by J. S. Morin
Crashball wasn’t a sport that had ever interested Rynn. All she seemed to hear about it from the men who discussed it was the glorious violence in the name of victory—sometimes in the context of winning a wager on the game. And all that the women spectators seemed to fixate on were the rugged men who played. None of that mattered much to Rynn, who preferred her violence directed at kuduks instead of her own kind, and who had little interest in the physical attributes of a bunch of glory-seeking thugs whose greatest skill in life came from brawling over moving an odd-shaped ball across an arena.
When she arrived at the designated section, she saw that some overzealous shaver had beaten her there. The lout was dressed all in black and gold, the colors of the local team whose name Rynn only knew from the signage on the walls as she entered: the Pit Rats. The shaver’s head was wrapped in a kerchief of those same colors, and half his face was stained black with soot. He held a tankard in hand, and raised it to his lips as Rynn approached.
She saw two fingers missing from the hand that held the tankard.
Rynn glanced around and hustled over to sit next to him. “You shaved?”
“Seemed like a good idea,” Hayfield replied. “Got seen. Fella my size, waving a braided beard in a bunch of knockers’ faces....” He shrugged.
Rynn threw her arms around him. Her face came away smudged with soot. “I wasn’t sure what happened to you. You had me up half the night with worry.”
“You seen the others yet?” Hayfield asked. “Been keepin’ my head low. Spent most o’ the day in the sewer runs.”
“Me and Pick got down the lift,” Rynn replied. “Went and saw Rascal this morning before work.”
“No-Boots?”
Rynn shook her head. “Not yet. I’m hoping he shows up soon.”
“Kid’ll be fine. Rep like mine, I’ll get hanged the day they pinch me. No-Boots they’d just collar and sell, even if they caught him,” Hayfield said. “Besides, kid’s been living the deep life since he was seven. He knows the city’s guts well enough to keep ‘em guessing. Prob’ly spent the day in a pipe somewhere, like me.”
“Hey, mind if I have a seat.”
Rynn and Hayfield spun in their seats. The fright of having someone sneak to within an arm’s reach without either of them noticing was replaced in an instant by relief that it was just Rascal.
“Don’t do that,” Rynn snapped.
“You’re lucky I’m not carrying,” Hayfield said.
“We all got talents,” Rascal said, taking a seat beside Hayfield. “Yours got you out last night, mine took care o’ me.”
Spectators started filing into the stadium in greater numbers. Tickets were first-to-seat, so the lower portion of the bleachers packed in before space constraints forced fans to climb higher. The game was a homecoming for the Pit Rats, who had been on a traveling tour for over a month; the stadium looked like it would need a pressure valve to vent off the excess spectators.
“Hope Pick and No-Boots can get in,” Rynn muttered.
“I see Pick, anyway,” Rascal said. Rynn tried to follow his gaze, but didn’t see Pick until he had separated himself from the crowd and started working his way up to meet them.
“Sorry, woulda been here sooner, but I took care o’ somethin’,” Pick said as he took a seat in the row below them and turned around.
“You seen No-Boots?” Hayfield asked.
“Nothin’,” Pick replied. “Guessing if we ain’t seen him, he pissed himself and jumped a thunderail or forgot where the rally was at.”
“He’s at that age,” Rascal muttered. “Prob’ly never thought we’d need the rally.”
“What do we do now?” Rynn asked. “We got seen, and seen good. Maybe we had goggles, but Hayfield stands out no matter what we do. Those knockers come asking around, they might join their pipes together and hold pressure.”
“How soon can you slap together a few more o’ them guns?” Pick asked. “I’d feel better walkin’ around with one o’ them in my pocket.”
“I think I’m out of the gun-making business for a while. I need parts, and I got transferred out of cleaning the practical science wing this morning. It’ll be a while before I can buy what I need.”
“Wait, what?” Rascal asked.
“They moved you?” Pick said.
“Yeah.”
“They say anything suspicious?” Hayfield asked.
The three of them crowded closer around Rynn. The alarm on their faces was contagious. She swallowed and tried to decide where to start.
