Break the Chains

by Megan E. O'Keefe

  Easy for him to say, he was already acquainted with one of the biggest bastards in the place.

  Setting aside her desire to dress down Hessan and extract the truth from Enard, she ducked her head and took the seat Clink offered. Cold bit through her jumpsuit’s backside, and she hissed between her teeth. If she regretted anything about this mad scheme of theirs, it was the cursed cold. What she wouldn’t give for a lazy afternoon laying out on the flier’s deck, a pulped cactus drink in her hand.

  She eyed the scrubbed-down wooden tabletop. At least the accommodations here were cleaner than on Detan’s flier. Then again, most things were cleaner than anything that man came into contact with.

  “Don’t worry, takes all sparrows a while to adjust to the cold,” the woman to Ripka’s left whispered. She was a petite creature, with close-cropped blonde curls framing a rounded face, the corners of her eyes wrinkled deep as an old raisin. She sat with her shoulders hunched, a small, forced smile on her mouth. Ripka wondered what such a shy woman had done to get herself locked up in here.

  “More like your ass goes permanently numb,” Clink said, shoveling a chunk of old bread into her mouth. She spoke while she chewed, somehow managing not to choke on the dry crust. “You know my name, now, what’s yours, little birdie?”

  “Enkel,” she said, gesturing to the fresh-dyed name on her jumpsuit. Clink’s name had been smeared, or stained, into oblivion. “Ripka Enkel.”

  Her first name was common enough, and she wasn’t practiced at responding to fake names, so she’d decided her safest bet was to keep it. Detan had insisted she assume a false last name – an insistence she was grateful for now. Chances were good not a soul on this hunk of rock would have heard of her work in Aransa, but there was always a slim possibility someone she’d crossed once might recognize her. With a false last name emblazoned across her chest, anyone who looked twice at her would assume themselves mistaken. She hoped.

  Clink tossed her hair and laughed. “You think my mama named me Clink right out the womb? Come on, girl, what’s your name. Not a lot formal manners to go by here, understand?”

  Ripka licked her lips, glancing at the hard faces watching her, and feigned embarrassment to cover the frantic line of her thoughts.

  “Who did name you Clink, then?” she asked, giving herself time to think. It had to be something easy, something she’d know to answer to on instinct. An idea hit, and she let herself smile.

  Clink pawed through the communal plate for another thick crust. “Never said no one gave it to me, did I?”

  “Right,” Ripka said. “None of my business.”

  “You’re damned right it ain’t. Now, what do we call you?”

  “Captain,” she said without hesitation.

  The woman beside Clink leaned forward, dark eyes wide with interest. The curtain of her black hair swung across her cheeks. “You captain a ship or something?”

  “Something,” she said, recalling Detan’s admonishment that she was a terrible liar, and to stick to half-truths if at all possible. “Thought that was none of your business?”

  They laughed, Clink elbowing her neighbor goodnaturedly in the side, and Ripka relaxed. She reached for a crust of bread and mug of water, and nobody stopped her.

  “What’re you in for?” Clink pushed a plate of suspicious cheese toward her.

  Ripka snuck a glance at the other women. They were relaxed, eating their meal with as much gusto as one could muster for stale bread and moldy cheese. They paid attention to her, but tension had eased from their faces and bodies. The posturing was over, for now.

  “Theft,” Ripka said, which was true enough.

  They looked at her as one unit, and a spark of worry wormed through her.

  “Don’t get put in a place like this for theft,” the blonde woman said, her voice a whisper. Ripka realized from the soft rasp straining her words that she couldn’t raise her voice any higher.

  Ripka shrugged. “You do when you steal information.”

  “Ah,” Clink leaned back and pinned Ripka with a narrowed gaze. “Got ourselves a spy, girls.”

  “I–”

  Clink closed a fist in the air between them, cutting off Ripka’s rejoinder. With a shallow breath, she forced herself to calm. To wait for whatever their ringleader had to say.

  “None of my business, but it explains a lot. ’S why I grabbed you over here, truth be told. You never been in a place like this before, neh?”

  Ripka gave a slight shake of her head. “City jails. Nothing lasting.”

