Out Through the Attic

by Quincy J. Allen

  It was Lasater’s turn with smoldering eyes. “I gave you every opportunity to walk away from this, Hang. Bent over backwards to do it. But I’m not spending the rest of my life looking over my shoulder for red pajamas. Good bye.”

  Lasater tightened his hand, the gears within protesting at the resistance, and then all three men left in the cabin heard Hang’s fingers snap, pop, and crack like kindling as they were crushed to splinters. Hang screamed, his face contorting into agony and his other hand coming around to grip the broken one. Lasater released the crushed, useless fingers, and the dagger slipped through them and stuck in the floor, point down. His hand darted to Hang’s begging throat, and he squeezed there too, popping Hang’s eyes out as the air was cut off and blood started to swell in his now-crimson face. Lasater stood up, lifting Hang clear of the ground, and with a twist, he flung Hang’s flailing body out the window to sail screaming through the clear air down into a rushing river hundreds of feet below. They never heard him hit.

  With an annoyed look on his face, Lasater pulled the shuriken stuck in his right arm out and tossed it out the window. Then he slowly sat down and ran his hand over the numb, lifeless dangle of his right arm, hoping that he’d be able to use it soon and the that poison didn’t have more in store for him. He let out a long, resigned sigh. “Damn it, Hang. I thought we were friends.”

  The cowboy sat down across from Lasater, reached out slowly, and pulled the shuriken from Lasater’s left arm. He had to tug quite a bit, and it finally came free, but he looked at Lasater with the unspoken question painted across his face.

  “Rubber,” Lasater replied. “Over brass. It feels more natural when I brush up against people, but not by much. Is that how you knew? When we got on the zeppelin?”

  “Yep … figured it was something like that.” The cowboy leaned back and smiled, waiting for the next question.

  “So, they paid you to set me up, did they?” Lasater asked, a bit of irritation creeping into his voice.

  “Yep.” The cowboy’s smile was broad enough to get a horse through.

  “And you telegraphed from San Jose?”

  “Yep.” His smile grew to deliberately infuriating.

  “You get paid up front?” Lasater asked without taking the cowboy’s bait.

  The cowboy’s face took on a more serious shape. “Half, but I figured it paid in full from the beginning.”

  “How do you figure?”

  “Better to see ‘em coming when ya got help than not see ‘em comin’ at all.” The infuriating smile was back.

  Realization dawned on Lasater’s face. “So, you set them up.”

  “Yep.” The cowboy’s features softened into one of camaraderie, the kind that only the minority can share amidst a majority. “I figured if you were able to make your way out of that hole back at Hang’s, well, this would be no trouble at all if you had just a little bit of a leg-up.”

  “That’s a damn good point,” Lasater said, smiling. He paused for a bit and then added with narrowed eyes, “And you didn’t mention all this before because …?”

  “I didn’t want to scare ya.” The cowboy grinned like the devil himself.

  Lasater sighed. “Next time … go ahead and scare me,” he suggested a bit tiredly.

  “Actually, when I sent the telegraph to them from San Jose, I didn’t really know what sort of fella you were. If you’d turned out to be a Reb at heart, well I’da maybe just turned my back and let you fend for yourself. I never did get your full name.”

  “Lasater. Jake Lasater, outa’ Missouri.”

  “Montgomery McJunkins,” the cowboy said. “New Mexico. But my friends just call me Cole—don’t ask why.” Cole paused and stared down at Jake’s left arm. “That’s quite a left you got there, Jake.”

  “Yep. I’m lucky I got it. It’s got me outa’ more fixes than I care to think about. Where you headed, Cole?”

  Cole smiled at the use of the friendly moniker. “Colorado. Figuring to try my luck on the other side of the Rockies.”

  “Poker?”

  “Yep. Had my fill of mahjong … and San Fran.”

  “First beer’s on me, Cole.”

  Cap’n Plat and

  the Wrath of Caan

  (Originally appeared in Penny Dread Tales v.3 from RuneWright Publishing in March of, 2013.)

  Captain Angios D. Plat tapped a gray-furred finger upon the side of his platypus bill. He waited alone in his usual booth nestled in the back of the White Gull Inn. A half-tankard of grog lay before him, a gravy-smeared, pewter plate pushed to the side. He hated waiting.