“Clari broke her foot. I got put on her shift,” Rynn said. “It’s a rung up, technically. Everyone thinks the practical science is a lost cause for the cleaners, since they get grease and oil over everything.”
“I don’t like the timing,” Rascal said.
“Maybe they just got Chip’s gun shut up in there, like last time,” Pick suggested.
“You lost another gun?” Rascal asked.
“Not lost, we had to—”
“Yeah,” Pick said. “Got itself stuck in mid-air. Damndest thing, but hey, magic, right?” He threw up his hands.
“Shit,” Hayfield swore. “No one nicked the magic bit off this time, did they?”
Pick and Rynn both shook their heads.
“Paper said nothing about them finding a dodgy gun this time,” Rascal said. He reached into his coat and pulled out the evening edition of the Eversall Deep Herald. The headline read: SHOPS & SHOTS, HUMAN HEIST HITS HOME, LOCAL LANDLORD LOSES LOTS.
“Someone had fun with that headline,” Rynn quipped.
“Yeah maybe. But there ain’t mention of a gun being found. You sure they got it?” Rascal asked.
“Well, I didn’t see ‘em take it,” Pick said.
“The knockers were latched on tight, maybe none of ‘em stopped to grab it?” Rynn suggested. “Could be that No-Boots doubled back and snagged it.”
“If he did, I’ll knock his teeth in,” Hayfield grumbled. “Kids sweet on you, Chip, but he can’t keep pullin’ rabbit tricks, trying to impress you. You should either give him a taste or tell him to stuff it. Gonna get himself killed not knowin’.”
“I have told him,” Rynn insisted.
“Try using a knee next time,” Pick said. “He’s prob’ly not doin’ a lotta listenin’, if you know what I mean.”
Rynn’s cheeks grew warm. It was hard being one of the boys when she was the only girl. Tabby hardly counted, even when she was around, though the ribald jokes were kept in better check in Tabby’s presence.
“I don’t like none o’ this,” Rascal said. “It’s time to make ourselves rare. Pick, you still got that friend?”
“Yeah,” Pick said, hanging his head.
“Space for five and bags in the best crate he can put us in,” Rascal instructed. “I’ll leave word with Tabby in case No-Boots shows up. Anyone not at the depot by 6 o’clock stays behind. Anyone manage to grab the loot?”
Hayfield reached under his seat and pulled out a sack. He dug inside and handed bundles wrapped in paper and twine to each of them. Rynn took hers and hefted it, trying to judge the value of the contents. She realized she had no idea how much a bank note weighed.
The stadium was starting to grow crowded. Fans were climbing into the upper bleachers and settling near Rynn and her gang. It was a human-only crowd—few kuduk felt welcome enough to attend games on the fifth layer—but there were things too sensitive to discuss even in front of human ears. The useful portion of the rally drew to a close.
“Meet up at the railyard. No late excuses,” Rascal said. He stood to leave.
“You’re not staying for the game?” Hayfield asked. He grinned in his full kit, team colors showing proudly.
“Got too much to do,” Pick replied.
“Same here,” Rascal agreed.
“Don’t you have things to take care of?” Rynn asked. She was already going over in her head what she would take with her. Her workshop contained so much, and so much that would have to be le
ft behind.
“Sure I do. But these’re my lads. Played two seasons with ‘em ‘fore I made it big,” Hayfield said. “Gonna miss ‘em.”
The others left him to his game. They had things they would miss as well, and had to see to them with the little time they had left.
Rynn couldn’t sleep. The contents of her apartment and workshop had turned from a home into an impossible puzzle of packing and sorting. She had never considered herself wealthy and did not believe herself to be in possession of a great many physical things—then she started taking stock of it all.
