A Mutiny of Marauders

by Daniel Coleman

  There, cut into the stone, was the infinity atom. The Hollow Island symbol of death was formed from an infinity sign drawn around a single axis and combined with an atom. If it was formed poorly, it looked like a flower. The one carved into the stone was crude, but Nash had seen it enough lately to recognize what the Reaper intended.

  A man in some sort of palace uniform asked the woman, “That’s everything you saw?”

  “That’s everything.” She shuddered. “I wish I hadn’t seen it. Don’t think I’ll ever stop having nightmares.”

  The woman and the two people with her wandered off.

  Nash approached the wall and leaned close. It was block upon block of stone. Not only was the Reaper himself formidable, his weapon could dig an inch-deep groove into solid stone.

  “Looks like he’s done in Troy, if the pattern from San Juan holds.” The Reaper’s last night in San Juan, he’d left a similar mark on the wall of one of the old Spanish forts.

  “Most likely,” said Livi. “I’m curious how he got here.”

  “Still think he can’t fly?” asked Nash.

  “I see this and I heard the woman, but it’s still hard for my mind to believe that’s how he got in here.” Livi’s eyes went to the top of the wall. “I bet he jumped a few feet up and grabbed a rope or something then climbed over.”

  “That seems like a pretty convoluted escape after the ruckus he caused in the plaza.”

  Livi shrugged. “He was here. I can’t deny it. I also can’t deny I feel as tired as you look.” Her eyes grew thoughtful as she looked into his face, then came closer to examine the side of his face that had been punched. “I feel as beat as you looked last night after the Wall Box. You Rangers can take a lot of beating.”

  Nash stayed quiet. Other than the hunger clawing at his insides, he felt better now than he had when they’d left the amphitheater the night before. His hand was sore, but the bones didn’t grind together when he opened and closed his fist anymore. The pain of the burning kiss from Robles had also faded for the most part.

  “Anyway,” said Livi, “that’s enough monster hunting for one night. If you can call walking around in circles all night monster hunting.”

  As they approached the gate, Nash saw a familiar, older gentleman walk up to the gate from the outside. There was no delay; the decanus stepped aside and gave the man a nod. As he passed Nash and Livi, he gave them a pained smile, then went to examine the mark left on the wall.

  “That was …” Nash didn’t want to say the man’s name, because he didn’t want Livi to give him a point. The first man to immigrate was one of the most famous people on the island.

  “Adam,” finished Livi. “Guess he was in Troy last night like the girls were saying. I’ve seen him twice before. Never talked to him.”

  Nash felt like he should ask for an autograph or do something else that would make him look like a total newie, so he ignored the ideas. The Legionnaires gave them no trouble as they walked out of the gate.

  “I wonder if Adam’s tracking the Reaper as well,” said Nash.

  “Could be,” said Livi.

  Nash heard the exhaustion in her voice, and noticed that her steps were slowing. She didn’t speak as they crossed the plaza, another sign that her endurance had reached its limit.

  As they started walking the half block or so to where the carriage was parked, a hovercar passed overhead. Nash watched it descend and land in another part of the city. Livi and the Legionnaires didn’t even glance up at it. The anachronism was part of the background of Hollow Island, operated by Hollow Image Projections to transport goods and personnel to keep the eyes, the ratings, and the plumbing systems working.

  Ahab and Srenners, Livi’s goodman and footman, waited by the carriage. Livi handed off her parasol, climbed into the coach, and let out a tired sigh. Nash still didn’t know if sunlight actually caused her damage, or if it was yet another quirk. On the rare occasion they traveled during the day, the curtains of her carriage were always drawn tight.

  “Better?” asked Nash, now that they were off their feet.

  “Much,” she replied.

  Nash could barely make out the outline of her face and her sharp blue eyes in the dark interior as the carriage started moving. “So, who wins a fight if it’s one Vamp against eight Legionnaires?”