  “Mmmhmm.” She eyed her girls. Each one gave her a nod of assent. “Explains why you were stupid enough to attack a songbird.”

  “A what?” Ripka shook visions of punching a lark from her mind. “That fight yesterday? I just broke it up.”

  “Sure you did. But you embarrassed that songbird real good when you wrestled her down, and mark me, she’ll hold that against you.”

  Ripka caught herself clenching her jaw and loosened it. “What, exactly, is a songbird?”

  Clink smirked. “A girl who gets herself sent to prison to be with her man. Comes to sing behind the bars, if you catch my meaning. Naive little shits, mostly. Some of ’em don’t even do the crime that gets them sent here, they just take the fall for it. Last a month or two, till they realize their beloved has had a few on the side since they’ve been away. Then it’s all screeching and tears.”

  “It’s one to a cell. How do they even... you know what? I can guess. Never mind.”

  The dark-haired woman chuckled. “She gets it.”

  “Pits below, the guards here are terrible.”

  “True,” Clink said slowly. “Overworked and understaffed, but that’s fine by me. If I’m going to spend the rest of my days rotting here, might as well have a little leeway, neh? But I ain’t called you over here to talk about the Remnant’s staff problems. Called you over to talk about your problems, miss Captain.”

  “I don’t even know where you’d begin.”

  “I got a place. That songbird you ruffled is paired up with Oiler. Nasty piece, that one. Runs with the Glasseaters, and not low on the pole by any stretch. His birdie is going to be puffed up with a queenie complex for a while, most of ’em are, and she’ll point her bony finger right at you.”

  “Great,” Ripka drawled. “So I watch myself. Planned on it anyway, you know.”

  Clink dragged her fingers halfway through her hair, then shook it out like she was trying to kick loose a flea infestation. “Look, girl. No one’s a lone shark here. I like the way you moved on the songbird – no hesitation, nothing sloppy in it. Don’t know what you stole – none of my business – but you got pro skills. Me, Forge, Honey, and Kisser–” she nodded to each in turn; the raspy woman was Honey, the raven-haired woman Forge, the empty seat Kisser, “–we could use someone like that around.

  “We’re not looking to start fights. Ain’t no one wants to avail themselves of the Remnant’s apothik services. But having people around who can handle a fight has a way of deterring them. Understand? And regardless, girl, you’re going to need a work detail, and you’re not going to want to go that alone. They split us lads and ladies up for that, neh? So you and tall, dark, and scrawny won’t have each other’s backs out there. You get hooked up with the songbird and her cronies, and you won’t see the inside of a week here.”

  A shrill whistle cut through the air, jerking Ripka’s head up and cutting off Clink. Only the newbies – the sparrows – looked around wide-eyed and confused. The rest were busy grabbing leftover food as fast as they could chew it or stuff it into their pockets. Ripka took the cue and chugged a gulp of water while reaching for what was left of the bread.

  “That’s the work detail warning, next whistle we gotta be up and ready to do our part,” Forge said.

  “What’s it gonna be, then? You running with us?” Clink pressed.

  Ripka chewed bread as quickly as she could, swallowed hard and gulped water again. She couldn’t seem anxious for their p
rotection, but there wasn’t much choice. If she was going to spend any time here – and it looked like it, with Nouli failing to show himself – then she’d need allies. It couldn’t hurt to have friends in her corner who had some level of control over the guards. And she couldn’t very well count on Enard’s strange past to keep her sheltered for the rest of her stay.

  “I’m in.”

  The work whistle trilled again, and the women of her newfound coterie stood as one. Ripka followed a little later, scanning the rec yard curiously as the guards urged every last inmate to their feet. Nothing had been explained to her about how life in the prison worked. She’d just been chucked on an airship with the rest, heaped together like moldy grain sacks, and hauled out here to the middle of the sea. Captain Lankal’s orientation on the sparrow’s nest the day before was the only information she had to work with, and that was slim pickings.

  Despite her boasts to Tibs and Detan, she was beginning to realize she couldn’t rely on her experience as a watch-captain to muddle her way through. A ten-cell jail meant to hold a prisoner no longer than a few weeks was one thing. This monstrous building, this layer upon layer of cells shoved off to hide the darkest fringe of the empire’s denizens, was something else altogether.

