by Lee Bond
“Oh, aye, lad, I do, I do indeed.” Chevy nodded, watching to make certain the anger that’d risen up in Thierry drained away just as swiftly. In thirty seconds, the Hound’s mottled complexion returned to normal, which were an improvement over the other day.
It were a side effect, he figured, of bein’ awake and proper after so long asleep.
Thierry, Norcross … all his Hounds, they were becomin’ more and more aware of who they’d been ‘neath The Dome, and they were all dealin’ well enough wi’ all those dark memories to keep from turnin’ back into the savages they’d been on the Inside, but sometimes …
Sometimes them bleak old memories did rise up and like as not try to throttle a Hound back into the ground, hey?
It were that reason –amongst others, aye- that he were still with ‘em. The Hounds … they needed protectin’. They needed someone around who’d always have a cool head. Someone who could remind ‘em of the right side of things.
Someone who could, if the need arose, kick their bloody asses until they were bleedin’ an’ cryin’ in the corner. Windim, King Bless ‘im, were still in the infirmary, a mess o’ bruises and a lip so split he were likely to talk with a lisp for some time to come.
“But!” Chevy hopped up from his stool and headed over to a small fridge –had he possessed summat like this on the inside, Chevy reckoned he’d’ve settled in one spot for all eternity, doin’ nowt but drinkin’ ice cold beer as opposed to ‘we shall pretend this is cold’ beer- and grabbed a bottle for himself and one for Thierry.
The second beer he tossed as hard as he could, right at the distracted Hound’s head. “We’re not about to talk about such sorrowful things, hey? Has our man caught the attention of anyone worth worrying over?”
Thierry reflexively caught the brew, squinted through the brown glass to see if it were too shook up to open, then shrugged. Didn’t matter neither way. The Kennelmaster gives you one o’ ‘is beers, you drink up. He popped the top and swiftly brought his mouth to the opening. Once he’d saved as much of the foam from spilling as he could, Thierry answered.
“Hain’t too sure. The Network is stretched summat thin, to be true. Wi’ most o’ the others, save Windy, out and about spreadin’ the word as quiet-like as they can to the other doggies out there, we hain’t got much in the way o’ spies at the moment.” Thierry took another sip. “Cor, Chevy, this beer is well brilliant. Where’d you get the recipe?”
Chevril didn’t dare admit he’d had a dream about the beer’s crafting, nor his profound certainty that said recipe had come from somewhere inside Garth’s memories. Or that, in his dream, the beer Thierry was now consuming with vigilance, was called Bud Light. Damn Book’s influence o’er him e’en still. “Olden times long ago, Thierry. From about the same time as Toora Loora Loora were an Arcadian sensation.”
The Hound snickered then resumed. “Miz Nonesuch, our only eyes an’ ears inside the Crane-Hawthorn House, suggests that Eli is movin’ on to, ah, less savory methods of regaining his … lost property. Chassy, she hain’t interested one way or t’other at their losses. I think me she’d grown long bored o’ dealin’ wi’ mercenaries. Again, from Miz Nonesuch.”
Chevy drank some beer and smiled at the memories of the oh-so-precipitous meeting between the two of them. He raised the bottle to her. “She does strike me as summat keener on the practical realities o’ things, doesn’t she just. Wi’ Arcadia Fallen, there’s no more doggies to be kept, and so she’s ready to move on to the next money making venture. Gerry, though, is, as you pointed out, an arsehole. What think you his next move?”
Thierry finished his beer quickly, only to look onward morosely at it’s empty shell. “Were I he, I’d do the only thing I could do, Master Chevril. Aim myself at them others as have one or two or fifty wardoggies and warn ‘em. Warn ‘em that the Kennel is comin’, hey? ‘e’s only exhausted legal recourse, you see. Trinity and It’s Reps hain’t shown no interest in e’en talkin’ to ‘im, which is all well an’ good, but you don’t understand how the Outside works, not fully.”
Chevy rescued another beer from the small fridge and tossed it to Thierry, this time nice and easy, saying, “Educate me, squire.”
Thierry opened the fresh beer and took a sparing sip. The Kennelmaster kept his beverages a shade shy of being completely frozen, so this time, as the hops went down his gullet, it were like swallowing an icy river.
