Epilogue
Abbi woke up next to Kline, their new airhome warm but her husband warmer. She curled into his back, floating in and out of consciousness for a time, but a pressing need forced her out. Abbi padded toward the head. Unlike their old home, this one had two lavatories, one with a large, claw-footed tub that poured Vapor-heated water out of the spigot. The entire place was--for them--a luxury beyond what she had ever thought possible even a fortnight ago. Finishing up with her nature, she hissed when she jarred her arm. The wound was still tender, and Mavin O'clively had insisted through her beaked mask that Abbi would have to take especial care not to strain it. "It isn't shallow," she had said, her face impossible to read through the mask, "but it isn't deep." "At least it isn't a contradiction," Abbi had said, wincing as the gloved fingers probed the wound. "The stresses you've put on it will make the recovery time lengthy," the apothecary had decided before giving Abbi a balm and finishing the stitch work. Abigaile trusted Mavin only slightly more than she trusted Aunt Cici, who likely would've drafted some new Dreg to heal her. Though, as she thought more on it, Mavin probably would've thrilled at the challenge, too. Sighing, she rubbed the ointment on the injury. It was by far the worst that either of them suffered, though she still ached below her left breast where Ralle's bullet had struck. The bruises on Kline's face were still green, and he, too, had a residual soreness that three days' relaxation had failed to fix. Abbi splashed some water on her face. It was cold outside, but the airhome was warm. Taking care of her hurts was enough to wake her up, though, so she decided to straighten some of their new belongings. The acquisition of a new home had not been as easy as she had expected, and in the end, she was glad Kline had extorted three times what she was thinking of. She had never spent so many gears in her life--combined, probably--and it was nice to have something to be proud of. The laboratory was no longer a precisely-maintained closet; it was spacious, bigger than their bedroom had been in the old one. There was a room dedicated to clothes and, since some of her favorite pieces had been ruined in the kerfuffle (as Kline liked to call it), she relished the task of filling it with her things. Of course, they'd managed to scrap their old airhome for some additional gears, which meant that they hadn't had to buy everything new. Some things they kept as much for sentimental reasons as any other. It gave the new wings a familiar feeling, but different enough to make her feel as though they really were in a new stage of life. Sipping some tea she'd brewed, Abigaile looked out the windows--another change from what they'd had before: She could see outside without a periscope. The sky was tooth-achingly blue, and the roil of clouds beneath drifted in lazy curls. Sunlight crept over the horizon, filling the airhome with light. Abbi squinted, unsure of what she was seeing. Scrambling through a crate still unloaded from the old place, she shuffled around, looking for the tool she needed. While her memory wasn't perfect, she remembered putting it in a crate just like this one… She found it. With a soft crow of delight, she pulled the telescopic attachment out of its box and then affixed it to her goggles, which she'd thrown onto the couch last night on her way to getting undressed. Adjusting the straps, she set them more comfortably against her face, then closed one eye. With careful movements, she calibrated the scope, fixing more firmly on what she saw in the distance. Animals, flapping up and down, flying in a formation. Her heart leapt into her mouth and tears pricked her eyes. "Birds," she whispered, shocked and joyful and incredulous at the same time. "Real birds!" Though small, even with her telescope, she could see the gracefulness of their bodies as they plied the air. Everyone had claimed the birds had died off when the world below went toxic, but she had always secretly hoped that the idea was more fable than fact. And here she had the proof. She'd seen them with her own eyes. Kline stumbled out of the bedroom. "What're-ya-doin'," he said in a slur. Sniffing back her tears, Abbi said, "Oh, nothing." She shrugged. "Say, what do you think about calling this new place by a name? Christening the airship?" Kline coughed a little, then shrugged. "Okay. What are you thinking of?" Looking through her tears and the telescope, Abbi said, "How about The Freed Bird?" Kline walked over to her and took her in his arms, kissing her on the neck softly, his whiskers tickling her skin. "That sounds wonderful, Abigaile." He held her without speaking as she watched the birds fly. (842) Abigaile
It was an enjoyable thing to see Ralle wake up with a whiff of Vapor, taken from Alyn's pocket. The panic on Ralle's face, the unsure expression, the obvious pain. He looked from Abbi to Kline, then back again. "You got me," he said. He took in the destruction of the room. "The two of you did all this?" "Well," said Kline, smiling a little. "We had help." He gestured at Ralle. "You, for one." "You're monsters," said Ralle. "I should have killed you when I had the chance." "Maybe," said Abbi. "But you didn't. Now, look. We're a couple of cloudfarmers. We got banged up pretty badly in this deal, I have to admit." She glanced at Kline. "We only wanted some raw Vapor that we had harvested ourselves. Instead, we got this." She gestured at the room. "But we're not ones to grouse. So here's the deal: We want some gears to pay for a new airhome." Ralle made a disgusted sound. Abbi ignored him. "We want you to leave us alone. Everyone. The wife of Alyn--" "He doesn't have a wife," spat Ralle, his body tense with his fury. "Whatever. I don't care. The point is, no one should be coming after us. Ever. Can you guarantee that?" "Why should I do anything you want?" asked Ralle through his lisp. "Because we spared your life," said Abbi. He made that same sound again. "You made a mistake there. No, I won't pay for your new home. I'll call in all my men, all the favors I need, to make sure that you're destroyed for this. You say you lost your home? I'll see that you lose your home town. You won't be killed, you'll die from a thousand cuts, grounded beneath the gears of my rage." "No," said Kline. "That won't work for us." Ralle's fury didn't abate. "This isn't open for discussion. You untie me, and I'll reduce your misery by five percent. You make me break out of this, and I'll increase your suffering beyond what you have the capacity to imagine." "I don't know," said Kline. "We're pretty creative people." Ralle spat at him. "You're the one who called that stupid thing a punchgun." Kline stiffened. "Hey, there's nothing wrong with that name." Abbi put a hand on her husband's shoulder, then regretted it. Blood still stuck on it, though they'd bound up the wound. He'd be okay, she was grateful to see. Most of the people in the room would be, thanks to the Panacea she was able to administer. Except for Alyn, she was willing to bet that most of the mobbers would survive, once some medics were brought on the scene. They could do wonderful things with Dregs these days. Kline took a deep breath. "Here's the thing, Mister Ralle. We know that you're not the kind of person who will forgive a slight." "Damn right about that," snarled Ralle. "But," continued Kline as if he hadn't been interrupted, "we don't want to have to kill you. We're not monsters, you know." "Here's our deal," said Abbi. "You call off the manhunt on us. We'll let you keep Turner." In the corner, Turner whimpered. "You give us the gears we need for the airhome. And we all walk away." "Then," said Kline, before Ralle could retort, "a few days from now, I'll send you the antidote." This gave Ralle pause. "Wait, what do you mean, antidote? You think I'm going to believe that you'd kill me later but not now? If the whole point of you talking to me is to keep me from following you because you don't want to kill, you're going about it all wrong. I'm not poisoned." "Yes, you are. But not with a lethal poison." Kline held up the flamethrower apparatus. "See this? I took it off your man. See, if you get the right balance of Desses and Somna, heat it up until it turns clear, and ingest it, you'll slip into a coma from which you won't awake. Only one person knows the antidote…and that person isn't me." Abbi had to struggle to keep thoughts of Aunt Cici from her mind. Picturing the woman, in her ridiculous outfit and horrible breath, administering to Ralle to pull him out of the Dreg sleep that Kline had been in? Well, it was enough to make her laugh aloud. But that probably would ruin Ralle's worry, and she didn't want to ruin man's serious decision. Ralle looked at them hesitantly. Abbi could almost hear the man's thoughts. What to do in such a situation? She didn't envy him, but she had no sympathy, either. His greed and viciousness was the root cause to all their suffering. Seeing him concerned was enjoyable, on a certain level. "Why am I not unconscious now?" "It's in your gauntlet." Kline pointed at Ralle's arm. "I won't tell you where until we're safe and far away. Then your alchemists can pull it free and you can sleep easy." "Why should I trust you?" "We're giving you a chance," said Abbi. "An opportunity to walk away. Yeah, you'll be a little poorer. Your pride will be wounded. But you'll be awake to enjoy the remaining riches and the other aspects of your criminal pride." "You killed my men." "As few as we could," said Kline. He gestured at the wrecked room. "And we give you Turner as a peace offering on that front." He shrugged. "What do you say? Coma until you die? Or a compromise?" Ralle looked at them, his face dark. "Untie me," he said. "I'll do as you say." Kline sighed and shook his head. "We didn't have a chance to tie you up," he said. "So we can't do that." Ralle looked down, surprise on his face. He was, indeed, unfettered. "I…" He paused, shaking his head. "I guess I just assumed you'd tie me up." "Yeah," said Abbi, "but we were busy doing everything else we had to, including staunching the wound of Flamey." She sighed. "This room's a mess though. I'm not cleaning it up." "How many gears do you need?" asked Ralle, slowly standing up and looking at his gauntlet, including the area where the tubes ran beneath his sleeve. "For your airship?" Kline threw out a number easily three times higher than what Abbi was thinking. Ralle nodded. "You have cheap tastes, Mister Kline." Kline shrugged. "I'm a humble man," he countered. "I don't have that much cash on hand." "I know a businessman who can help," said Abbi. "Get us a promissory note. We'll cash it on our way out of Lolling Greens." Ralle grimaced, then reached into his vest pocket. "That much, I can do." He scratched out the order, signed it, and handed it over. "And how will you send me the antidote?" "You're normally in Colutra, right?" "Yes." "That's all I'll need." Ralle sniffed. "So, is that it? We part ways now?" "No," said Abbi. "One last thing." Kline looked at her, surprised. So did Ralle. Without a word, Abbi stood and walked toward Turner. His father's office was in shambles, with scorch marks, bullet holes, and sprays of blood. The chaos had not touched him or the woman he had pulled into one corner to keep safe. The fighting hadn't provided him with any chances to escape, but Abbi could tell that the man wasn't interested in running any more. He'd lost his will to flee. "He didn't deserve to die," he said softly. "I was trying to get the gears to help the theatre. That's all. I didn't mean to pull you in." Abbi felt a pang of sympathy stir in her. Then she remembered everything she'd been through, and the feeling went away. "Well, that's what you get for being a git," she said. He turned to look at her, tears in his eyes. For a moment, she paused and thought, Have pity. That was immediately followed up with the idea, Naaah. She punched Turner in the face as hard as she could. He dropped, unconscious. Massaging her knuckles, Abigaile turned back to her husband. "Now I am ready to part ways." (1366) Kline