  Livi made a scoffing sound. “Not the Vamp. Other than the beat-down from the Wares, which could only be called a fight by someone who didn’t speak English, the most Jennies I’ve fought at the same time was four Level 1s. It wasn’t easy. I could handle eight plebes if I was fresh. Maybe four or five Legionnaires if they were unarmed and I surprised them. But I couldn’t do what the Reaper did to them.” She leaned slightly forward. “Not alone anyway.”

  “What do you mean?”

  After a few seconds of thought, Livi asked, “I’ll answer with a question. Who wins a fight between thirteen Wares and eight Legionnaires?”

  “Hard to say,” answered Nash. “The eight I faced hand-to-hand all had Holy Barbs in them, and at least one of them had taken a bullet to the chest. And the moon was only half full. So it might not have been an accurate assessment of their prowess. And I’ve never fought a Legionnaire in a fair fight.”

  “Would you say even odds then?”

  “Sure,” said Nash. “Why?”

  “You and I beat the Wares separately,” started Livi.

  Nash interrupted. “If I recall, I dropped three and scared off eight. How many did you beat again?”

  Livi cleared her throat. She hated it when he brought that up since he’d killed more of her mortal enemies than she had. As usual, she ignored the comment. “If we had fought the filthy animals side-by-side, I believe we both would have ended the fight on our feet.”

  “Most likely.”

  “One more question,” said Livi. “Have you ever lost a fight?”

  A laugh escaped Nash’s mouth. “About a thousand times.”

  “On the island?”

  Nash said, “Not counting the Box Wall, only once. The Wizard and Snake.”

  “It’s Wall Box, but I guess that’s close enough, considering your concussion. The only reason the Wizard and Snake beat you was because you were literally the greenest piker around and went in completely unprepared,” added Livi. “And you were afraid of your trainer’s ‘Shoot first, ask questions later’ philosophy. You won’t do that against the Reaper.”

  That was true. Nash had a question of his own, even though it was off-topic. “Have you ever lost a fight, Livi?”

  “Only to those Wares.”

  “And … wait. Are you sure you haven’t lost any other fights? Wasn’t there a Ranger who you fought that night?” Nash said innocently. “After my concussion there are some holes in my memory.”

  “Yes, Nash, you shot me with Holy Barbs, twice, and technically won a fight. Now let me finish my argument.”

  “I know where you’re going,” said Nash. “Together you and I are badder than anything we are likely to encounter.”

  “Speed kills,” she said, and before he realized she had moved, she was sitting next to him facing backward in the carriage like him. “So do guns. Together, we would stand a good chance against a contubernium of Legionnaires, as long as you stay out of punching range.”

  “Ha-ha.” For better or worse, Nash’s sidearm did give him a sense of invulnerability. The Ware fight and the fight against Livi wouldn’t even have been contests without it. “In the words of that Wizard, I am a stupid overpowered Ranger.”

  “Point for you.” Livi’s teeth showed in the shadows as she smiled at him. “If we can find the Reaper, we can kill him.”

  Her optimism was undeniable and Nash felt as invincible as ever.

  For a few blocks, Nash peeked through cracks in the curtains at the city of Troy. A mix of wood and cinderblock homes passed by. Unlike the other cities Nash had seen, where most people lived in repurposed buildings from Puerto Rico, before the Hour War, everything here was new, but ol
d-fashioned. All of the homes were single-story, square in shape, and smaller than anything Nash was used to.

  Thousands and thousands of people had chosen to come here and make Troy their home. The vast majority of them were unable to stand up to a high level Jennie. Not Nash. He had the desire and the power. All he needed was a shot.

  Nash’s eyelids began drooping and he leaned back to rest. According to the new schedule he’d followed since teaming up with Livi, it was past time to sleep.

  Passarinho que acompanhar morcego domre de cabeça para baixo. He’d heard the Portuguese phrase enough to memorize it. A bird that hangs out with bats sleeps upside down.

  Sometime later the bumps and rattles came to a stop. After a minute of waiting for the driver to open the door, Nash reached for the door handle.

  “Do you have to be so uncivilized?” Livi asked. “I can get you a sash if you’re going to keep acting like a servant.”