“I is say legal recourse wi’ intent. Wot you is need to know more than all else is that Trinity’s disinterest in Human affairs extends well beyond the legal limits in most cases as well. If enough o’ t’other doggies come ‘round our way to live a new life, well, them rich folks and Conglomerates as are losin’ their premier soldiers may just throw their hands in wi’ ol’ Gerry, hey? They got no problems wagin’ war on uz, as unless planets and all start sufferin’ on account o’ their actions, all bets are off.”
Fighting the urge to grab some ginger snap cookies–mostly because Thierry could eat his entire body weight in snacks before some old men had e’en worked their way through the first bite, Chevy instead grunted. “And I do reckon that local authorities’ll either be keen to assist such high an’ mighty folk directly or simply by sittin’ by the wayside?”
“Aye.” Thierry nodded. “You know how it goes. We did see the same thing on the Inside, over and over again. Usually from you.”
“You know how it is.” Chevy shrugged. “Most o’ you lot, e’en them as wi’ enough Iron in your blood to seal your damned ears tight, were quick enough to understand that I were willin’ to call bygones be bygones, ‘ere you settled your selfs down. Sim’lar but not the same. Which does remind me, how does our efforts go in reachin’ the other doggies?”
“Turner’s ‘ad some good results, by the by. ‘e’s spoken wi’ a few as work for them Voss_Uderhell cunts, whilst Linders is in the process o’ runnin’ down some as are employed by … unsavory ch…”
“You lot need to come wi’ me right now.” Windy said from the hallway, panting and gasping like a horse as had run a mile in a second. He were fightin’ wi’ ‘is crutches, and his lip had split itself wide open again, but it were worth it.
“Come now, Windy old man, you is need to be abed.” Thierry turned, deftly hiding the beer behind his back as he looked on at Windim. “You still need to recover from your … ah … lessons.”
“I is more than recovered enough to kick your arse from here to there and back ‘round the undercarriage, Thierry.” Windy gingerly propped his crutches up against the wall and brought his fists up, boxing style. He did, however, make special effort not to move from where he was stood, or of actually performing any actual motion.
“Boys, boys,” Chevy finished his beer and moved to stand beside Thierry, “calm yourselves down or I shall bring out the Learnin’ Stick. Now, you, Windy, ‘tis as Thierry says all the same. You hain’t healed enough to be totterin’ about on them walkin’ sticks. What’s got you so worked up?”
“Someone at the door.” Windy grabbed his crutches. “Someone at the door, tellin’ the most improbable tales. Tales you is need to hear, Kennelmaster Pointillier, and, beggin’ me King’s English, right the fuck now.”
Thierry and Chevy exchanged a wordless glance and followed after hobbling Windy.
***
“Fuckin’ ‘ell.” Thierry whispered as quietly as ‘e could, completely convinced it weren’t quite enough. Not for the man they had in the containment room.
“Right?” Windy, who’d had actual words wi’ the man on t’other side, were still ‘avin’ a hard time gettin’ over their … guest.
“I thought ‘e were dead.” Thierry looked to Windy, who nodded in agreement. “Like, all the way dead. Not like the time before, where ‘e were just drunk somewhere, for like, four years, but … literally dead.”
“Heard someone cut ‘is ‘ead off.” Windy supplied.
“Well,” Thierry squinted, “’e does ‘ave ‘imself a luvverly scar goin’ across there. The man
is tough enough. Mayhap the beheadin’ didn’t, er, take, if you follow? Oi, Chevy, you is know this man?”
Chevril Pointillier nodded, eyes a hooded mask. “Who is he to you, here, on the Outside?”
“That,” Thierry pointed through the glass, not really flinching when it seemed as though the doggy could hear him, “is Simon.”
“No nicknames on the Outside, hey?” Chevy watched Simon sit there, completely and utterly still. The air around him, mind, was full of impossible, invisible motion, almost as if it were waitin’ to be funneled back into the doggy at a moment’s notice.
Windy snorted. “Someone tried.”
“Someone died.” Thierry finished. “Who were he on the Inside? None of uz ever dared talkin’ to ‘im about the dreams we ‘ad in the beginnin’, and afterwords, when we wuz all sent out an’ about, we did all we could to avoid ‘im.”