One piece of Kline's glove had always bothered him--an edge on the right side that never seemed to work. Oh, it worked in the way it needed to--it grabbed onto the apparatus in the pouch--but it always caught on things. He had to have it for the punchgun to function properly, but it bothered him. More than one coat had been accidentally ruined because of it. Now, however, it gave him faithful service: He had managed, over the course of the back and forth, shouting, and different conversations around him, to carve up the rope that was holding him. As Abbi burst into tears, drawing all focus to her, the bounds slipped free. Kicking up as hard as he could, he caught Ralle's outstretched hand with the toe of his boot. The momentum kept him rolling backward and out of the chair. The shiny gun soared upward. The two bodyguards immediately honed in on him. Before Kline was on his feet, the man with the gun fired a shot. Unfortunately for him (but much to Kline's relief), Ralle's pistol landed on that man's head as he pulled the trigger. The bullet went wide, striking Alyn, who yelped and twisted to the ground. Abbi, close to the gun-toting guard, snatched up Tonia and fired a wide shot at the flamethrower man (an incredible choice of a weapon, in Kline's estimation--fire was loud, hot, and intimidating…much more than a pistol). She wasn't hoping to kill--that wasn't her style. In fact, she aimed above the man, who dove behind the only cover in the room: Gelden's desk. Then she spun the weapon around and clubbed the gunman in the face, dropping him to the floor. Kline stumbled backward, still uneasy on his feet. He'd been supine for so long that the blood had flowed away from his head. Things went blurry for a moment as the chaos of the room unfolded. The gun guy was regaining his feet after Ralle's weapon had fallen on him, Tonia was barking at Ralle (who was covering his face with his gauntlet, the occasional pellet flicking off of it with a spark, while falling back to the desk) and the flamethrower fellow. Alyn was getting up already--the shot had only grazed him, apparently. Turner was cowered in one corner, near Denise who still lay, unconscious and trussed up. The door burst open, knocking Abbi over as two guards, dressed identically, rushed the room. Kline groaned. He was having a hard time keeping track of so many people. The flamethrower burst out from behind the desk, a pillar of flame coiling through the office. Abbi, already on the ground, covered her head. One of the twins took the full brunt of the flames and ignited himself, screaming in pain and fear before stumbling back through the door. "Great weapon," said Kline appreciatively. He reached for his weapon, then realized that he'd been disarmed by Alyn when he'd been taken. Thinking of Alyn made Kline look to his left, just in time to see the assassin swing at him with his blade unsheathed. Luck more than instinct made him flinch backwards, dodging the attack. The air whistled with the sound of the steel slicing the air. Kline decided that he didn't want to hear what it sounded like if it were to slice him. Ralle swung a hand around the corner of the desk, bullets shot from his gauntlet going wide as Abbi scrambled toward the pitiful cover of the bookshelves at the far end of the room. The second twin flinched and covered his face, dancing away from the shots. Abbi returned fire, sending Ralle back under cover. Alyn feinted, then jabbed, the blade catching Kline in the left shoulder. He screamed in pain, which brought the attention of the fight back toward him. The flamethrower spun out, his weapon at the ready. A blue flame flickered at the base of his wrist, right before the nozzle that ejected the flammable Vapor. The man was waiting for a clear shot… Flame. Vapor. A solution began to form in his mind. He had a couple of vials of Vapor on him, some Dregs that he'd brought along more because they were the last of his stock. The vials were still in their proper place at his hip, orange and yellow liquids visible even in the uncertain light of the office. If he could get close enough to that flame… The pain caught up to him, time seemed to resume, and Kline was fighting for his life. He dodged a couple of thrusts, then made a feeble attempt to punch back, but it was with his left arm. It made him grunt and stop the punch halfway through. It hurt too much. "Not used to pain, Mister Kline?" asked Alyn around his too-white smile. No one who killed for a living should have such a clean smile, Kline decided. "Too bad your life will end before you learn." "I'm a quick learner, actually," said Kline, cringing as he barely ducked a vicious slash. "Maybe I'm just a good teacher." Kline had to concede that point. Abbi, for her part, had knocked over an end table to give her a little more cover, but the twin had shouted for Ralle to stop shooting. He approached Abbi, large hands hooked and ready to snag her. Kline had to act now. "You know what this is?" he asked loudly, hoping to draw all attention to him. It worked--the twin stopped to stare. He held up his hand, a victorious smirk spread over his face. Alyn paused, confused. "It's a glove." "No, it's…" Frustrated, Kline shoved it into the pouch. He felt the mechanism slide across the sharp edge, connecting to the gears and grooves of the glove. "It's my gunpunch!" He pulled free the weapon, the two barrels aligning themselves alongside each side of his hand. No one moved. "You call it a gunpunch?" asked Ralle from behind the desk. He was looking over the edge, the bullet-riddled body of Gelden leaking all over. "Yeah," said Kline, a little defensively. He didn't appreciate Ralle's tone. "That's a stupid name," said the flamethrower. "No kidding," said Ralle. Kline frowned. "It's because of what happens when I punch!" Without further explanation, he swung his fist and pulled the trigger. When his fist stopped--mostly because he'd connected to Alyn's stomach--the weapon fired, bursting outward with a massive blast that nearly deafened Kline. Alyn, whose dark cloak was lined with lead to give him some protection, raised off the ground as his insides switched to his outsides, spraying large and wide throughout the room. Alyn stared in wide-eyed shock as he died in a puddle of his own gore. The room fell silent, staring. Then everything happened at once: Ralle spun around the far side of the desk and opened fire; the flamethrower triggered his weapon; and the twin dove toward Kline. In response to the movements, Kline hurled himself as hard as he could to the left. He landed hard on his injured shoulder, which caused a cascade of pain-inspired stars to dance behind his eyelids. Rolling away from the heat, Kline regained his feet in time to see the second twin stumble to the ground, dousing the fire that had coated his coat. "Bad luck in your family," said Kline under his breath. Now he and Abbi were by the door. All they had to do was get out, run free of the room, and… …be chased by the mobbers the rest of their (likely, very short) lives. "Come on!" shouted Abbi, gesturing to the door. Kline dropped beside her, not wanting to be targeted by Ralle. "No," he said, "we have to end this here." "I don't want to kill anyone else," said Abbi, her eyes wide with fear and frustration. "Neither do I." A bullet ricocheted off the handle, pulverizing the carpet next to his hand. "So?" "We need to get them to stop," said Kline. "Any ideas on how we could get them close?" He pulled out the crucial vials he needed, mixing them into a spare empty one he kept in his vest pocket. "Shitflies," said Abbi by way of response. "Flamey is reloading." "Flamey?" "The name for the guy with the flamethrower." "Not your most creative." "What did you think of him as?" snapped Abbi, firing a couple of times blindly over the table, if only to force them to keep their heads down. "The guy with a flamethrower." "Not so impressive, Kline." "I'm fighting for my life here!" "Doesn't mean you can't be a little more creative." A chunk of the table shattered between them, slicing both his and Abbi's cheeks with the splinters. The pain pulled him back into the moment. "I only have one punch left," he said, holding up his weapon. "How's your ammo?" "Out," said Abbi, holstering it. "I could maybe…" She stood up and reached behind her back, no doubt going for the derringer that she kept beneath her corset. Ralle rolled out and fired. The bullet hit her square in the stomach and knocked her down in a tumble of petticoats and a ribbon of blood. "Abbi!" Everything else faded away. No, she couldn't be dead. Not like this. Not here. He scrambled to her, the sound of battle ceasing at the panicked sound in his voice. He pulled her into his arms, cradling her head. "That hurt like hells," she whispered into his chest. The sounds of the mobbers cautiously approaching swirled about him. He couldn't believe it. She'd taken another bullet but somehow survived. "My corset," she said softly. Kline looked down. A smoking hole where the fabric had been torn away, revealing the tin underneath. "I got them close," she said as Ralle stepped around the table. "Use it." Shaking, he lowered his wife's body, as though she were dead. "You killed her," he said in a low voice. "Considering the headache you two have been since I arrived," lisped Ralle, "that's the least I could do to repay you." Ralle was on his right, Flamey and the twin on his left. Turner was still shivering close to Denise, who was a family friend--perhaps the last one he had in the world. Alyn was dead; the gunman was unconscious. Not good odds. But he didn't have any other options. He had to act. "Take it from my tab," he said as he moved. In retrospect, he wished he could have said something more clever. As it was, he let the stupid remark hang while he spun and punched with his right hand, triggering the gunpunch as he moved. It connected with Flamey's right leg, then fired, essentially obliterating the entire limb. Flamey toppled with a cry, but Kline wasn't done. Rolling tightly, his shoulder screaming in protest, he caught Flamey's right arm and aimed the device at the twin. "This way, you'll match your brother," he said, firing the weapon. Much better quip that time, in his opinion. The flamethrower sprayed the Vapor, engulfing the twin in fire. He shrieked and began to writhe about, the top half of his body quickly becoming enveloped in the licking conflagration. Ralle stomped next to Kline, who was lying on the ground, having been pulled down by the still conscious and screaming Flamey, who only seemed to want to comfort his non-leg. "I'm finished with you," said Ralle, the silver gun again in his hand. Kline closed his eyes. There was a soft thump. Kline opened his eyes. Ralle stood in the same place, looking confused, stunned, and on his way toward unconsciousness. Feathers floated around his face, drifting toward the ground. "My leg!" screamed Flamey. Ralle dropped. Kline looked up, blinking. Abbi stood, her breathing apparatus in one hand, the feathery motif on it completely ruined. "Can we be done now?" she asked. Kline smiled a little and laughed. The legless man whimpered. (2002) Abigaile