The workshop had tools and parts that had taken her years to scavenge, steal, or build from scratch. She had books, clothes, gadgets and more, all arranged haphazardly on shelves. There was so much she was going to have to leave behind. She had lived there for years and tucked away every scrap she had earned: a pair of goggles, one lens cracked but the first pair she had ever made; a collection of storybooks she had stolen, every one of them read cover to cover a dozen times; a resistance soldering iron that had taken her months to build as she learned how spark worked; files, hammers, screwdrivers, pliers: the basics of her secret profession; textbooks on steam and gears, metals and tools. Rynn picked a few of the tools and made an emergency kit of sorts; the rest she would leave behind. She rolled them into a cloth and stuffed them into the inside pocket of Chipmunk’s coat, where a gun belonged.
Rynn packed a carryall with three books of runes—all she owned, including Runes for Stability and Achieving Motionlessness. She packed Chipmunk’s goggles and scarf, the unopened package of bank notes that Hayfield had given her, a toothbrush, a hairbrush, scissors and a ball of silver wire that was too expensive to be left behind. She hefted the carryall and decided not to press her luck any further; it was heavy enough as it was, and probably heavier than she could run with comfortably.
Lanolin was nowhere to be found, but that wasn’t unusual. The cat came and left as he pleased. Rynn resolved to take him along if he was there when she came back for her travel gear. The workshop seemed so full even after all her packing: a life’s work—albeit a short one—to be left behind. Rynn closed the door behind her. She wiped down the door catch and the secret door, removing oils from her fingers and any grime that might have built up only to be marred by handprints. She looked the door over until she could convince herself it wasn’t there. She had all the time in the world it seemed, since sleep kept no interest in her. There was one last task, but she had to wait until morning to see to it.
One last day at work. One last chance to get her gun back.
Rynn ventured out once more in the guise of a maid—more and more it seemed the false identity. She had stopped off at a cafe for a cup of coffee and ended up drinking three. Her hands were shaking as she arrived at Klokwerk University for what would be the final time. Whether it was nerves, the sleepless night, or the effects of the coffee, she couldn’t say. Likely it was all three.
Mrs. Bas-Klickten gave the daily assignments, and Rynn kept herself alert enough to listen for anyone being assigned the practical science wing. No one was. Rynn received the same orders as the day before: law and history. This time she remembered her manners and accepted the assignment without question. As she and her fellow cleaners dispersed themselves through the halls of the school, Rynn’s sluggish mind tried to form a plan.
Good, no one assigned to practical science. Bad, probably because no one is allowed near Professor Hurmbeck’s office. Good, people are used to seeing me around there, and I can play dumb if I get caught. It’s not like I look like my head’s all here this morning. That shipping crate better be damned comfortable. I’m sleeping first thing once we’re in. Hayfield ought to make a good pillow.
Rynn shook her head to clear it. Her thoughts were wandering, but her feet kept on the proper course. She headed down the halls to the law department. With a renewed effort, she decided that the best time to make her way over to the practical science wing would be during the lunch changeover. Anyone looking for her would start in the history department, and with luck Professor Hurmbeck would take lunch away from his office.
Rynn slogged her way through the morning’s work, thankful that she would never have to scrub a floor again once they escaped. When they returned to Eversall Deep—months or years later, she assumed—there would be no welcome for her at the university. Quitting a job was seen as ungrateful, but vanishing and leaving the cleaning crews short staffed was an absolute guarantee of never working there again or receiving any references.
References from Mrs. Bas-Klickten ... there’s a good one.
Rynn vowed then to take up a proper profession. She would go into tinkering and found a shop of her own if she couldn’t find work in one of the better human workshops. Human-made sold well among loyalist humans, even if it had a reputation for being lower quality. She could change that; she had seen things her father had built that were better made than anything kuduk hands had made.
She planned this all out as the voice inside the nearest classroom droned on. The law lectures were all new to her, and dense with unfamiliar jargon and no flow to the instruction that she could discern. The practical science professors had a familiar cadence of “concept, proof, practice,” and they used words she knew. Without the little hints of that cadence, and with no clock around to check, Rynn lost track of time. She hadn’t expected it to matter, since she was waiting for the end of the lecture. The halls would fill with students, which was rather hard to miss, even having only gotten a few hours sleep in the past three days.
“Rynn,” a voice shouted down the hall to her. “Leave off there and come with me. Bring your bucket.” Mrs. Bas-Klickten rarely walked without setting a brisk pace, but her short, thick, legs were pumping like the piston rods of a locomotive.