  The Gull was a favorite of the more successful Captains and crew who called the port city of Hamerheim their home. They were successful in that they’d been able to avoid getting arrested by the Raelish navy for trafficking in whatever happened to be illegal that day or, more frequently, happened to catch the fancy of the Commander making the search and subsequent, undocumented seizure.

  The room was full of such sailors—privateers like Plat, mostly—a menagerie of faces. He could see a few canines, two large equines and two porcupines, with an assortment of tortoises and amphibians—the sea being a strong draw to the more aquatic species.

  Such was the clientele of the Gull, sailors seeking their fortunes upon the high seas, constantly wary of the looming shadow cast by the tyrannical Raelish Empire. Plat was the only platypus in Hamerheim, and he prided himself on being one of the few of his kind to leave his home in distant, southern waters.

  The other privateers, their crews, even many of the people of Hamerheim, knew him as a gregarious and frequently generous character. Few ever saw him doing anything but smiling and laughing and living as well as his means allowed, despite the oppression of the Empire that everyone endured. But on this night, worry ate at him like crabs feeding on a beached corpse.

  “Dimont, where the devil are you?” he asked quietly.

  Lana, one of the tavern maids, appeared at his elbow, picked up the plate, and winked at him, suggesting a tryst later in the evening when most of the drunken sods had either passed out or stumbled back to their ships. “Can I get you anything else, Cap’n,” she said suggestively, leaning in close enough for him to smell a delicate, musky perfume that always stirred his nethers.

  The thought of disappearing under Lana’s bloomers and ravaging the delights nestled between her striped, furry legs was almost enough for him to stop worrying about Dimont. Almost. He’d trysted with most of the tavern maids … more than a few times, in fact … but Lana was his favorite. There was just something about felines that floated his keel. And a tabby? Just thinking about it gave him a delightful shiver.

  “Nothing right now, Lana,” he said, winking back. “Perhaps I’ll be needin’ somethin’ from you later this evening … after Dimont shows up.”

  With a smile and a swish of her dress that gave him a glimpse of truly magnificent bloomers, she turned and sashayed back to the bar. Her long tail slithered left and right amongst the other sailors in the tavern, brushing gently—and deliberately—along the faces of every salty sea dog that turned an eye towards her swaying retreat. Captain Plat wasn’t the only sailor who had an appetite for tabby, apparently.

  Plat watched as Lana placed his dirty plate under the bar and turned, handing some small delicacy to the bar’s mascot, Clive. Clive was a large seagull who normally perched in the window behind the bar, but he’d hopped upon Lana’s shoulder, stretching his neck, and inviting her to scratch his throat.

  Clive let out a delighted SQUAAAAWK and then rubbed his head under her chin. “Love Lana,” the bird said in a gravelly but understandable voice. Plat wasn’t overly fond of seagulls, pests that they normally were to sailors, but Clive was a smart little bugger, even helping around the bar by gathering up dirty silverware, napkins, and such—anything he could pick up.

  Plat turned his gaze from the bird—and Lana—to the thick wooden doors of the tavern in hopes of spotting Dimont. He pulled out his pocket watch, stretching the long
gold chain as far as it reached. He had to squint to make out the numbers, muttering a quiet “Damn” at the realization that he would soon need spectacles. Time, he realized, was the one son-of-a-bitch he could never out-maneuver.

  He returned the pocket watch to his waistcoat, a concerned frown drooping the edges of his handsome, platypus face. Nearly nine bells and still no sign of Dimont. It was unheard of for his first mate to be late, especially for drinking.

  Turtles are like that, always there before the grog hit the table.

  He and Dimont were supposed to be celebrating yet another successful run of automatons down to a hideaway along the coast. They’d even gotten paid for transporting the mechanicals this time, although recompense was never a requirement for slave runs. Plat enjoyed any opportunity to take whatever the Empire thought it owned—especially automatons—and put it out of the Empire’s reach.

  Plat took a sip of his grog, remembering what set him on the unalterable course of defying the Empire and freeing automaton slaves.

  As a young platypus, he’d served as a deck hand aboard a cargo ship. One bright, sunny morning, the Captain of the vessel excitedly announced they were bringing aboard over a hundred of the Empire’s precious new automatons. A year before, no one had even heard the word ‘automaton;’ the machines just started appearing one day as the property of wealthy Raelish citizens. Most thought that the Empire manufactured and sold them, but there were rumors that an expedition far to the north had unearthed some great machine … a machine that created machines.