Finding the First Theatre had been the easy part. Getting from the alleyway where she scoped it out to the front lobby with a not-fully-unconscious Turner on her shoulder without getting noticed? That proved a little harder. When she had finally managed the deed--thanks in no small part to a crier-carriage, which drove through the streets, bellowing out the latest news (in this case, an attack at a Vapor refinery in the slums)--Abbi had to pause at the threshold. No one was in the lobby to welcome her, but the opulence of the place took her breath away. That and she was basically out of Puissance and Turner was heavy. Using the last of the fumes, she put aside her awe for the architecture and dragged the stumbling Turner forward. A gruff looking fellow--a mobber if ever she saw one--stepped out from behind a pillar. "Can I help you, miss?" "I'm looking for the people in charge here," she said, not sure of what else to say. "My name is…" and she paused here, reflecting. They didn't know who she was, that much she could almost say for certain. And why would they believe that some woman off the street with a man scarcely able to keep his feet and unable to talk were the people they were looking for? She cleared her throat. "My name is Scilia. I'm a mercenary for Jerome. I've captured Doddy Turner." Abbi prayed to the Cogmaker that the man quickly slipping into consciousness was Doddy Turner. "Oh," said the mobber, stroking his beard. He wore goggles on his bald forehead, which he pulled down over his eyes, then wiped one hand on the leather apron he wore over his double-breasted suit. Adjusting the viewing apparatus over his right eye, he stared at Turner intently. Abbi watched, waiting for the man's verdict. After what felt like hours but probably had only been twenty seconds, the mobber nodded, straightening his huge body and replacing his goggles on his forehead. He gestured to a doorway behind him. "That's the man all right. His teeth are giving off the right signal. Mister Ralle is at the end of the corridor. He'll be happy to see him." "Oh, yes, I don't doubt it." Abbi readjusted her grip on Turner's arm and guided him toward the portal. "Take care, though," said the mobber, his voice thoughtful. "I know Mister Ralle is displeased to be in Lolling Greens. He hates this place." "Thanks for the warning," said Abbi, not bothering to look back but getting the sense that the man was watching her in a way that was more than professional. She wasn't necessarily accustomed to being leered at, though she knew that some men would gawk at any woman nearby. She put it from her mind. No reason to get bothered over surmises. The hallway seemed to stretch endlessly, but she arrived at the room. It was easy to spot, as there was another mobber--a twin, from what she could see, to the chap in the foyer--who did the same procedure with Turner. By this point, the captive was starting to piece life together again, and was protesting. "Can we hurry this along?" asked Abbi. The man knocked loudly. The door began to open, a tall, dark-clad man with a dueling cane in one hand answering it. Before anyone had a chance to speak, a sneeze--the kind that Abbi recognized--burst from the room. Loud enough to make her start, Abbi could only imagine what had caused Kline to sneeze that way. The fact that Kline was alive (and sneezing, apparently) was enough to give her a push of desire. They were close--he was here! They had Turner, they were back together. The only thing missing was the raw Vapor…and the fact that there was a room full of suddenly furious mobbers. In the aftermath of the sneeze, Abbi was dragged into the room, Turner stumbling free and slumping to the ground. He was almost out of the Dreg fugue and head trauma he'd suffered--Abbi gave him another two minutes before he was fully awake. But it only took a spare second to sum up the problem in front of her: Ralle, fury on his face, was pulling out a slender, elegant weapon from a holster on his side, his brass leg braced while his gauntleted hand clenched in rage. The tall man who'd pulled her in already had a foot and a half of cold steel exposed from the dueling cane. Two other guards were rushing about, handkerchiefs freed of their pockets, hurrying forward to their boss. Kline…well, for some reason he was on the ground. But Abbi could tell by the blood on his face and the stricken expression that accompanied it he was in trouble. Abbi didn't know what to do. So she did the only thing she could think of. She screamed. It was loud, piercing, and attention grabbing. Ralle (she assumed it was Ralle, if only because of his bearing) spun to face her. The guards dropped their kerchiefs and began reaching for weapons of their own. One pulled out a regular pistol, the other a writs-mounted flamethrower. Abbi thought that a poor choice of armament in a room covered with billowing--and highly flammable--curtains, but one couldn't account for taste. Not everyone could have custom-made guns strapped to her side. Everyone in the room stared at her, including Kline, whose face lit up with joy to see his wife. "Who are you?" demanded Ralle, his face dripping little rivulets of blood. Abbi couldn't see a wound, but she couldn't see how else he could be bleeding. "I'm his wife," she said, thinking that such a comment would preserve her cover story, at least for a little bit. "Why are you screaming?" asked Ralle, confusion and rage at war on his features. "Um…I didn't want you to kill my husband?" She thought the answer rather obvious, but didn't feel it wise to patronize the man with the chrome gun. It was a beautiful weapon, but she refused to be distracted by it. "Why are you here?" asked Ralle, taking a kerchief from one of his guards--the one not holding the flamethrower. He wiped his dripping face, letting Abbi see he wasn't actually injured at all. "I found Turner," she said, gesturing to the man who was slowly rising on shaky legs. The mobbers shared a look of disbelief. That was the moment that Turner's sense returned to him. "Shitflies," he said as he looked around. No one moved. "Mister Turner," said Ralle. Turner straightened, faked a smile, then burst toward the door, moving as fast as his overextended body could move. It wasn't fast enough. The tall man with dark skin spun the dueling cane casually, letting it spin into the fleeing man's legs. With a yelp, Turner toppled, falling to the ground in a painful pile. Abbi didn't feel even the least twinge of sympathy for the fellow. "You're certain this is the right man?" asked Ralle, addressing his question to the man dressed in black, who picked up his dueling cane and sheathed the dagger end in a single, smooth movement. He held up a monocle with a similar apparatus as the guards outside. He placed it against his eye, observed Turner for a moment, then looked back at Kline. "They both have the signal." Ralle grimaced. "So which one's the real one?" "'oo cares?" growled Flamey. "We oughter burn 'em all." As he spoke, Gunner (she decided that was probably his real name, as bulky and at ease as he was with the weapon in his hand) stepped close to Abbi. He held his weapon at her, then gestured to Abbi's guns. Reluctantly, she pulled them free and handed them over. He didn't try to restrain her, but he stood next to her, gun trained on her face. Ralle shook his head at Flamey's suggestion. "No, I want the truth. This one--" and he pointed at Kline, who was sniffling on the ground "--has been telling me all sorts of fanciful tales." He pointed at Abbi with his gun, a seamless device that looked as beautiful as it did dangerous. Covered in chrome, the weapon had a place for Ralle to place his hand, but the mechanisms that loaded the ammunition and the muzzle were all blended into the device. It looked like a metal capsule, yet the way he brandished it, Abbi knew it was much more than that. She pushed her attention back to the problem at hand. Part of her wished that it were illegal for such pretty weapons to be brandished about, as it caused distractions. The other part of her realized that a mobber wouldn't care about the law, even if it were there. Sighing, she focused on Ralle's face. "Which is the real one?" he asked again. "I am!" said Kline. Then he opened his hands--still bound to the armchair as he lay on the ground--and shook his head. "I mean, I am the one telling the truth. I misunderstood the question. I thought you were talking about who's being honest--like about the fanciful tales." "Shut up!" said Ralle. Abbi could tell by his frustration that he had been speaking to a stressed out Kline. Whenever he got nervous, he tended to let his mouth motor without thinking. Ralle didn't strike her as the kind of person who had a lot of patience with that sort of behavior. "Sorry." "Don't apologize. Just be quiet." "Right. Sorry." Ralle aimed at Kline. Abbi flinched, her heart in her throat. Fear shot through her as quickly as Dregs in the veins. She almost blurted out something, but a noise behind her pulled everyone's attention that way. It was Turner, doubled over around the tall, dark man's fist. Ralle cocked an eyebrow. "He was trying to run again, sir." "Who are you, chap?" asked Ralle, stepping closer to Turner. "No one," he gasped, shaking his head. "I'm a fellow this insane woman clubbed on the street and dragged in here." "What?" demanded Abbi, indignation sparking in her. "We chased you down the street, then I had to knock you out in a Vapor refinery near the slums! I dragged your sorry carcass here to give you back to the mobbers so that they'd leave us alone. You lost the raw while you were at it." "He lost the raw?" squawked Kline, who dropped his head onto the carpet. "Son of a--" Ralle cut them off. "You lost the raw?" "I swear," lied Turner, not looking at Ralle, "I don't have anything. I'm innocent." A flame of fury began to kindle in Abbi's chest. "He's lying!" Abbi gestured at Kline. "That's my husband! He robbed us--to pay you off, is what I understand--and then he ran from us. We chased him down to here, same as you." "She's hysterical," said Turner, talking over her. "Don't listen to her." "She's telling the truth!" shouted Kline. "Sweetheart, I don't need you to defend me against this duster," said Abbi. "Hey, that's out of line!" said Turner, raising his voice. The three of them fell into arguing, Turner shouting but being restrained by Mr. Altitude, Abbi remaining aware of Gunner while Kline writhed a little on the ground. The room roared with light as much as sound. Flinching, Abbi looked at Ralle in amazement. He'd fired his gun, and now a smoking hole in the ceiling let them all know what would happen to them if they didn't quiet down. The room fell silent. "I want you all dead. But before you die, I want what I came after." He glanced at the tall guard. "Alyn, I want to know who is the one who owes us the raw." The dark skinned man, Alyn, looked uncomfortable. He opened his mouth, his eyes roving the room, then stopped, tipping his head to one side. "Well, sir, I think it's the one who looks like the chap in that picture." Abbi followed his gaze, then widened her eyes at what she saw. There, on the counter, was a daguerreotype of an old man standing next to a fellow with the same cut of beard as Kline. In the fuzzy exposure, they looked very similar. But, then again, Turner did, too. She shot another glance at the man she'd been chasing. He had the same trim. From a distance, she could see Kline being mistaken for Turner. Her stomach sank. "They both look like him!" said Ralle after a moment's consideration. Alyn looked sheepish. "Well, sir, this one--" and he pointed at Kline "--didn't seem sad about Turner's death." "Turner's death?" asked Abbi under her breath. Turner, for his part, said disparagingly, "I ain't dead." His face instantly fell, in an expression Abbi recognized from the first time they'd met. Realizing his error, he quickly said, "I mean, he ain't dead." He pointed with his chin at Kline, who was looking more and more uncomfortable the longer the conversation went. "I wasn't talking about you," said Alyn. "I meant him!" He pointed at a body that, until that moment, Abbi hadn't even noticed. There was a dead man in the room, slumped over his desk and bleeding everywhere. At first, she was shocked that she hadn't noticed when she'd arrived. Upon reflection, however, she knew that there had been too much happening to notice a dead person at the far end of the room. "Da," said Turner, his face slipping from the realizing-he'd-said-something-dumb expression to the all-his-work-was-in-vain expression. It was a sorry sight to see. Alyn relaxed his grip and Turner stumbled forward, tears enwrapping his eyes. "Da, I'm so sorry. I…I tried to stop this. I really did. I just needed a little more time to pay it all off." Ralle, understanding the confession, trained his weapon on Turner. "So you really are Mister Turner, then." It wasn't a question. "You have something that I want. My payment." "Da…" said Turner, oblivious. "But, according to this woman," said Ralle, gesturing to Abbi with his head, "you don't lost that payment." "Still mad about that!" said Kline from the floor. Abbi, while she didn't disagree with Kline, wanted to kick him for his impertinence. "I'm sorry for you loss, Mister Turner," said Ralle, though his voice didn't echo his sentiment. "But it looks like your debt is forfeited." Ralle tightened his grip on the gun, his forearm flexing, preparing for the recoil. The idea of seeing a person--even a duster like Turner--executed in front of her, made Abbi almost panic. The last thing she needed to do was get emotional… …or was it? She let all of the emotion that had been warring inside of her--the fear, the pain in her arm, the stress, the worry of seeing Kline trussed up and bleeding--all that she'd been battling and fighting against, all that had been billowing up within her heart…she let it all out in the only way she knew how. Abbi burst into tears. (2533) Kline
