from the Rhousettus. A trio of ragged, bloody holes dotted his upper pectorals. The Captain silently reminded himself that their largest bone plates were in that area.
“Number One, first aid. Kid, keep a look out.” He ran off for the Jingle Horse and brought it sputtering up, reversing the thing into the courtyard and bumping it up the steps.
Imogen pulled, with her impressive Tahjin strength, and Clovehitch pushed, with what he could muster. And the pair rolled the patched up Rhousettus into the back of the Jingle Horse where the cargo normally rested.
“He’ll need a doc,” Imogen said.
The Captain squeezed his lapel mic. “Antares, you read? Urgent. Pick up your line.”
He heard the smack of a mic across table as the Starling fetched his headset. “Yo. You got the girl?”
“No. Ixxy caught a bullet,” Clovehitch put the cargo vehicle in drive and rolled it into the street. The Duskling kid bounced nervously in the backseat, glaring at the wounded Rhoussetus. “We need a street doc and double time. Can you put a line to our fixer and get us a hook up?”
“No need, Cap, I know a guy. He’s good but he ain’t cheap.”
“Don’t care. Call him, pipe me directions to his place.”
Antares didn’t reply, but a second later the directions to a veterinary a ten minute drive away popped up in the Jingle Horse’s nav.
The Captain made sure they got there sooner, in eight minutes. They rolled the auto into the back of the joint. This was a 24hr veterinarian. 12hrs normal operation, saving the pets of those in the slums when they get sick off garbage juice. 12hrs of stitching back together the hacked limbs, bullet-riddled and ripped-open intestines of the gangbangers that creep up from the Underrail or stumbles in from the streets like Ierx and Elendar just did.