Rynn wondered whether she should run. She knew she could outpace her waddling old kuduk patron, but it was a one-way choice. If she was wrong, there was no taking it back. She’d be fired, and barred from the grounds. There would be no chance to retrieve her coil gun.
“Yes, ma’am,” Rynn replied. She slipped on the wet floor getting up and landed heavily on her hip.
“You clumsy little oaf,” Mrs. Bas-Klickten scolded her. “Get up. One of the spark students spilled a tub of some lubricant, and Professor Hurmbeck insisted we send someone down immediately. That’s you.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Rynn repeated, grimacing as she rose. She gritted her teeth and kept pace with Mrs. Bas-Klickten as she led the way to more familiar halls.
Rynn glanced down at her bucket. It was full near to the top. She pictured her coil gun and how it would fit inside. She hated the thought of dunking it, but it seemed she was being delivered free entry to precisely where she wanted to go. She glanced up at the ceiling.
Thanks, Eziel. I’ll drop something in the poor box next time, promise.
When they arrived at the lecture hall, Rynn went in first. By Mrs. Bas-Klickten’s demeanor, she had expected to see goo spread across the floor in a lake. Professor Hurmbeck was sitting behind his desk, where a colossal clutter was gathered. Rynn glanced past him to the office door in the far corner of the lecture hall, where she hoped to find her gun.
Rynn turned to Mrs. Bas-Klickten. “Where is the—”
The door slammed shut.
There were two judicial enforcement officers flanking the doorway; Rynn had been too preoccupied with scanning the room that she hadn’t noticed them initially. She could make out the silhouette of Mrs. Bas-Klickten through the frosted glass, squelching the momentary impulse to strangle her for leading Rynn into a trap.
“Hello, Rynn,” Professor Hurmbeck greeted her. “No need to be alarmed.” Rynn declined his suggestion. “I’ve been consulted on a matter for the civic authorities, and I need your help. Come, have a look at something for me.”
Rynn knew that she was bottled in. Her only chance was to play along and wait for an opening to cause a diversion or make an escape. She crept over to the professor’s desk a
t the bottom of the lecture hall. Rows of seats rose up to her left, a wall of slate to her right. Behind her, the head-knockers had moved together to block the door with more mass than Rynn could hope to move, short of hydraulics. Ahead of her, a kindly old kuduk professor.
At that moment, she feared him most.
At the far corner of the room was the door to Hurmbeck’s office. She had never been inside, but she had seen blueprints of the university, and knew that there was no exit from that direction.
“What can I do to help?” Rynn asked, unable to keep a tremor from her voice. She still held a bucket of soapy water in her hands, with a sturdy scrub brush soaking within it. It wasn’t much to make either a diversion or an assault, but it was all she had to work with.
“Though I have some idea, I was hoping you could explain to me how this works,” Professor Hurmbeck said. He pulled aside a cloth lying atop the clutter on his desk, and Rynn froze. The elderly kuduk picked up and held in his hands the coil gun that Rynn had abandoned two nights prior.
“It ... it’s shaped a bit like a gun,” Rynn ventured. Her head swam. She wasn’t sure how well she could ever have been prepared for the trap she had walked into, but she was far from equipped to give her best effort.
“Oh, perhaps it is, at that. I suspect though that this little device would be better classified as artillery,” the professor said. He took a manila envelope and shook out a series of flash-pops. Rynn couldn’t help her curiosity, and she found herself leaning over the desk to see them. They were pictures of the corpses of head-knockers, officers Rynn had killed with that gun. The holes through the kuduks were gruesome, the saving grace being that the black and white images were grainy. One showed a thumb-sized hole puckered through the bullet shield Rynn had aimed for—that Chipmunk had aimed for, Rynn reminded herself.
She tried to separate the two sides of her in her head—leaving aside the actual second self of Madlin, off in another world. The cold-blooded rebel gunwoman would get her in as much trouble as the master tinker; she needed to be the bumbling, illiterate cleaning girl.