Ralle was a lot shorter than Kline had expected. As the man spoke, his lisp noticeable, he stomped about the room. One leg had been replaced with a brass limb, which clumped with every other step. A gauntlet covered his right hand, pneumatically controlled via tubes that ran up his arm and under the sleeve of his silken, purple shirt. He wore a tie made out of cogs and gears, interlocked and gently ticking beneath his leather vest. Numerous chains interconnected pockets and--if Kline were to guess--pocket watches, as well as tidy handkerchiefs peeking out of the tops of more than one pocket. His pants were sturdy, but supple, of a cut that Kline didn't recognize. His boot was copper-toed and large, overlaid with gears that seemed to be functional--what those legs could do, Kline both did and didn't wish to see. Ralle's dark hair, silver slashing through the curls, shimmered in the yellow light of Gelden Turner's office-turned-death chamber. His pale face, mapped over by angry red scars, never folded into anything other than a scowl. Even when he was mildly pleased, it only softened his countenance. His beard grew out from his cheeks down to his chest, with the center section directly beneath his nose and lower lip carefully trimmed down. The dark beard was, like the top of his head, lightninged with the silver of his age. His teeth, crooked but clean, flashed between his thin lips. "This story you're telling me," he said once Kline had finished begging his case before the mobbers' boss, "is quite spectacular." "Yes, sir," said Kline. "Don't speak," said Ralle. "Yes, sir," said Kline. It was an instinct, an impulse, not a flippant remark. Alyn didn't agree with that intention and punched Kline across the face. His eyes rolled in his head, stars dancing behind his eyelids. A warm gush of blood entered his mouth where his inner cheek had torn past his teeth. Ears ringing, he actually felt grateful for the chair. It had held him up, kept him from falling. It took a moment for the buzzing in his skull to fade and he could focus on what Ralle had to say. Kline felt a trickle of blood easing its way down his nostril, but slowly enough that it began to tickle. He didn't dare try to ease the discomfort by rubbing his nose against his shoulder, but it made it harder to focus. He admitted to himself that it was rather sad that a bloody nose was preventing him from paying attention to the man who was going to order his death. "You know my reputation, do you not?" asked Ralle. Kline blinked, then yelped when Alyn punched him on the other side of the face, this time closer to his ear. It wasn't as hard of a punch, but it stung for a lot longer than Kline expected. "Sorry! I didn't know if I could talk that time!" "If he asks you a question, respond immediately," growled Alyn, his hand on the dueling cane. "Right. Sorry. Yes, Mister Ralle. I know about your reputation." "Tell me what you've heard, Mister Kline," lisped Ralle. Shaking his head softly--which hurt from Alyn's first clubbing, to say nothing of the recent pummelings--Kline said, "You control the sale and distribution of some of the darker Dregs, as well as looking to find new ways to use Vapors." He sniffed compulsively, wishing to ease the tickle in his nose, which definitely bothered him more than the pain. "You have a number of legitimate--as it's called, not saying that I believe in the legitimacy of your businesses or doubt them or have even really put any thought into them--that deal with final phase Vaporwork, including taking the stuff that isn't released into Vapors and putting it through the alchemical process by which we extract other necessary items: Copper, brass, tin, steel, nitrates, and assorted minerals." He took in a deep breath. "Some people say that it's been your businesses that have most helped mankind since we had to escape the toxins below us, and it was your great-grandfather's original design to use Vapor to maintain the city-states above the cloud line. Others argue--" "Stop talking," said Ralle. Kline closed his mouth and sniffed. "You know a lot about me." Kline stared. Alyn moved forward. "Yes!" said Kline, throwing a nervous glance at the assassin before refocusing his eyes on the mobbers' boss. "Well, I know a lot of rumors about you. No one had ever mentioned your incredible prosthetic or the pneumatic gauntlet on you--which, unless I miss my guess, is Vapor-powered." Ralle held up the glove and looked at it. The less-of-a-scowl crept over his face. "Yes, I am proud of this. It uses crystalized raw to maintain power." "Power?" "I can crush up to three hundred pounds per square inch without trying." To demonstrate what he meant, he picked up a brass trinket that Gelden had on his desk. Curling it in his palm, he effortlessly closed his fingers. The metal screeched, collapsed, and crumpled. He tipped his hand over, dropping the useless slag on the ground. "Could you imagine what I could do your head, Mister Kline?" Ralle put his hand on the back of the dead Turner's skull. "Yes!" He cleared his throat, then said again in a less panicked tone, "I can readily imagine, Mister Ralle. I don't need any demonstration to convince me." "Good," said Ralle, looking down his nose at the man still bound in front of him. "I like to hear that." He paused. "But you have yet to tell me why you would bother to learn so much about me." "I am a tinkerer, sir. I love taking some of the Vapors' vapor and playing with it in my little lab. I've been trying to perfect a sleeping draft that will allow me to have lucid dreams that I can then recall when I'm awake." Ralle frowned. "Why would you want to do that?" Kline blinked, surprised. "Don't…don't you do that, sir? Aren't your dreams filled with explanations and questions that you can only remember thinking were worthwhile?" "Not particularly," said Ralle. "I don't sleep much." "Oh, sir, I am sorry to hear that," said Kline, only partially meaning it. Of course he didn't like Ralle--the man was terrifying Kline past recognition--but he felt a tiny bit of sympathy for anyone who didn't have the chance to sleep. That was a punishment that no person deserved. "Sleep, I feel, is a way of unlocking what our waking minds are too eager to dismiss as impossible." "What do you mean, impossible?" "Just take this world, Mister Ralle. Your great-grandfather knew that mankind would die out, our corpses drying in the sun or falling into the great expanse of poison beneath us if we didn't discover a better way of flying. Back then, divers would have to drop down thousands of feet, through the murky, dangerous air, and dig out mines of coal that were then hauled back up thousands of feet to keep the handful of airships afloat. It was dangerous, time consuming, and fraught with risks. Your great-grandfather dreamed of a better way. "How he did it is unknown, but he created the process by which we now refine the Vapors. He essentially created my job as a cloudfarmer to find that basic gas that we use to power everything we can." Kline tried to gesture, but his hands were still tied. "That's the power of a dream, sir. It can change the world." Alyn scoffed. Ralle's bodyguards--he had two of them, but Kline hadn't paid much attention to them--joined in the chuckles. Ralle didn't smile. Kline didn't think the man even knew how to. "It's one of the gifts to humankind, Mister Ralle. Your great-grandfather's dreams changed everything." "I know that," said Ralle. "Do you think I didn't know anything you just said?" Kline dropped his gaze. "I apologize, sir. I was being presumptuous. As I said, I love tinkering. The changes that Vapor can do to the human body--the way it can power the machines that keep us alive--is so inspiring that I can't help but get excited talking about it, even when I'm strapped to a chair and about to die." "Die?" asked Ralle. "Why are you about to die?" Confused, he looked around. "I, uh…well, usually people caught by mobbers end up dead, don't they? I've…well, I haven't necessarily been helpful to you all in the past few days, I would hazard to say." He paused and glanced at the faces of all the people in the room--except Denise, who was tied up and unconscious behind him--to try to read their expressions. They all looked grave. "Am I wrong?" he asked. Ralle took a deep breath, rolling his gaze over Kline the way Kline would have rolled a piece of fruit in his hand. "You aren't incorrect, Mister Kline. You have caused some…disturbances. But you've shown a resourcefulness that I can appreciate. You also have piqued my interest in this sleeping draft. I think there may be a way that we can mutually benefit each other." "That would be great," said Kline. "Um, but I should say, at least about the sleeping draft…it's still experimental." He thought of having passed the time with Aunt Cici. Shuddering, he added, "Not that I think it's beyond refinement. But it isn't ready, in any way." "I wasn't looking to take a nap," said Ralle. Kline laughed, his nose itching from the still-slowly leaking blood. No one joined him. He stopped and wriggled his nose. "Here's what I propose," said Ralle, stepping closer and looking more intently in Kline's eyes. "You tell me what your process is, and I'll decide if it's worth keeping you alive to further study." Kline felt hope drain out of him. "I…I guess I could…" "As you said, you have been a nuisance. You have prevented me from getting my raw Vapor from Doddy Turner. You've caused me to travel to this stupid rock to have this conversation. You have killed one of my men, and sent my good friend Landol spinning into the sky. He only barely survived that stunt you pulled of making him thump the other pod." Kline dropped his gaze. Ralle got closer, seeking out Kline's eyes. Kline's nose tickled. "So I do need to requite you. But I think, provided your information is good enough, it could be sufficient to spare your life." "So…were you being rhetorical when you asked me why I thought I was going to die?" Ralle blinked. "Was that a joke?" "No--" There came a knock from the door. Everyone froze. Not moving from his position in front of Kline, Ralle jerked his head to the entrance, indicating to Alyn to answer the summons. "You were saying?" asked Ralle, his eyes a scarce arm's length from Kline's. The tickle hit hard and fast. Before he knew it was coming, a sneeze burst out of him. Blood from his mouth and nose, along with saliva from his mouth, misted over Ralle's face in the largest nasal discharge that Kline had ever created. The force was enough to propel him backward a little, and--imbalanced as he was--Kline felt the entire world spin as he toppled down on the chair. Ralle howled. Alyn leaped forward. The bodyguards scurried toward their boss. Kline wondered how much pain he would have to suffer before he died. (1932) Abigaile
The anger she had deferred after the raw Vapor smashed boiled inside of her once she had managed to get out of the workshop. The glass from the window she'd jumped through was still in her hair, much like the Puissance was still cooking in her veins, as she ran through Lolling Greens' streets, an unconscious Turner over one shoulder and a dark rage in her stomach. Turner had lost their prize. He'd lost it. Smashed. Gone. The urge to fling him off her shoulder--which would have attracted even more askance glances than carrying him did--and off the edge of the city was powerful. Or against a wall, watermeloning his head with the bricks. Or finding the nearest mobber and letting her julienne his carcass. All of these emotions pointed to one of the additional dangers of Puissance: It tended toward thoughtlessness, violence, and anger. The fact she was already furious about the lost raw only made the side effects stronger. She was simply lucky that the Puissance had come at her as Vapor--drinking it was significantly more dangerous. The side effects were worse, the rate it metabolized was more erratic, and it could more easily lead to more problems later on. Every Dreg was different, of course--some could be inhaled, others drunk, yet other could be administered either way with no difference. Some required dilution, others enhancement. That was part of what Kline liked to do in his spare time--tinker with Dregs. But no matter how a person consumed it, Dregs always had the possibility of unwanted after effects. And that made her want to punch something. Which, she realized as she jogged toward where she'd separated from Kline--not knowing where else to go--only underscored the point that the Puissance after effects were hitting her hard. She snorted. Hitting hard. She wished. Abigaile took a turn, then gasped and ducked into an alleyway. At the end of the street, looking angry and frustrated, were the original mobbers who had chased after her and Kline not