Chapter Six - Queen Takes Pawn

Name: George Orbad

Alias: King, The King of the Kings

Wanted for the minor crimes of: Racketeering, Assault, Smuggling of Contraband, Homicide.

Wanted for the major crimes of: Corporate Defamation, Pirating of Private Data, Corporate Espionage.

Suspect is presumed armed and dangerous.

Reward: 1,750,000Cr

--King of Kings bounty posting, 2057

***

The Underground Kings had their hideout in the same ring of buildings as we were in. The factory they occupied was an old cotton-candy machine factory, of all things. Some of the signs on the outside were still bright and cheerful under the layer of grime that covered everything.

Of course, they’d covered it all with graffiti, mostly crude images of men with crowns on, sometimes just crowns, sometimes giant dicks with crowns on them. Very imaginative stuff. Some of the best bathroom-stall type art I’d ever seen.

Raccoon, our guide, paused on one of the catwalks about a hundred metres away from the factory. “That’s it,” she said. “The King’s King stays there sometimes.”

“Sometimes?” Gomorrah asked.

“He doesn’t live here,” Raccoon said, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. “No one that makes a bunch of credits stays underground.”

“Makes sense,” I said. “Other than robbing little girls, do these idiots do anything special?”

Raccoon shrugged. “They make drugs to sell to the people above. It’s called syrup. You can smell it when they make it. It’s nice.”

“Syrup?” I asked. I’d heard of that. It was a sort of goopy liquid, golden and clear, and apparently really sweet. It was actually a bit of a classier street drug, the sort middle-class guys would buy for a party or something. “I didn’t think they’d make that shit here.”

“They have to make everything somewhere,” Gomorrah said. “I imagine real estate down here isn’t too pricey.”

I shrugged. Didn’t matter to me. I didn’t come down here to rid the world of some party drugs. “Maybe the stink down here is the special ingredient,” I muttered.

Raccoon giggled. “So, that’s it. You guys are going to go ask them for stuff?”

“Just going to ask them about Gomorrah’s girlfriend.”

“Franny isn’t my girlfriend,” Gomorrah said, voice flatter than usual.

“Not with that attitude,” I replied. “Rac, do you know who we should ask to see?”

“If they even let you in,” the girl said. “Ask for one of the Bishops. They’re, like, the important ones, I think.”

I pat the girl atop the head, because that’s what I’d do with a kitten, then pointed to the front of the factory. “Let’s get this over with; they might not know what we want.”

Raccoon followed Gomorrah and I as we approached the factory, but she let off once we were closer to the doors and the two guys standing next to them, who might have been guards, maybe.

They had guns and were wearing some ratty clothes which had crowns stitched into them like some sort of uniform. The full-faced masks they had looked like they’d been pulled from a bargain bin, not that I’d cast stones from my glass orphanage.

“Heya,” I said as I walked over. My cyberwarfare augs were still on, and they highlighted the doors and the electronic locks keeping them closed. I toggled the option to unlock them, because I was curious, and was only mildly surprised when they didn’t fall apart.

“Hey, hey, stop right there!” one of the guards said. He brandished his gun around, some sawed-off shotgun thing held together with happy thoughts and duct tape. His finger was on the trigger already.

I stopped, both hands rising up to shoulder-level. “Stopping,” I said. I was pretty sure the gun couldn’t hurt me, but then, I was on a catwalk bridge leading over to the factory entrance, and there was a hundred metre fall next to me. One side didn’t even have any railings. It wouldn’t take much for the whole thing to collapse.

I’d probably be fine if it did, but it would be inconvenient and a waste of time.

“What you here for?” the guard asked.

“I’ve got questions. We heard some of your, uh, ‘Kings’ might have some answers.” I was sure to make it obvious that there were some quotes around their title. “Think you two can help us out?”

The two guards looked at each other, considering things.

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Myalis, being the gem that she was, tapped into their comms with the ease of an experienced porch pirate stealing someone’s insulin package from their doorstep.

Pawn G: Tell Bish?

Pawn J: Y

Pawn G: I call. Keep gun > thm

Their names were Pawn? I was never too keen on joining any gang, but joining one where your title was literally ‘pawn’ had to be some sort of Darwinian test for any potential recruit. “Just let us go see Bishop,” I said. “Also, are you guys really going with a chess theme?”

“Chess is a game for intellectuals,” Pawn J said.

“Yeah, that’s why I’m wondering why you guys are using it as a theme.”

“Cat,” Gomorrah said aloud. “Don’t antagonize the idiots.”

Pawn G puffed up in anger and waved his gun around some more, but neither of us could be bothered to care, so with a frustrated grunt, he turned back and started sending more texts. I glanced at them as Myalis intercepted the lot, but for the most part he was just asking someone with any level of authority what to do.

“Yeah, you can come in,” he said at last.

“Thanks,” I replied.

We were met just inside by a big guy in a ratty suit, a tube tucked under his jacket where it ran down from his breathing mask. He had a little rook pin on his shoulder. We were climbing up the ranks, it seemed. “You two, follow me,” he said.

I glanced at Gomorrah, but she didn’t seem to have anything to say about how polite our hosts were being.

We didn’t go very deep into the factory. The entrance was a grimy place, with a locker room filled with hazmat suits and masks to one side, and what looked like an office on the other side. We were led past those and into a lounge where a wide window overlooked the hole leading to the ground below, with the occasional flash of light as a car hovered through the maze of catwalks.

Two people were waiting for us.

Well, two people and a few guards that faded into the background.

One was wearing a black suit, the other a white one. Actual nice suits too, the sort I’d expect to see in an ad for some insurance agency or something. The small rebreather masks they wore didn’t quite fit, but safety first and all that.

“Greetings, dear samurai,” the guy in the white said. “It’s not every day that we receive such distinguished guests, so please pardon our lack of preparedness.”

“Uh, yo,” I said. “It’s fine. Are you the people in charge here?”

“No, no,” the black-suited one said. “We are merely the King of the King’s right- and left-hand men. I’m Bishop Black, and that’s Bishop White.”

They were both pastier than anything, but I chose not to insult our new info-broker buddies. “Alright, cool. We’re not actually here for anything related to the Kings. We’re looking for someone.” I sent them the image of Franny again. “And maybe we’re looking for some information about this gang called the Sewer Dragons.”

“I’m certain we can assist,” Bishop Black said. I saw him blinking as he took in the image I sent him. “I think we know about this girl.”

“What do you know?” Gomorrah said.

“Oh, this and that. I’d need to pull things up. It might take a little while. We don’t store things digitally, for obvious reasons,” he said. “It’s time-consuming and expensive, but worth it.”

“Uh-huh,” I said. “Got a price?”

“Everything does!” White Bishop joined in. “We will make sure to provide you with a discount, of course, on account of the good work you samurai put in to improve our lives.”

I snorted, and was about to ask him something else when Myalis interrupted.

Catherine. I thought you might wish to know this. The girl, Raccoon, is currently being physically assaulted just outside the factory.

It took me a second to register that, then I was out of the room and walking back out. Gomorrah kept up with me, and so did the two Bishops and some of their guards.

I arrived outside to see Pawn G kicking at a familiar bundle of cloth on the ground.

For just a moment I saw red. Then reason caught up with me and I realized I had a perfect solution. I tugged out my Trench Maker and shot the Pawn in the back. Then I shot the other, who was laughing, for good measure.

“What are you doing?” Bishop White yelled.

I slammed my gun back into its holster and stomped over to Raccoon. “Gomorrah, can you keep an eye on them for a minute?” I asked. I had more important things to take care of.

***