“Well and good you did all you could to avoid this Simon, boys.” Chevy checked his longcoat for operational readiness. It weren’t like the old coat, where you ‘ad a helmet tellin’ you wot were wot, it were better; he thought about the coat, and the coat did tell ‘im if it were fine and dandy. All things were good, so if things came right down to it, there were a solid chance he’d come out on top. “On the Inside? This man here were Simple Simon. The first o’ …”
“Fuckin’ hell, Chevy, you is not goin’ in there. Not now, not never. The first o’ the gray ones? No fucking way.” Thierry put a hand on Chevy’s armored shoulder, felt the gears and cogs whirrrr beneath his touch. “The man were a savage on the Inside, from wot I heard. Some would say ‘e’s e’en worse out here.”
“Nevertheless, lads, this nightmare hound made his way here, to the Kennel. And I is make a promise to all you doggies. I … we … is make a home for wayward pooches, din’t we? We is prepare ourselves for the time when our King does call for us to go to war a second time, right? If this dog proves too rabid, we shall do right by ‘im. For now?” Chevy entered his passcode into the keypad by the sealed door. “For now, we do this the proper way.”
The door beeped, and clicked open. Chevril Pointillier, recently of Arcadia, entered the containment room to greet Simple Simon, the first –and worst- of the graybloods…
***
“’s funny.” Simon whispered roughly as the old man in the familiar longcoat walked into the room. “I is never see you, I don’t fink, yet I is know you. I is know the shape o’ that whirring coat you wear, and as I sit ‘ere, I is wonder if you is got summat ‘neath it to make me splash against the walls.”
Chevy sat himself down on the only other chair in the room. “Nah, mate. I is leave me personal FARS-cannon in me other coat.”
Simon laughed at the joke, a high-pitched wheezing sound that confirmed grievous damage to his throat. “I did hear somewhere that you had one of them. Eli Prissy Pants must be in a tizzy o’er that theft.”
Chevy scratched at an ear. “Reckon he’s got a few other things to keep him preoccupied.”
“Oh aye, that he do, that he do. ‘is whole stable, it sounds like, hey?” Simon fiddled with a scar on his earlobe. It were still fresh, ‘neath the healing, the skin prone to redness and feeling like nothing else the world over. “’ow is you doin’ that, then? Offerin’ them cash money? Bribes? Is you lie to ‘em, tell ‘em that they’ll ‘ave a better life ‘neath your care than bein’ farmed out t’others?”
Chevy scoffed at the man’s suggestions. “Hardly, Simon, hardly that at all. You no doubt spent time looking over us ‘ere you took the final step. Is you see anything about this operation that suggests we is ‘ave money to burn? Them as were wi’ me in Stack 17, they did and do ‘ave a bit of money left over from their previous missions to pay the bills and all, but bribes? If we had coin for bribery, squire, we’d be in a better location. Somewhere wi’ some sun at least, or failing that, fresh air.”
“Stack 412, District 9012.” Simon pretended to look about the room. “The wardogs have fallen far and far indeed, old man. There’s nowt e’en any Top Shelf folk in this here rotted tooth, nowt but slightly more successful scallywags. So if not money and certainly not a better home for them, wot? Can’t be simple melancholy for their time ‘neath The Dome, not when it’s you they’re lookin’ at. You is a memory o’ all things bad for all of uz, hain’t you? A grim helmet in the wee hours o’ the morning, ridin’ up on your big steam horse, scarin’ the life right out o’ some, layin’ about wi’ your splashgun and wotever else them clanking whores deemed necessary.” Something dawned on Simon, and he grinned from ear to ear. “Oh, is that it then? You is spark summat inside ‘em? They is look at you, they is mayhap recall who they was?”
Simon tsked, put his lower lip out so far you could pull on it. “What a fey gift, old man. What awful betiding.”
Chevy didn’t know how he’d missed it before now. He blamed himself for being tired and distracted and more than a little irritated that Eli were turning into such a bother, but just there, malingerin’ beneath the every day stink of Stack 412 and the odd odors wafting off Simon, there was the tiniest bit of hot oil.
Burned grease. Stuttering engines. Hiccoughing pistons.
Kingsblood.
The Kennelmaster leaned forward, caught Simon by the eye. “Oh, I see you know full and proper, Simple Simon, don’t I just. You is full o’ the Gear in you, hey? Not much, not much at all, but enough for you to recollect all about who is you and what you is do.”