too long ago. The holiday lovers were in a heated conversation with the businessman, though neither party seemed to be winning the argument. Easing Turner off her shoulder, she took a moment to pull free the man's blue-and-paisley cravat--a style she'd always liked--and used it to tie the thief's hands together. Then she looped the laces of his boots together, almost as an afterthought. It wouldn't permanently hobble him, but it would hamper any attempts to run…at least, for a little bit. He moaned, meaning he likely would wake up soon. He had been breathing a lot of the fumes of the warehouse, but didn't seem to have absorbed any of the effects. Abbi didn't know why. She peeked around the corner again. The three were still arguing. If she had some Eaves, she probably could enhance her hearing enough to catch what they said, but mixing Eaves with Puissance wasn't something she had tried. She didn't trust combinations without asking Kline first. It ended up being moot: Their committee was finished. The holiday lovers took a purse each from the businessman--probably stuffed with gears--and, without looking back, walked away, their arms linked together. The businessman, for his part, began stomping toward Abbi. Noting his pace and keeping the distance vivid in her imagination, she was able to perfectly time the snatch. Reaching out, she used some of her Puissance to let her lift the rotund businessman off his feet and slam him against the brick wall. He grunted in surprise, but his expansive girth kept him from too much injury. A light shower of mortar dusted them. Abbi kept her hand on one lapel, pinning him tightly against the wall with one arm across his throat, and the other fixing Tonia against his ribs. "Hey, friend," she said, her heart in her throat--not for fear, but at the thrill of vengeance. Puissance was a hell of a Dreg. "I have some questions for you." The businessman squirmed, but the attack was so sudden and the telltale pain of a barrel stuck between his ribs kept him from being too aggressive. His pinstripe suit was rumpled, his bushy moustache unkempt, his top hat slouched over his goggles--which had multiple magnification settings on it, allowing him to telescope in on anything he wished--in short, he looked like a man unused to running who had spent the last thirty minutes doing just that. His face, flushed and shining, looked equal parts perturbed, dismayed, and irritated. Typical of a man with more gears than sense. "A-anything, young lady," he said, trying his best to sound mollifying. "Don't try to charm me. Who are you? Why are you following me?" "I-I'm not following you, I was simply going for a walk…" She tightened her grip on Tonia, driving the cold barrel deeper into his fleshy body. He gasped. "I'm burning Puissance here, old man, and it's been a really bad day. How about we cut to the part where you do as I ask and tell me who you are." "Jerome Balaster." He swallowed hard enough that Abbi thought she saw his throat bob through all the whiskers and fat. "I am a banker here in Lolling Greens." "And why were you chasing me and my husband?" "You…you were helping Doddy Turner escape." He blinked a little. "I thought that was why you were running." "We weren't helping him escape," she said through clenched teeth. "We were chasing him down, same as you." "You…you weren't his accomplices?" "No!" "Oh," said Jerome, his face tweaking into an approximation of concern. "Frightfully sorry. It wasn't personal. We assumed that, because you began running as he made it out of the brownstone, you were with him." "He stole Vapor from us a few days ago. We've been chasing him ever since." She tightened her grip. "But what about you, Jerome? Any particular reason why a banker is chasing down a duster like this here?" She kicked the unconscious Turner with a boot. Turner grunted. Jerome looked down in surprise. "Oh, my! Well, shave my beard, it's the very man we've been looking for! Thank you, Miss, uh…" Abbi glowered at him. He stopped and cleared his throat. "Listen," said Abbi, "and listen closely. I have very little left to lose, so I recommend you tell me what it is that you were just discussing with your well-dressed friends over there--" and she jerked her head in the direction of the departed lovers "--before I decide this alleyway needs some intestine paint sprayed all over it." "I was telling them the chase was off! Of course, I didn't want to spend any more money on their services." "Who are they?" Abbi kind of liked the steel she could hear in her voice. Not that she'd tell Jerome that. "Mercenaries. They were tracking Doddy for us here in Lolling Greens. They had his tooth frequency. We found him in the brownstone, pocketing some gems of an old spinster, whoever it was who owned the flat. Maximel and I didn't seen anything in particular in the room--nothing too out of the ordinary for a pricey home in that section of the city. Turner surprised us as we entered. He knocked me down, made Maximel fire widely, then jumped out the window. Scilia was on lookout down on the steps--I believe she was the one who first opened fire on the doorstep to clear you two out. To be honest I thought she'd hit you--" Abbi tightened her grip. "Blessing she missed, I'd say!" squeaked Jerome. "She's not the best shot with that umbrella gun of hers. No sights, you see. Horrible aim." "Why were you after Turner, though?" asked Abbi, anxious for the conversation to be over. She was getting worried that someone might see them, that Turner might wake up, or some other additional catastrophe might befall her. The last thing she needed was for the situation to worsen somehow. "Orders! Nothing but orders. Not personal at all. I was told to keep my eye out for the chap. I'm not much in the way of the fight, so I hired Maximel and Scilia--we often are in contact--and that's all there is to say on that front." "Who gave the orders." "Ah, yes…well…" Abigaile rolled her eyes at his delay. "Jerome, it's obvious you work with the mobbers." He paled a little at that. "Wh-what makes you s-say that? I'm not…you're probably the one working with the mobbers." Tonia convinced him to stop talking. "You work for them, don't you? What do they do, grease the gears so that your more lucrative business deals that bump against decency don't squeak too much?" "That's…uh, one way of putting it." "And they wanted you to pull in Turner, here. Why? What's he to them?" "Oh, everyone knows that," said Jerome with a nervous chuckle. "Right? I don't have to say that aloud…" He looked into her eyes. He turned the chuckle into a swallow. "Do I?" "I'm out of patience." She cocked Tonia, the sound loud enough to inspire Jerome's confession. "A few years ago, the First Theatre started having a hard time with the finances. Doddy took out a 'loan'. The Theatre did better. Doddy didn't pay back the loan. His debtors were unhappy. They put some pressure on. He fled. Word came back he'd come into something major, something worthwhile. A refined raw Vapor that was finer than anyone had seen before. The, uh, mobbers, as you call them, weren't inclined to wait, so they dispatched some people to retrieve him, using his telling teeth to find him. He hasn't been particularly cooperative, however, and that has raised their ire." "Whose ire?" Jerome sighed. "Please don't make me say it. You're going to make me say it, aren't you? It's not enough to imply what's going on here? That it's the 'mobbers' that are putting the pressure on?" "Who. Is. It?" Jerome swallowed. "Ralle," he said in a whisper. "Ralle?" she repeated. The name sounded familiar. She tucked that away. "Where's this First Theatre?" Jerome gave her directions--they were simple enough--then said, "Will you let me go now? I really don't wish to be caught up in this any longer. I have genuine business to attend to, much as I told Maximel and Scilia." Abbi stared at him for a long moment, then slowly released Jerome's lapel. Extracting Tonia from his ribs was hard to do, and she didn't even like killing. The memory of the man she'd kicked off the airhome haunted her mind whenever she least expected it, but the Puissance made her want to do something cruel and unforgivable. It made her thoughts be bloody, which was of little worth right now. "Yes, well," said Jerome, cautiously straightening his clothing. "I thank you for your patience." Something about his tone--so superficial and so uncaring about the trials that she'd endured--took her by surprise. She reared back and, faster than either of them expected, she punched him square in the nose. His head snapped back, his eyes crossed, and he stumbled a couple of steps before crashing to the ground. "It's infer, not imply, you git," she said, shaking her hand a little. It wasn't perfect, but it made the anger inside her feel a little bit better. "Now," Abbi said, scooping up Turner as she addressed him, "let's get you back to your little theatre. We wouldn't want to miss the curtain." (1938) Kline
The smell of Panacea pulled Kline out of the darkness of unconsciousness, plus helped cut back on the pain racking his head. He blinked a couple of times to clear his vision, trying to pull his memories in place. Why had he been unconscious? What had he missed? He tried to move, but his arms were bound behind him. His body was tied to a chair. He was still in Gelden Turner's office. The corpse of the owner was still slumped over his desk. The coppery smell of blood still filled the room. It couldn't be more than a few minutes since he had last been staring at the daguerreotype, since he noticed a rustling… It flashed over him: The rustling wasn't from the air, it was the assassin, moving free of the curtain. Kline had turned, reaching for his pistol as he moved. The assassin had knocked his hand away. Kline had done his best to throw a left hook, but missed. Spinning, he had stumbled a little, then heard a whistling above his head. Then all had gone dark. He tried not to feel embarrassed that he'd been ambushed so thoroughly. Part of him was glad that Abbi hadn't been around to see him lose, but that made him remember that he didn't know where his wife was. The fear that he wouldn't see her again, that he would die in this office, just like Gelden Turner had, filled him with a panic of dread that he had to push away, rather than countenance. "Abbi," he whispered, though the action made his mouth hurt. Pain, it seemed, was queued throughout his body, awaiting turns to let him know of the damage. He groaned. "Mister Turner," said a voice behind him, startling him. He jumped, the action making his head hurt worse, Panacea notwithstanding. He needed a stronger Dreg, something like a Phine that would really cut the pain. Funny how a bump on the head turned him right back into aching for Dregs. As if the latest visit to Aunt Cici hadn't been enough… The man cleared his throat, still waiting for him to respond. Closing his eyes, he accepted the pain in his body and tried to clear his mind. "You aren't particularly talkative, are you, sir?" The man spoke softly, but with a timbre of strength that Kline noticed. He wasn't sure if he was scared of that or not. Kline listened to the man pace behind him. The man--Kline assumed it was the assassin (or murderer, though he didn't appreciate either word, really)--walked without any jangling sounds. He likely didn't wear any extra gears, cogs, or ornaments. That showed a lack of piety that Kline also disliked--not that he was particularly good at worship, he still did his part by putting remembrances of the Cogmaker on all of his apparel. Then again, if the man made it a career of slaughtering others in their private offices, maybe noisy cogs and gears would make it harder to find clients. He shook his head a little. Now was not the time to be making wry comments to himself. He needed to focus: Block out the pain, then outwit his opponent. Abbi was relying on him. That helped to sober him. "You have proven to be a most difficult quarry," said the man. Kline imagined him large, imposing, and carrying a dueling staff--though one likely with a blade hidden in the handle. The man's voice simply had that quality. "We have expended a lot more resources on you than I care to admit. You have caused a lot of problems for me and my people. We demand payment--with interest." He paused, stepping close, but still behind the trussed up Kline. He tipped his head to try to get a look at the assassin/murderer, but to no avail. The man didn't want to be seen. "What should we do with you?" Kline