  “My hands work as well as Ahab’s,” he replied, leaning out of the coach, but the scene was not what he expected.

  Instead of the front of the inn, they were stopped in the road, waiting for a line of people walking down a cross street. The infinity atom appeared on many foreheads of the mourners as well the sides of a casket. It was becoming an all-too-familiar sight.

  Every time Nash saw it, he thought of his sister. Hoped it wasn’t her in one of the caskets. She must be thinking about him too, knowing how anxious he’d been to immigrate. As soon as the Reaper was dealt with, he’d look for her. She weighed on his mind every day, but he still didn’t have a good enough lay of the land to know whether seeking her out in an obvious fashion would just put her on his enemies’ radar.

  The line of mourners was nearing its end, so Nash retreated back into the carriage. “Funeral procession. Probably one of the Bards from night before last.”

  As aloof as ever, Livi replied, “Good thing we went to the depo last night. The lines will be outrageous within the hour.”

  Everywhere the Reaper struck, ratings tripled overnight. It was a slap in the face to close friends and family of the victims, but that didn’t keep people in the area from lining up at the depos.

  And they’d keep lining up. Three days in a row he’d struck in or around Troy, but was still as elusive as the coquís that chirped in the night. If he and Livi kept up this hunt long enough, eventually they would meet up with the Reaper, and find out if a Ranger and a Vamp could take him down.

  No, he needed to stop thinking like that.

  They’d kill him. That was that. Every Jennie on Hollow Island had a weakness, including this monster. The pair of them was unstoppable together—that went beyond guns and speed. Some sort of unexplainable synergy. They’d find the weakness and exploit the living hell out of it.

  Until that point, people would continue to die.

  5

  Konketsu

  << A mil for a length of thread

  Or a cent for three thimbles instead.

  A kilo for pants and a top.

  For 2 gigs, I’ll sell you the shop

  - Sign at a tailor’s shop in Krete >>

  Tru leaned against a barrel, holding his Viking miniature and watching the crowd of newies file through the Ponce immigrant market. Any one of the fools would be an easy mark, but Liam didn’t move. Maybe he wanted to make sure Tru knew who was in charge of their two-man Thieves den.

  Not like there was any question. Liam was four years older and twice as big. After a hundred or more newies passed, Liam nodded, eyeing a short woman with hair like a giant birds nest. The mark had her back to the silk merchant, anxiously scooping coins from her pocket into a velvet and silk pouch which she tied to her belt with a single cord.

  Newies were so ignorant. They used some kind of invisible money on the outside, but that didn’t mean they had to fondle and stare at coins like pure idiots. Sometimes Tru wondered if they tested immigrants and kept all the smart ones out. Shipfuls of new fools arrived every day, all with full pockets and empty heads. After making a slight, sacred gesture toward the sun then to his pocket, Tru ducked into the crowd. He fidgeted into a spot in the stream of people in front of the short woman. Within a few steps, Liam fell into step behind them.

  When a gap opened in the crowd, Tru quickened his pace so the mark could speed up behind him. As soon as the mark caught him up, he dropped the miniature then bent to pick it up, bracing for impact. The mark tried to dodge, but there wasn’t room in the crowd and she tripped, sprawling onto Tru. In turn, Liam tumbled onto the squat woman. A small pocket opened in the stream of people as the rest of the crowd sidestepped the collision.

  As they untangled themselves, Liam shouted, “So people don’t know how to walk on the outside, eh?”

  “The boy, he stops right in front of me!” snapped the woman. “Lucky I don’t break my leg.” As if to show how healthy her legs were, the woman booted Tru in the rump, helping him to his feet and on his way.

  Tru figured that was the real reason he was always the bottom piece of bread in this con. He felt lucky he hadn’t broken any bones. Sandwiching was effective, but it was the cause of most of his bruises.

  As he scurried off, Tru heard Liam say, “Watch your step, there’s cretins like that all over.”