  A platoon of Raelish soldiers with rifles and electric stun-sticks herded a hundred bronze, green-eyed automatons aboard the cargo ship. Plat assumed the automatons were just machines … tools to do complex work, created in the shape of simians. But he found himself asking why, if that was the case, the soldiers needed rifles and stun-sticks.

  On that first night, well after midnight, Plat awoke to a gunshot. He was low man in the pecking order of the crew, so his hammock was aft near the engine room. It also put him closest to the cargo hold. The gunshot was followed by metal clashing and men screaming. More gunfire erupted from the hold, so he leapt from his bunk, assuming pirates had attacked the ship. As he approached the fracas, he spotted a number of automatons fighting the Raelish soldiers.

  He dashed into the room, screaming at the top of his lungs for them to stop, that they would rupture the hull.

  Most of the automatons cowered in a nearby corner, their hands covering their heads, but several dozen of the machines clawed and hammered at the soldiers. The soldiers fought back, shooting their rifles, swinging their stun-sticks. Blood spatters were everywhere, and the smoky air smelled of electricity. Six soldiers lay sprawled on the deck, their heads smashed or their bellies torn open. Twice that many automatons lay in various forms of dismemberment, pieces of them and their insides scattered here and there.

  Plat shouted again for them to stop.

  One of the nearby soldiers spun on Plat and raised his rifle, pointing it at Plat’s chest. The soldier’s eyes were wide with fear, and he paused for a second. Suddenly his eyes narrowed. A wicked smile crossed his lips. He pulled the hammer back.

  Plat froze. Knowing was in the eyes, and Plat knew with certainty that the Raelish rat was going to shoot him where he stood. Maybe it was for interrupting the fight. Maybe it was because Plat was not Raelish … wasn’t a rat. Maybe Plat had seen something he shouldn’t, or maybe the soldier just hated platypi. It didn’t matter. Plat was about to meet his maker.

  Frozen in terror, he saw the soldier’s finger squeeze, and then a flash of bronze darted in between Plat and the rifle, coming in from the direction of the cowering automatons. The shot rang out, and there was a sound of tearing metal. Bits of the machine hit Plat in the chest, and he fell backward, running his hands over his shirt in search of blood.

  He looked up to see an automaton standing there, its arms outstretched to either side like a bronze cross. A gaping hole marred the machine’s back, the interior revealing clockwork and copper tubes. With a clatter of metal limbs, it crumpled where it stood. The soldier raised his rifle again, this time aiming for the cowering machines. He fired again and again, and with each shot another automaton went down. The soldiers managed to destroy the remaining mechanical attackers.

  The captain arrived with several of the crew, demanding to know what was going on, but they were held back as the soldiers finished shooting the rest of the automatons … all of them.

  A Raelish commander told the captain to return to port and informed him that he would not be paid for the voyage or the damage to the ship. And then the Raelish rats left, chuckling as they walked.

  In that night, Plat learned three things: Raelish rats were tyrannical bastards; automatons possessed the wherewithal to revolt against their masters; and an automaton had saved his life. Over the years, he saw automatons show fear and caring and virtually every other emotion a sentient possessed. He’d even learned that they prayed to a god. They were as alive as anyone, and Captain Angios Plat was a platypus that paid his debts.

  He got involved with the underground as soon as he tracked them down and freed as many automatons as he could get into his hold.

  A motion at the tavern door caught Plat’s eye, bringing him out of his reverie. He gasped.

  A battered automaton had been shoved through the open doors, stumbling briefly before regaining its footing. It was followed by three Raelish sailors, two holding standard-issue pistols, the other a stun-stick. They wore the gray uniforms of the Raelish navy, large brass buttons dotting their chests in two columns and high collars framing pointed snouts and sharp, menacing teeth. Like all Raelish, they descended from rats, their beady eyes glowering and their long, furless tails stretching out behind them in rigid hostility. The rodents looked around the room like predators seeking prey.

  The entire room went quiet. Every sailor in the tavern glared at the Raelish. Few non-rats in Hamerheim didn’t hate the Empire.

  Plat suddenly recognized the poor automaton, but just barely.