licked his lips but didn't speak. There wasn't anything to say at this point. He was pretty sure the man had called him Turner earlier, but maybe that was a dim memory mingled with pulling out of unconsciousness? Kline couldn't be certain. "There are a lot of proposed options, you know. We have policies and histories--traditions, you may say--that give some guidance. But before we get into anything too nasty, I wanted to make sure that I was within my rights to prolong your suffering." Kline's heart tightened at the comment. His thoughts constricted on what the murderer was saying. He couldn't let himself become distracted by idleness. He thought of Abbi, and wondered if he'd truly said goodbye to her for the last time and hadn't known it. "They said, sadly, that I could not. It would be Ralle's pleasure for that." Ralle? The name sounded familiar, but his brain was too fractured by the remaining Panacea in his veins to pluck it out. "So, Mister Turner, we will talk while we wait." Kline's composure almost cracked. Mister Turner? Then he hadn't misremembered; he was mistaken for the guy Kline had been chasing. He wanted to bark out a laugh at the irony, to deny the conclusion the murderer had made. Instead, he chewed his cheeks (softly) to keep himself from blurting anything out. Questions began to bounce through his mind, but any question he asked would reveal something about his own ignorance. If the assassin thought he was Turner and was awaiting this Ralle fellow, Kline's disabusing anyone of who he really was would be running a risk. Mobbers weren't known for their generosity or mercy. What would this killer do to him if he found out that Kline wasn't the prey that the murderer thought he was? Not wait for Ralle, that was certain as a second hand. "I see you're rather recalcitrant. I don't fault you for it. We have been very patient with you, and hearing you beg for anything--your life, to end the suffering I have planned, any sort of clemency--would likely only incite greater misery on you. So that is wise." Kline swallowed and tried to keep himself from laughing aloud--more from terror than humor--at the assassin's cool demeanor. Kline couldn't think of a single thing he could say to convince the man not to kill him, and that seemed sadly funny. "I have to admit, however, that your lack of concern for the woman surprised me. As I understand it, she has been serving this theatre for decades, yet you didn't bother to help her with the shock of seeing her beloved benefactor slaughtered." Kline closed his eyes at that. He hadn't known what to do! He'd asked if she needed help, hadn't he? He wasn't good at these sorts of things. "But she's sleeping soundly enough now. Seeing you beaten caused her to pass out, which is charming in its own weak way. I believe it will be a mercy to torture you elsewhere. She doesn't deserve to see that, wouldn't you agree?" Kline pursed his lips. His limbs had started to tremble, an action that the killer noticed. "You seem afraid. Is it because you know that ralle will be here in--" and there was a sound like that of a man checking his watch "--fifteen minutes or so? That your long chase has finally reached an ending point? Or is it that all your theft, lying, and killing has led to your father's death and your own capture? That your efforts are for naught and you won't see another sunrise?" Kline's mouth went dry. Abbi. He would never see her again, he was beginning to realize. "Listen," said the killer, his voice sounding imploring, "I'm not interested in lying to you. In a profession like mine, lying is so…unbecoming. When you deal with death, you have to deal honestly." He stepped in front of Kline, who kept his eyes fixed low and straight ahead. "It's only fair that you look into the face of the man who will end your life, to learn his name." The killer dropped to one knee so that Kline had no choice but to see his murderer. Large brown eyes, a wide nose, dark skin, white teeth. He looked a very pleasant fellow, by and large. "I am Alyn," he said. "I will be your killer today." And he smiled. Kline could no longer keep the emotions in check. A rolling laugh burst out of him, the sound obviously surprising Alyn enough that the smile dropped and he moved back, one hand dropping to the dueling cane that he held to one side (Kline was proud of himself for deducing that much, at least). "Why are you laughing?" asked Alyn, his face no longer as approachable as it had been a moment earlier. "That you…" said Kline through the laughter, which was taking on a decidedly hysterical pitch in his ears. It sounded cracked about the edges, like ice breaking under pressure. It was almost as though he heard the laughter through someone else's ears--fake, forced, but out of his control. He had to let it out, even though it might not end well. "What's wrong with you?" Alyn looked alarmed and confused. He stood, keeping some distance between the prisoner and himself. "No-no-nothing," gasped Kline, rocking back and forth as his body convulsed. "Stop it!" "Tr-tr-trying!" The laughter lasted a moment longer, then Kline, tears coursing his cheeks and getting lost in the twists of his whiskers, managed to pull it all in. Blowing out a breath, Kline blinked a few times to clear his eyes of the remaining tears. "What was that about?" asked Alyn, whose hand was still on the handle of his dueling cane. Kline tried not to think about what it would feel like to be stabbed by the metal shaft hidden inside of the cane, which only made him think about it harder. He decided to focus on Alyn's questions instead. "I-it's kinda fu-funny," hiccupped Kline as his breathing normalized a little. "I've spent the last few days doing the same thing as you, and now we're together, and you've got it all wrong, but I'm going to die anyway." He chuckled--a bizarre reaction, he knew, but the only one that he could express--and shook his head again. "It's pathetic and sad and maybe ironic--I don't know, I've never been clear on how that word is really supposed to be used. But it's so many things in me right now and all I can think about is Abbi and how pissed she's going to be that I'm dead and I don't think that I could face her, so there's another one of those ironies, I guess, because it's not like she's going to be able to be pissed at me, since I'll be dead, but that's part of why she's pissed in the first place--" "Why are you still talking?" asked Alyn, staring at Kline with confusion patent on his face. "And what are you even talking about?" "I'm not who you think I am," said Kline. His earlier plan to keep quiet, to not let them know the truth, had faded in face of death. He didn't want to die. He didn't want to be tortured to death. At the very least, he would want to tell the truth before it all ended. That thought alone made him feel a little better. "What do you mean?" asked Alyn, his eyes narrowing. "I'm not Turner. What's his name? Doddy? Doddy Turner's who you're looking for." "Yes." Alyn spoke slowly, as if he wasn't sure he could believe what he was hearing. "I'm guessing here, but I'm willing to say that he owes you something--a bunch of gears, maybe raw Vapor that you'll be able to refine. Something like that?" "You act like you don't know!" Now Alyn was sounding angry. Kline didn't like that, and rushed on. "I don't! I mean, I guess. I guess I do. The point is, that I'm not him! I'm not Turner. That's what I'm trying to say. I've been looking for him, as a matter of fact." "Really." Alyn didn't say it like a question, but left it as a statement of his disbelief. "That's the truth." Kline sniffed back some of the mucus his laughter-crying had released. "He broke into my airhome a few days back. I've been tracking him with his tooth. That's why you think I'm him, isn't it? The tooth?" "Your tooth, you mean?" But now Alyn looked suspicious. "Uh, no. The tooth is in my vest pocket." He gestured with his chin. "Right there. You can pull it out. It's in a vial." Sighing as Alyn gingerly reached into the pocket, pulling the offending item free, Kline continued. "The thing has been no end of trouble." He launched into a quick sketch of everything he and Abbi had been through, only passing over the chase in the airhome ("We were pursued by some of your mobber friends who thought Turner was on board. Once free, we came here…") but otherwise telling the story as it unfolded. Alyn stared, incredulous. "You expect me to believe that?" Kline shrugged. "Not really. I just…I felt better knowing I told you the truth. You know. At the end of it all." Alyn opened his mouth to say something, but was interrupted by a squawk from a wireless receiver. Raising his dueling cane, he spoke softly into it. "We're in the back, sir. Take the right-hand entrance to the back rooms, then walk down the long hallway. We're at the end of it." Kline wiggled his fingers, in part to do something, in part to maintain some blood flow in his hands. They were starting to tingle. "Well," said Alyn, turning his attention back to Kline, "we'll have to see what Ralle thinks of your story." Kline swallowed, unhappy. While he had originally planned on tracking down Ralle to explain the situation, the fact that Alyn had specifically held off on torturing his prisoner until Ralle could watch didn't give Kline a lot of hope that the experience would turn out well. It was a long few minutes, waiting for Ralle to arrive. Really, when Kline thought about it, it was probably the same as awaiting one's execution. (2399) Abigaile
The attack came from her right, knocking her back onto her bustle-covered buttocks. Grunting, she landed hard, but managed to roll onto her feet quickly enough that the attacker--an angry looking warehouse worker--missed his follow up kick. Abbi darted forward, hitting the man in the ribs with Tonia's muzzle, eliciting a grunt of his own. He stared at her, face tight with anger and pain. "What was that for?" she demanded, arm tingling. The jab had sent a shock up her arm, too, making her fingers numb for a moment. "Knocking a lady over without so much as a 'how'd ya do'? They don't teach you manners around here?" Her voice sounded strange and muffled in her ears as she spoke through the respirator. The warehouse worker didn't wear one himself, which explained how he'd clubbed her over so easily; he'd been breathing in Vapor for the Cogmaker alone knew how long and was stronger than most. The worker sniffed, sweat dripping down his face and soaking into his stained shirt. Coveralls, only partially attached, for one of the buttons was broken, covered his legs and much of his torso. Soot coated his hands and large forearms. In sum, Abbi decided that a fisticuffs with him would likely end poorly. "Y'ain't s'pposed ta be 'ere," he grumbled, almost every word slurred into the next. "Well, you ain't supposed to hit someone from the side when they're sneaking about a warehouse!" Part of what bothered her was that he'd snuck up on her in the first place. She'd been reconnoitering (her favorite word), trying to catch a glimpse of her quarry. She thought she'd seen him up in the shadows of the catwalks that criss-crossed the rafters, prowling about. It had only been the work of a moment to get up to the same place--and, apparently, get spotted herself. From the suspected direction of Turner's hiding place, she heard a sound. "I dinna know ya was a wimmin," said the worker, still massaging his ribs. He scowled. "Y'ain't s'pposed ta be 'ere." "Yes. Artfully established, that point is. But, love, I've a man to capture, so if you wouldn't mind--" Without another hesitation she set off toward Turner. The man yelped and broke cover. The worker, obviously frustrated, began lumbering after her. Because the man worked too closely to the Vapors to keep his brain intact, Abbi suffered a squirt of pity, but not much else. He was large, strong, and slow; he shouldn't make much of an obstacle. Turner, on the other hand, was desperate. Through the Cogmaker's machinations (possible), her own cunning (unlikely), or a stupid amount of luck (most probable in this case), Abbi had discovered the man who'd robbed them. She'd chased him through the sky and the city--he now understood that he had picked the wrong target. Abbi wanted to make sure he knew that inescapably. Beneath them, men and women toiled in the packaging works that was obviously this warehouse's purpose. Running over the metal grid catwalks above the workers, trying to catch up with a thief, Abbi found herself thinking about the process of