  The woman had some angry words for Liam that Tru couldn’t make out. After winding his way to the end of the row, where the smell of sweet bread filled the air, Tru fished a mil from his pocket and gave it to the baker. Her pearly smile glowed in contrast to her dark face.

  “You be stayin’ outta trouble, do ye, Tru?”

  Taking the roll she offered, he said, “Anne Bonney, trouble finds me no matter what I do.”

  She forced a hearty, “Yar!” whatever that meant. The Pirate baker was one of the oddest people on Hollow Island, but she knew as much about Tru as anyone and never did anything about it. Except sell rolls for a mil that cost newies a whole cent. Even Liam had to pay ten mils.

  With his eyes on the market exit, Tru stayed under Anne Bonney’s canopy to enjoy the bread.

  “Curses, but I do worry about ye, me boy.”

  “I know how to take care of myself.”

  Liam came into view and Tru let out a sigh of relief when he walked out of the market gates. The take must have been big enough for them to be done working so early. And the best part, Tru wouldn’t have his fingers on the pilfered coins until he and Liam were safely away.

  After buying another roll, Tru said, “Thanks, ye buxom lass.” He wasn’t very good with Pirate words, but Anne Bonney always hooted when he tried.

  When he first joined Liam’s den, Tru asked why they didn’t just work all day so they could take the next two weeks off. After a few insults about Tru’s intelligence, Liam said, “It’s all about QRA, piker.” Tru never reacted to that word, but somehow Liam knew how much he hated being called a piker. Ninety-nine percent of the people on the island had been there less time than Tru. Yeah, he was ignorant about a lot of things from the outside, but they weren’t outside. They were all inside, so who cared about all their stupid old countries and traditions?

  QRA was Quanta-something Risk Assessment. Tru suspected Liam had made it up to try to impress him. He explained that the market could only support a certain amount of coin theft each day. But once that threshold was crossed, whether in a single large heist or multiple smaller cons, the risk was too great. Even with the constable in on it for a cut, Liam said there was a point where the risks outweighed the benefits. Whatever.

  Tru found Liam sorting coins on the cement floor of the abandoned building they used as a base when they worked the market. It was a decent take; Liam must have swiped the entire purse.

  “Not a bad haul for one morning, eh?”

  Counting out a few coins, he offered them to Tru. Forty cents. Not a bad payday, but it was a small fraction of the total take. Even as his skill increased, his share shrunk. “Forty cents? That’s it?” he asked, eyeing the huge stack that remained.

  “More h
ands in dah pot, less coins for dah tot. The Constable keeps asking for more, and a few of the shopkeepers treatened to rat on us if they don’t get their share. If you don’t want it, footstools are dime a dozen.”

  The disappointing cut was as much as he usually made in weeks. And without the protection of a den and the Thieves Guild, he’d never survive. Besides, lifting and fencing was more risky and less steady than working the immigrant market.

  A light-skinned face appeared through the metal slats at the window, squinting into the dark building. Kintaro.

  Without looking up, Liam quoted one of the Guild’s credos. “It’s better to steal a mil than beg a gig.”

  It was the only one of the credos Tru didn’t believe in, but he didn’t argue. “You need me tonight, Liam?”

  Liam shook his head, preoccupied with sorting the coins in front of him.

  “Okay, see ya tomorrow.” Tru ran outside to meet up with his friend. At eleven years old, Kintaro was one of the youngest immigrants. At nearly ten, Tru was the oldest native-born kid he knew of. The only reason Kintaro had been allowed to immigrate so young was because he came with his parents.

  “You done already?” asked Kintaro.

  “Yeah, but my share shrinks every time. Soon I’ll be paying him to be part of the den.” He kicked a large pebble and it skittered down the street. They followed the pebble in the direction away from the market.

  “That why you should be honest boy. You work for money, you no need Liam.” He broke a bratwurst in half and after measuring, gave Tru the larger portion. If Tru ever tried sharing anything, Kintaro refused to take it because he said Tru’s money was ‘not honest’. Side by side, they walked away from the market, toward the shops where people who weren’t newies spent their money.