  It had seemed so simple, working through the scheme on the deck of the flier with freedom all around them as far as the eye could see. They had a plan.

  She wondered if that plan was strong enough to stand up to an institution like this.

  Chapter Seven

  “We don’t serve shitheads like you,” the big bruiser said, startlingly hazel eyes ringed by the smoke wafting out from the ajar door behind him.

  Detan held out both hands, palms pointed to the sweet skies in contrition, and tried on a polite smile. It just made the craggy man’s frown dig deeper.

  “You don’t serve shitheads with the grains to pay?” He turned his hand over, gamboling a copper grain across his knuckles in a glittering dance. The bruiser’s bloodshot gaze followed the sparkling coinage. The spherical granule rolled smooth as silk over Detan’s roughed skin.

  “This ain’t a copper bit kind of establishment.”

  “Oh? Is that copper? I say!” With twist of his wrist he switched out the copper for a silver, and rolled that across his knuckles once before bouncing it over to the knuckles of his other hand. “Ah, now, that’s more like it, isn’t it?”

  The bruiser’s eyes remained narrowed, but he held out one meaty hand. Detan deposited the grain into the man’s palm with a flourish and took a bow. The big man hawked and spat on the already stained hallway floor.

  “Go on in then,” he rumbled. “Run out of coin, or start trouble, and it’s out the window with you, understand?”

  “Perfectly, my good man, I am well acquainted with the particulars of defenestration.” Detan snatched Tibs’s hat and donned it. Tibs grabbed it back with a grunt, and they sidled their way through the narrow crack the bruiser allowed. Detan did his best not to comment on the bouncer’s unique aroma.

  The room was hazy with smoke and other noxious fumes. He couldn’t figure out which smell dominated: the cigarettes, cheap alcohol, incense burners, or the fetor of the patrons. Detan’s nose was so overwhelmed it simply gave up, a deprivation he was grateful for. From the twist of Tibs’s face, his olfactory system hadn’t done him the same favor.

  Square tables dotted a squeaking, wooden floor that had been hastily covered with threadbare rugs. The window from which Detan had spotted the festivities, it seemed, was singular. Which rather explained the hazy atmosphere.

  Marking the table nearest that breezy view, Detan strolled over and dragged a chair up to an empty side. It gave a rather alarming creak as he sat.

  “What’s the game, gentlemen?” he asked the guards arrayed at either end. They wore the simple white linen shirts assigned to all enlistees of the empire’s many branches. The smoky grey coats that marked them as Fleet guards hung from pegs next to the nearby door. Though their attire was identical, one was large about the shoulders with dark mutton chops marring his firm jaw line, the other shorter, his rectangular head topped by a tangle of curls like a brushweed. They gave him a look, each in turn, then glanced at one another and shrugged.

  “Rabbit,” said the one hogging the window seat – the beefy man with the impressive muttonchops.

  “That the menu, or the game?” Detan asked, shooting a bewildered glance towards Tibs – who had scarpered off and found another table, leaving Detan raising his eyebrows at the empty air.

  Muttonchops chuckled. “Never played rabbit before, eh? Sure you want to put a wager down?”

  Detan felt the weight of the grains in his pocket, considering. He had scarce little to lose, and these louts were no doubt testing him to see if he’d buy into their probably-made-up rules. But they were guards. Remnant guards, if the black patches sewn on their sleeves held any truth, and he needed information. Better, he needed buddies on that island – and the best way to turn a target into a friend, Detan had long since discovered, was to lose a whole lotta grains to them.

  “I’ll have you know I’m a man anxious for knowledge, thirsty for new experiences. I’ll play your rabbit – and roast it too.”

  The guards laughed, comfortable with what they were certain was a sure win. “Suit yourself,” muttonchops said as he dealt out a fan of face-down cards before each of them. “I’m Garlt, and this here’s Yisson. Buy-in’s a copper.”