refining, but then stopped herself. She didn't need to ponder how an actual vapor turned into Vapor, was harvested by cloudfarmers, refined into a crystal-like raw form, and then refined into the sundry uses of Vapor, including the Dregs which came out as waste. She needed to focus instead on not succumbing to her own exhaustion, fear, and worry. The worker behind her quickly lost ground, but she was no closer to catching Turner, who seemed to be able to run as fast as she. This was a more important focal point for her attention. A belch of toxic Vapor shot out of one of the enormous chimneys that lined the far wall of the warehouse, its purple flame illuminating the catwalk with an amethyst light. Some of the workers shouted at that, rushing about to bring the refined Vapor under control. Abbi took advantage of Turner's distraction to aim Tonia for a warning shot. Almost committed to the trigger, she stopped at the last second. No, Turner would be more use alive than dead, she was sure of that. Wounding him would make it harder to get away, and the gunshot would likely pull attention upwards. For now, their clanging feet across the catwalk was hidden by the noise of refining and packaging the Vapors. Abigaile gritted her teeth and tried not to consider the irony of chasing after some dusting idiot who had her raw Vapor when there was easily ten times the value in the process below her. "Stop!" she gasped through the respirator, wishing that he would stumble or trip, anything to slow him down. Instead, he grabbed a railing with his right hand and slung himself down a different path, heading cross-wise over the warehouse floor. A few heartbeats later, Abbi did the same. Some moments after that, Abbi imagined that the worker followed suit. Her boots clattered noisily on the grid-like metal. Turner's speed began to flag. The Dregs that Abbi had sucked down earlier were fading, but seeing Turner slow gave her new hope. Then he made his mistake. Reaching a T-junction, Turner paused to consider each branch for a moment, glancing left, right, then left again, choosing that option. Abbi didn't have to do the same, and used that hesitation to her advantage. Pushing harder than she had ever before, Abbi closed the gap. With a cry, she lunged forward, crashing into Turner's back. Both tumbled in a noisy heap. A stab of pain laced through Abbi's arm, and she felt the warmth of blood begin to leak into her lace arm covering. The sharpness of the pain made her head swim, and for a moment she couldn't consider anything but the agony in her arm. As she pushed through it, though, she realized that Turner was recovering faster than she. Almost to his own feet, Abbi acted impulsively, not knowing what else to do: She threw her gun at him. In retrospect, Abbi felt that perhaps firing the gun would have been wiser--a warning shot, nothing too close to the man, but close enough to scare him, thus allowing her time to recover herself. Instead, Tonia crashed against the back of his head, sending him spilling forward onto the catwalk. Tonia clattered off to one side, spinning until she came to a rest against the bannister. Abbi crawled toward Turner, hissing as the textured metal beneath her knees and hands gouged into her flesh. Clambering to her feet, the cloudfarmer leaned heavily against the railing of the catwalk, breathing hard. The respirator didn't help pull in more air, but at least the air was clean. "You stupid git," she said as she came closer, working Caliver free of his holster. "You're coming with me." Turner, still dazed, shook his head a little to clear it, then groaned. That was, apparently, the wrong choice. "You don't look like a mobber," said Turner, who kept his hands up in front of Abbi's brandished weapon. He slowly got to his feet. "No, I'm--" "Y'ain't s'pposed ta be 'ere!" The bellow was all the warning Abbi had. She dropped to one side. The worker missed her, but his mass wouldn't let him slow easily; he crashed into Turner, both of them tumbling over the railing. Abbi, for her part, didn't much care, as her maneuver had imbalanced her enough that she, too, pitched over the side. In a desperate clutch, she managed to snag the railing post, which gave her enough of a grip to keep her from falling down into the warehouse below--a far enough fall to kill her, she knew. She looked to her right to see the worker was himself holding onto the catwalk by the tips of his fingers. Like her, he had a grimace of worry and strain. Unlike her, however, he also had Turner dangling from his legs. The robber was panicking, kicking his legs wildly, which made the worker swing back and forth. Abbi could feel the catwalk trembling beneath her fingers. "S'op it," said the worker between his blowing cheeks. "Yer hurtin' me." Abbi winced as her fingers began to tire. Her shoulder ached, and there was a burning all along her arm. She couldn't bring her wounded hand up to help, however; moving it made her head swim with pain. A glint caught her eye: Working its way free of his pocket was the raw Vapor. The bag he'd been hauling around had lost its leather thong, and now the precious material was about to drop into the still-oblivious crowd below. No one bothered to look up in a warehouse, apparently. Turner squirmed some more, trying to clamber up the worker, who was slowly losing his grip. Abbi knew the feeling. She didn't think she had much left in here. The raw Vapor bulged free another inch. Her fingers twitched. The worker grunted. Sweat poured down her back, past the feathers of the birds she wished were real. Oh, to be able to fly, to float upwards with ease… She glanced beneath her. A vat of refining Vapor bubbled quietly to itself. What color was it? In the dim light of the warehouse, it was hard to be certain, but it looked like-- The worker cried out and began to tremble with the effort of keeping himself from falling. Cords of muscles pulsated on his forearms. Abbi could see tears in his red-rimmed eyes as the realization of what was about to happen entered his Vapor-addled mind. "Wait," she said to herself, processing as quickly as she could through the clouds of pain in her mind. "Vapors…" Vapor was harvested from cloudfarmers (like her) who then processed it into a more portable form, known as raw Vapor. The raw was a crystalized substance, which could be, through the refining process, reconstructed as a Vapor. That was how the cities floated. It was also how Dregs came about--the reconstituting of raw into its Vaporous form released a potent liquid. Some of the effects of Dregs were still viable inside of Vapors, many of which were floating toward her from the vat beneath her dangling feet. She glanced down again. "Is that brown?" she asked of no one. "It looks brown to me!" Desperation moved her. Turner was almost to the lip of the catwalk--he was almost safe. The worker hadn't fallen yet, his too-strong arms giving her the only assurance of her hypothesis she had. Abbi made a choice. Praying to the Cogmaker that it wasn't the wrong one, Abbi pulled off her respirator and drew in a huge lungful of Vapor-laced air. Turner grabbed the edge of the catwalk. The raw in his pocket--her raw--dropped free. Her lungs almost ignited with the power of the fumes. The stench was worse than she had ever imagined, and her head immediately began to pound in response. But strength returned to her; not as when she'd taken the Hype and it had pushed away the exhaustion, letting her run as though she couldn't tire. This was Puissance, empowering her muscles so that they could work harder than otherwise possible. She felt lighter, almost as though she were standing on steady ground. Turner worked one foot onto the catwalk. The raw landed with a crunch on the ground below, shattering free and scattering across the cement floor. The worker lost his grip. Every warehouse employee looked up as he screamed. Turner pulled himself onto the catwalk. Abbi heaved--one handed--and caught the railing. The worker crashed into the ground, his legs breaking loudly enough that Abbi could hear it from where she was. The crowd began to form around the injured worker. Abbi rolled herself over the railing and chased down Turner, who was staring at the fallen worker in shock and relief. He didn't hear her coming. It was the most satisfying punch that Abbi had ever delivered. Powered by the Puissance it cracked him hard enough across the face that it knocked him unconscious instantly. Massaging her hand, she looked down at the warehouse floor, where people were now finally noticing her. She pulled the respirator back in place, letting the cold, filtered air clear her head, then picked up Turner, holding him over her shoulder. "So much for my raw," she said as she began running toward the exit with only half her prize. She could only hope that it would be enough. (2100) Kline
Denise sobbed in one corner while Kline felt awkward. He didn't know if he should comfort her, seek out another worker at the theatre, or check for clues about the man's death. He didn't see any reason to call police on this--at least, not yet. They would ask all sorts of questions that he didn't want to answer, including why he was there. Plus, corruption on the police force was likely high--it was one of the few explanations about the relative safety and quiet of Lolling Greens that Kline trusted--so he didn't want any mobbers knowing about what happened, either. Unless they already did. Before he could really consider that possibility, he decided that he probably ought to focus on Denise. "How can I help? Can I get you anything? A drink? Something to eat?" He glanced at the cooling puddle of blood coming out of Gelden Turner's body. "Or, maybe not that," he said, more to himself than to her. Denise didn't answer any of his questions. She appeared enwrapped in her own misery, rocking back and forth as she wept. Nothing he said made any difference to her. Unsure of what else to do, but his own curiosity too strong to do otherwise, he decided to investigate the murder. For it was obviously murder. The gaping wounds in Mister Gelden's back looked to have been made by stab wounds, but the weapon was likely quite long--Kline guessed that the man bled from the back as much as from the front. Stabbing was quiet, assuming the assassin had hit Gelden in the heart. Failing to kill quickly with a sword could lead to a long, painful death, especially if it was a matter of bleeding out, rather than a killing blow. Plus, he couldn't see any signs of a struggle. He thought back to the last time he had tried to augur a crime scene, complete with Abbi's teasing critiques. She was right--he wasn't a detective. He didn't have a deductive mind, capable of letting him pull apart results to devise causes. He worked well the other way, though; he could push forward on something, usually his Dregs or inventions, and concoct an entirely new item. That skill didn't serve him well here. Still, he found the pieces of Denise's story too compelling to let the obvious death of Mister Gelden pass without assuming a correlation. If Turner--Doddy Turner, the thief--had stolen the raw Vapor because he was wanting to clear a debt to some mobbers, perhaps the killing of his father was an indication to Doddy that he needed to take care. Maybe this was a warning about what would happen if Doddy didn't come through with the raw. Of course, if that really were the case, then Kline and Abbi were--albeit quite indirectly--agents that had helped to inspire a murder. While both had killed themselves, it had always been in the heat of a fight, a moment's decision that determined their survival over anyone else's. That was killing, not murder--and he had to believe there was a difference. But this? Gelden had been killed from behind, most likely because someone he knew--or had allowed into his room--had come up behind his back. Kline looked around the room. It was tall, round, and covered with darkwood shelves, each lined with books, gear-encrusted models, and knickknackery that Kline couldn't perceive the purposes of. Large yellow curtains helped the room feel warmer, which rustled softly as the Vapor-heated air circulated. A plush carpet covered the floor, clean save where the blood had cataracted off the desk and puddled. "Is anything missing from the shelves, Denise?" he asked, stepping closer and looking if there were any signs of theft. The shelves were well-maintained, so there weren't any dust streaks that could help him there. "I'm just no good at this sort of thing," he