  Its name was Faen—one of Dimont’s contacts in the underground—and the poor bastard’s arms had been torn off. Cables and struts jutted out from its shoulders, clattering with each uneven step. One eye lens was smashed in, while the other glowed a dim, underpowered green. The rest of its body looked as if it had endured a severe dragging behind a steamcarriage … for miles and miles.

  Someone had really worked it over … and Plat quickly realized why. They were after him … and the underground. “Damn those sons of motherless whores,” he cursed.

  Faen’s one good eye slowly scanned the room, its head rotating with a loud grinding of gears, finally coming to rest upon Plat. It hesitated, but a prodding from the stun-stick in its back set it in motion towards him with a burst of sparks.

  Its stride was uneven, and one of its metal feet slid across the floor as it approached. The pendant around its neck—a tentacled token of its feminine god—swayed and bounced against its chest with a metal-upon-metal clicking. Plat didn’t know much about the automaton god—and he certainly didn’t pray to anything—he only knew that the automaton god was part octopus and part machine … a lady of the depths who allegedly looked out for all sentient machines. When Faen finally stepped up to the table, its head drooped in shame.

  “I’m sorry, Captain Plat,” Faen said in a weak, metallic voice twisted with guilt. “I had no choice.” Faen turned his head slightly towards one of the men behind him. “They have Dimont. They said they would hang him if I didn’t show them where you were.”

  Plat glared, a webbed hand tightening around the pommel of his saber, but he did not glare at the automaton. There was no betrayal there…. He suspected that Faen endured the torture before the Raelish ever laid hands on Dimont. Plat’s fury was reserved for the Raelish masters standing behind their slave, their faces full of arrogant victory.

  Plat wanted to leap out of his chair and cut the bastards down where they stood. He wante
d to gut them and feed their entrails to Clive. He wanted to…. He took a deep breath, releasing the grip of his sword and relaxing his features. He ran a hand over the top of his gray-furred scalp and smiled.

  “Now what would bootlicking Raelish scum want with a poor, old sea dog like me?” Plat asked through a deliberately maddening grin. Several gasps escaped from the sailors nearby. People simply did not insult the Raelish, but Plat knew he was already destined for shackles, perhaps even a noose, so he saw little point in playing nice.

  The arrogance on the rat’s faces turned to rage, and one of them stepped forward. “Silence, you filthy cur! Your days of stealing Imperial Raelish property are over!” he screamed, smashing his pistol against Plat’s head.

  Plat’s head shot sideways and he winced. He straightened himself slowly, locking eyes with the rat as a trickle of blood seeped through the fur at his temple. “Do that again, and I swear I’ll kill you.”

  The rat raised his pistol again and let fly. The barrel smashed across Plat’s cheek, sending him reeling once again. As Plat rose, murder in his eyes, the rat cocked his pistol and set the barrel between Plat’s eyes.

  “I don’t think you’ll be doing any killing today,” the rat said snidely. “In fact, you’ll be lucky to live out the rest of the day.” He grabbed Plat’s shoulder and hauled him out of his seat. Stepping back, the pistol pointing now at Plat’s chest, he snarled, “Commander Caan wishes to speak with you before your trial … and hanging.” He jabbed the pistol in Plat’s chest, a vicious grin splitting his maw.

  Plat slowly grabbed the lapels of his navy blue longcoat and shrugged his shoulders back into it. With a flourish, he turned the collar of his coat up and brushed off where the rat had touched him. He grabbed his blue and crimson tricorne hat off the seat next to him and settled it upon his head.

  “Well, how could I refuse such a polite request,” Plat replied calmly, his sweet smile enraging the rats even further. “I’d be happy to chat with Commander Caan.” Plat placed his hands upon the silver buckle of his wide belt. Unbuckling it, he raised it with a flourish as the rats tensed angrily. “Lana, will you hang on to these for safe keeping?” he asked, placing his belt upon the table. “I’ll be needing them later.” Bravado filled Plat’s voice, as if he were merely going to take tea rather than heading for a hangman’s noose. Locking eyes with Lana, he changed his tone, slowing his words just slightly. “And tell Clive I hope he doesn’t miss me while I’m enjoying the generous hospitality of the Raelish Empire.” Plat winked once, certain that neither rat could see it.