  “Is that all?” Detan winked at Garlt to let him know he was being facetious. Willing as he was to part with grain for friendship, there were limits, and he didn’t want this man thinking he had much more to burn. With a flick of his wrist he rolled a grain out of his sleeve and back across his knuckles, then plunked it down in the pale chalk circle in the center of the table.

  “None o’ that sleight of hand nonsense, Mister…?”

  “Wenton’s the name, Wenton Dakfert. And I promise you, that’s the only trick I’ve got up my ratty sleeves. Took me nigh on a year to learn that bit of nonsense, so I show it off every chance I get.”

  As he scooped up his hand, he let one card drop and fall face-up to the table. Mustering a blush, he pretended to fumble and snatch it up quick as could be, slapping his palm down over it in an effort to hide the face, but not fast enough. Detan let loose with a nervous chuckle.

  “Ah, see? I’d say I had butterfingers, if I could afford butter.”

  Garlt guffawed and thumped the table with his fist hard enough to slosh his cup of suspiciously yellow brew, no doubt trying to make Detan drop another card or two. He refrained. Just because he’d planned on losing to these two knuckleheads didn’t mean he was going to make it that easy for them.

  “What is it you do, Wenton, that you can’t afford some butter for your bread?”

  “Who said I could afford bread?”

  Yisson snorted and tossed a card face-up onto the three antes. “Match house or color, toss it down the rabbit hole,” he said, not bothering to explain any of the finer points. Or any of the coarser points, really. “And you…” He snapped his fingers at a harried serving girl. “Bring Wenton here a beer, will you? I take it you can afford beer?”

  “I would rather spend my grains on beer than bread, it’s true.” Detan pitched in a matching color of low house. Garlt’s brows shot up. Low houses were good, then.

  “You so hard up, whatcha doing in this stinkhole?” Garlt asked, flicking down a high house.

  “Ah, so you denizens had noticed the local... flavor. I was beginning to think I was hallucinating.”

  “Can’t hallucinate with your nose, can ya?” Yisson slapped down a matching color and grinned. Detan had no idea what to make of that.

  “If the odor is strong enough, certain visuals might become involved.”

  “Would explain your card playing,” Garlt said, getting a chuckle out of his friend.

  “Har-dee-har,” Detan drawled as he watched Yisson open a fan of a different house on the table and receive
replacements from Garlt. Yisson scowled at his new hand and waved for Detan to play. He frowned. No one bothered to explain that move to him.

  “Truth is, lads, I’m a prospector.”

  Garlt worked up the nerve to ask the pertinent question, and Detan marked him as the aggressive player of the two. “Of what?”

  “Metals, gems, whatever I can scrounge up out of this cracked dustbowl. What?” He smirked, laying down a random card. “You two think I might be some kind of sensitive?”

  Garlt shrugged. “Lotta rumors of those lately, what with the empire losing its hold on Aransa. That shitty city lost a lot of sensitives the day Thratia took over. Fleeing being associated with anyone anti-Valathea, I’d wager. Some o’ em went to other mining cities to work, but some went rogue, too. Trying to find tiny caches they can siphon up and sell on the black market.”

  Garlt snorted and took a deep drink of his pale libation as the serving girl appeared with the drink’s match. Detan paused, pretending to pursue his cards with care, as he tried to keep his expression from giving away his thoughts. He hadn’t heard that Thratia’d lost sensitives in her takeover. He’d assumed that, with half the city wearing her uniform, they’d been more than happy to see the old guard out and the new warden warming the seat.

  But sel-sensitive refugees, scattered across the Scorched? If some sought employment at other mining cities he had no doubt they’d flock to his aunt’s city, Hond Steading. Why hadn’t she mentioned it in her last letter? She couldn’t be that cross with him.

  “Wish I had a talent like that, sensing sel. Would mean I’d always have work, eh?” Detan said, watching Garlt’s expression over his hand of cards.

  “I wouldn’t want it, that’s fer damned sure.”

  “Right you are,” Yisson said. “At least when you sign on for the Fleet, you get good pay and the right to quit if you ever wanna. Those sorry sacks of sel-sniffers are stuck tight. Empire needs ’em to keep the Fleet afloat, and sure as the pits doesn’t want them falling into anyone else’s hands. Harsh punishment for those who get caught running, too.”