Simon sighed as if he’d been given a dose of fresh oxygen, then … settled right into his skin. “Oh indeed, Gearman, I is know who I is, all the way down to the rotten, fetid stink curling out of me pores day in an’ day out, a constant and continual reminder of the fiend I were, back in the day. First o’ the greyskins, I were, so steeped in villainy and King’s Madness that I et me own mum and da.” The gearhead shut his eyes and was instantly transported back into those old, ancient memories. He snapped them back open a second later, dark gray eyes spinning pinwheels wrapped in glistening Dark Iron. “An’ truth be told … hold on, the name’s on the tip o’ me tongue … ah yes, there you is. Truth be told, Gearman Chevril Pointillier, there are days out ‘ere in the Outside where I hain’t much better.”
As he sat with a bona fide madman –one infinitely more dangerous than he’d expected- Chevy tried to work out the hows of how an actual disciple o’ the Gear could be here, on the Outside. He knew from talking with Thierry and the others that there were rumors of such things coming to pass, but he’d never once been able to find a single instance of it being true.
Granted, he’d only been at it for a short time, and there were oh so many documents and files to go through, but to be sitting here, directly across from a man who had even limited access to the madness of the Gear and the strength of the Cog … it were as breathtaking as it were terrifying.
How on Earth or by the Stars in Heaven had Trinity missed this lad?
Kennelmaster Pointillier was no longer certain that his mysterious longcoat would allow him to be the better of such a man.
“So that is wot you offer.” Simon sucked at a tooth. “Memories o’ the past. Wotever for?” He could see worry in the older man’s eyes, and a sort of furtive consideration of how best to do things, could sense the scrutiny from the boys in the other room.
“I don’t often tell newcomers…”
“Hold the phone, squire.” It were time to put a rest to that thought right here and now, lest the old man get the wrong idea altogether. “I hain’t ‘ere for me health and I certainly is not looking to sign on the dotted line. I is, outside the ones as are flocking to your dilapidated doorstop, the only man as is all the way awake. I is ‘ave zero interest in joinin’ your little party. Let uz be clear on that.”
Chevy nodded studiously. “Duly noted, Simon, duly noted and firmly driven home.” And how; the subtle stink of hot metal and burning grease had gone the way of all things, replaced by a singed melange that were the antecedent to a loss of temper.
“Y
ou was sayin’?”
“Recollection of who they were combined wi’ who they’ve become results in a combatant this Universe rarely has the opportunity to see.” Chevy said calmly when he felt Simon was cooling off. “And … the King will have need of such, ‘ere the future comes crashing down atop all our heads.”
“King’s dead.” Simon remembered the day he’d heard that The Dome had fallen, to reveal a land as pristine as a child’s dream. He’d been stood in the middle of some nameless, almost pointless, Zanzibar market, haggling over the price of pork kebabs with some utterly disreputable IndoRussian shyster when the word had flowed through the bazaar like an ill wind.
He’d stood there, cooling kebabs in either hand, for over an hour, patiently, calmly.
Waiting for word that the Dark Iron King had risen from the fresh land to lay waste and carnage across the Outside, preparing himself for … well. He’d never ‘ad to finish that thought, as there’d been no devastation, no death.
No Dark Iron King.
Chevril nodded, albeit hesitantly. “The King you knew is dead and gone, aye, Simon. Killed ‘neath The Dome like a dog, perfidy revealed, suffering, I do believe, for every single jot and iota of pain and discomfort ‘e’d ever caused any one o’ ‘is peoples. Done for, squire, by the new King. King Garth Nickels o’ the Outside. ‘tis for ‘im that we swell our ranks.”
“I is ‘ear o’ Nickels ‘ere now.” Simon sucked at that tooth once more. Damned bazaar meat. There were a chunk o’ barbecued pork wedged ‘tween two ivory chompers so firmly like as not ‘e’d need a gridade to dig it loose. “They is call ‘im Specter ‘tween the Stars and other, unflattering names. I is ‘ear stories o’ a blue-eyed maniac, laughing as the world burns. I do also ‘ear ‘e’s got an innerestin’ taste in music and a penchant for trickery. You is mean to say that the man as had entire Galaxies afeared o’ ‘is presence is the new King of Arcadia?”