said to himself, since Denise hadn't deigned to reply, sniffling in the corner instead. He shook his head. He was wasting his time here. Obviously, Mister Gelden had made an enemy. Kline felt sorry for the Turner family, but he had little beyond a touch of sympathy for them. Of course, if Doddy was the same one that robbed him, his sympathy was reduced. If they killed the dad instead of the lad, that was a true tragedy… Despite the fact that the First Theatre had gone through some economic hardships, it was obvious that the Turner family had some gears to spare. Mister Gelden had, perched at the edge of his desk where he could glance at it often, a framed daguerreotype. Kline had heard of the process, but had never been a part of it. The cost was quite high--thousands of gears, some said--and the idea of having an image of anyone save Abbi never appealed to him. Gelden Turner obviously felt differently, as he had paid to take this daguerreotype of his family (Kline assumed), who stood about him while he sat in a low-backed chair. There were three other people--a dour-faced woman who dressed so plainly that Kline knew she must be the wife--and a young girl, her gear-themed dress as ornate as her mother's was plain. If he had to guess (always the case with him; Kline could never differentiate ages), she was probably below her teenage years. Seven? Nine? Something in that range, he supposed. But it was the boy who stood behind the father that Kline noticed. Based upon the boy's cravat, the image had been taken at least a decade ago--no one wore that style of neckwear any more. "Paisley?" he said under his breath, snorting to himself. "Who does that nowadays…" Kline's comments drifted to a stillness. If he considered the age of the lad, advanced it by about ten years, and added a rough life of Dreg abuse. Yes, he could see it, should he imagine a similar beard as his own on the boy's face, sink in his eyes a little. He'd only caught a glimpse of Turner when he leaped out of the window and ran away. But he felt pretty confident: This was the same person. A thrill rushed through him. His earlier connections now had proof: Turner had robbed them because he had some ill turn with the mobbers who were after him. He'd been outfitted with tracking teeth so that the mobbers could, well, track him. He had come back here to try to pay off the mobbers of Lolling Greens… But why was his father dead? Kline frowned. What purpose would they have in killing him off? Wasn't that why Turner had robbed him and Abbi in the first place? Was to pay off the mobbers? He had the raw Vapors…didn't he? There were still too many questions for Kline to feel as though this were more than a temporary victory. He needed more answers before-- Behind him, the curtains rustled. The room thumped as the circulation device turned over, pushing some Vapor-heated air through the office. Denise sobbed in the corner. The attack came from his left. (1195) Abigaile
Walking through the slums made her self-conscious at first. The respirator, more than anything else, spoke silently to the people there. It meant she had gears, sure, but so did her tin corset, her bustle, her blister-bestowing boots, and her (now, slightly shredded) top hat. No, money spoke loudest through safety and health, and nothing underscored wealth like a respirator. She caught more than one envious glance at her feather-bedecked apparatus. Flushing a little at the scrutiny, she had to revert her thinking to how she survived before she met Kline. It didn't take much for the hardened shell to descend over her. A scowl cracked itself over her face, pulling down her dimples into a frown that only touched the edges of her lips. Her blue eyes sparked with an aura of grit that would dissuade all but the most Dreg-cracked idiot from tangling with her. Once her old self settled over her, people stopped looking enviously, instead gazing after her with curiosity and a bored respect. That, she could handle. But stomping around a slum wouldn't help her find Turner. These people--her people, if she were being honest--knew things. They always did. Seeing what others didn't, that's what kept an urchin alive. Somebody had seen a duster like Turner walking through their place--running through. The trail wasn't cold, but it was cooling. Walking up to the closest group of young urchins, she said in an accent as familiar as breathing, "You been watchin goodly and see the man-size strom through?" "Hey?" said one of the three, a boy of probably a half score years. "Chimey, you watch that?" He tugged on his cap, his dark skin darkened by the soot in the air. "Why'd I tells?" asked Chimey, a slightly lighter hued child and a year or two older than his mate. "What'd I tells for? Why'd I tells?" The third, a girl with haunted eyes, black skin, and an air of maturity beyond her (probably) twelve years, folded her arms across her chest, the ill-fitting clothing looking equal parts too small and too big on her wiry frame. In that, she much resembled the boys, since all of them wore little better than rags. Abbi remembered that feeling--the constant stench, the perpetual itchiness. Baths came when the clouds rose and some rainy mists moistened everything. Other than that, an urchin could look forward to little reprieve. The haunted look, too, she remembered. That was the look of hunger, of desperation. The girl knew the pains of existence, even though she hadn't even fully flowered yet. The girl didn't speak, though she watched the exchange closely. "I hain't askin fer love'n charms," said Abbi, taking a tone of exasperation and insistence. She knew what they really wanted: Some gears to clink together. Unfortunately for them, she didn't have a lot of money to let. "A spare cog's all I do be. Yous 'ave seen 'im, I doubtless stand. 'A strommed through, certain as the raw'll crack ya. 'Elp out a wimmin in needs-o, hey?" "Yah," chortled Chimey. "Yous needs-o more in the tick, I say." Abbi narrowed her eyes. "I don't take the dusty talk to meself," she said, her voice low. She moved so that they could see the weapons strapped to her waist. "I hain't wantin' bubbles ta pop. I wantsin' the spoked. You watching a man-size strom through?" The boys, intimidated and threatened by the gun display, began to splutter some disgust and vile that Abbi couldn't quite follow. They were using slang now, not just their pidgin. It didn't take much imagination, however, for her to recognize that they were cursing her out. The girl put her hand out. The boys shushed and turned, obviously deferential to their leader. "Where's ya get that tongue in ya?" asked the girl, her voice lower than Abbi expected. "Like you," said Abbi, straightening a little and regarding the girl with an air of wary respect and almost parity. "Streets'n mehome, though agone fer many year. I hain't wantin' bubbles ta pop, lassy. Only tha man strommin' through. That's meneeds-o." The girl urchin regarded her carefully, then nodded. Abbi felt a small connection--both of them knew what it was like to be a woman and an urchin, to be despised and whored and hated and abused, to have passed the hardships of the streets without breaking. That sort of thing was rare. The girl felt it; so did Abbi. Her expression the same, the girl pointed. "'A wenna there." Abbi followed the girl's finger. The warehouse was low, broad, and surrounded by a brick fence taller than she. A rusted gate sat not too far off, broken open. "Thanks," said Abbi, turning back to the girl. "If'en I can cram a gear up, I'll toss ya a tick." "No twist," said the girl, shaking her head. "Ya donna know melife, but ya know mestreets." She gestured with her chin. "One dee, I gwan fly, too." Abbi looked over shoulder, where the girl's eyes were fixated. "Aye," said Abbi, nodding. "One dee." Bidding a quick farewell to the urchins, Abbi hurried across the street, ignoring the far away shouts of a domestic dispute, the braying of feral animals in a broil somewhere to her left, and focused instead on what she would have to do. Turner poured Dregs, he was wily, and he was resourceful. He had mobbers on his tail, to say nothing of a couple of pissed off cloudfarmers who had been hunting him for days. To think he wasn't in a position of desperation was to set herself up for death. Ducking her head, she eased through the bent, broken gate and approached a stack of rusting barrels that were stacked close to the entrance. Ducking low, she looked about the warehouse yard, taking in the sundry obstacles. Abandoned Vapor-engine vehicles lay haphazardly about. She could hear the sounds of voices of workers who were likely pulling out the extra toxic Dregs--the ones so potent that they were almost always instantly fatal to humans--and shipping them about. The yard was huge--the wall had separated it from the rest of the slums, but it was obvious this place was the main hub for Dregs extraction after the refining process was finished. Keeping low, she tried to get a glimpse of where Turner could be. The day was heating up, the sun rising higher in its inevitable, gear-like ascension. Abbi could feel the sweat that had slowed after all the running begin to trickle down her back again. The corset was chafing with her body in this hunkered position. She needed to move, but she didn't know which direction. Where was Turner hiding? After some minutes of discomfort, Abbi decided she had to risk movement, and began slaloming her way forward, doing her best to keep out of accidental sight. She checked every direction before moving, knowing that the dock workers would catch her in this kind of light easily. Not knowing what else to do--and, if nothing else, needing the higher ground it would provide--she began working her way toward the warehouse. The brick building seemed to extend endlessly in both directions, but there was a door off to one side. The distance between the last couple of barrels and that door was farther than she liked, but no one had come close during her approach. Maybe she would be able to enter undetected? Not for the first time in her life, she wished she were a bird. Sure, she knew the creatures were mythical, but the idea of being unfettered in her movement was normally an intoxicating one. Now, with the difficulties in front of her, the possibility of flight--more than what her wounded airhome could accomplish--was almost too much. She reached back and smoothed the feathers on the back of her respirator. It calmed her. She could do this. Sucking in a deep breath, she took one last look about her to ensure the coast was clear. With no one about, she burst out from behind her cover, sprinting as fast as she could toward the door. The Hype in her veins resurged because of her adrenaline, and the gnawing edges of exhaustion unraveled. The door was only fifteen yards way. Now ten. Arms pumping, she glanced to her left. Nothing new there. Seven yards. To the right? Six yards. Only a few more strides and she'd be safe. To the right? Nothing. She arrived at the door. Abbi grabbed the handle, fully expecting it to be locked. It opened smoothly in her hand. The door opened silently. Out of the corner of her eye, she thought she saw someone to the left. No time--she ducked in, letting the door latch quietly behind her. The thick, cloying stench of Vapor fumes hit her like a punch in the nose. Somehow, it was much worse inside the dark factory than it had been outside. Maybe she had blocked it out of her mind when she'd resumed her urchin self. If that were the case, she couldn't rely on that behavior here--this much toxic Dregs would kill her if she weren't careful. Unthreading the breathing apparatus from its clip on her corset, Abbi turned on the respirator and affixed the mask over her face. Cold air began to circulate across her nose and into her mouth. It was coppery, like the taste of blood, but it was clean. Biting the oral control, she reduced the oxygen that filtered through until it was one step above noticing the smell. She hated the feeling of having one of her senses impeded, so she wanted to keep her contact with the warehouse as close as possible. Pulling free Tonia, Abbi took a deep, filtered breath and ventured deeper into the building. (1646) |
AuthorI "won" NaNoWriMo in 2015. Now that it's 2016, I'm posting each day's work as an individual post--chapter by chapter, day by day. This is a rough draft, of course, and is copyrighted 2016 by Steven Dowdle. Feel free to read and share links back to this page if you're so inclined! ArchivesCategories |