The Stars Were Right

by Alexander, K. M.

  I promised a second and then a third time.

  Finally, he waved me away, making the cephel motion for one month. I nodded. One month.

  I stumbled away. Leaving my savior behind, and starting a fresh trail of blood.

  * * *

  Lovat rises and tapers like the waves of the ocean. Around its central point it reaches its apex: the ninth level. Stretching to the heavens like some improvised minaret, yet as you move away from its apex it drops away. Level Nine quickly ceases, then Eight; Seven continues for a while, and Six for even further. Level Five covers most of the central archipelago but even it eventually ends, and then Level Four and finally—miles away from Lovat Central—Level Three is exposed.

  I stood on a corner and drank in the sky. Thick dark gray clouds buffeted above me. The humidity caused me to sweat instantaneously. To the north the central city was nearly obscured by fog and haze. A light rain spattered my face and my hair; rivulets formed and ran down my skin, dripping off me. It wasn't a proper shower, but it was the first I'd had in many, many days.

  It felt clean, it felt good. It cleared my head.

  Time had lost all meaning in the rickshaw. I inspected my makeshift bandage and saw that it had finally staunched the flow, if only slightly. My arm was red and sticky.

  My head swam. I had lost a lot of blood. I needed to be patched up, and quick.

  I found a Bonesaw in a haze down an alley on Level Two, below and west from where the cephel had dropped me off. A hand-painted A-frame sign offered "simple medical advice for cheap" and pointed down an alley. I followed it to another door under a small dirty awning, lit by a yellowing lamp that hung next to it.

  A pitch addict leered at me from a pile of trash bags and waterlogged cardboard; the rot had begun to take his arms, and he cackled as he injected more of the vile stuff into his veins. In my current hazy state it was nearly nightmare inducing.

  "Knock for entry" was painted across the door in an elegant hand that seemed comical this far down-in-the-subs. I knocked. The old door swung open, and I was greeted by a blast of crisp, cool, clear air and a pudgy dauger in a pressed white coat. Her dark hair was pulled back in a long ponytail. A few loose strands fell over the edges of her stainless steel mask. Behind the metal, bright blue eyes peered at me from the eye slits.

  "D-d-do-doct—" I sputtered, stumbling forward and pointing to my arm. "Shot…"

  She was quick, and stronger than she looked. I'm not a big fellow, but I am dense. Years of trail miles have knotted my muscles into strong, heavy limbs. Still, the doctor had no problem dragging me inside and locking the door behind me. She helped me to a small table in a small room that served as the waiting, examination, and operating room all at once. My mind wondered vaguely what had happened to her medical career to send her chasing the cash-on-hand work of an unlicensed Bonesaw in a Level Two alley office.

  "Sir? Sir? Sir?" I heard her ask.

  I lolled my head toward her.

  "Sir, are you maero tolerant?" She asked. Her soft voice was muffled by the fuzziness forming in my head.

  I mumbled a response.

  She repeated the question, "Sir, are you maero tolerant?"

  I tried to respond again, but slumped. Maero tolerant, it really meant maero blood tolerant; of all the races that occupied the earth after the Aligning, the maero were the most like traditional humans. Superficially they are a lot like us. Two arms. Two legs. Two eyes and ears. Their faces are similarly shaped, and they are often handsome and beautiful, but cosmetically it was their seven fingers on each hand and seven toes on each foot that set them apart.

  Maero also tended to be taller, and lankier, but extra digits aside they differed from us in one very unique and particular way. As Wensem was fond of telling me, "Maero are hard to kill."

  He's not wrong. Resilient to disease, infection, and even trauma, according to the local superstitions the only surefire way to kill a maero was incineration. They lived to be one hundred and nine, on the dot. They died on their birthday. They could expect to live healthy long lives free of the normal breakdowns and ignorant of sickness, headaches, even sore backs.

  Some in the Reunified Church believed they are inhuman, sullied by the blood of fallen angels or some nonsense. Deepers believed they were post-human, the next evolution of our species, touched by the Sleeper. Hasturians refused to acknowledge their personhood, issuing documents stating that maeros are beings without souls and therefore untouchable by their Cold Shepherd. Mystics teach they are the sons and daughters of giants. To me they're just people.

  Whenever I spoke with Wensem about these stories he always smiled that crooked smile, gave me a wink, and said the same thing: "I know as much about my great-great-grandfather as you do, Wal. Probably less."

  Regardless of the stories, rumors, and legends, the point is: maeros are resilient, and some folk—people like me—could accept transfusions of their blood to speed up and help the healing process. It was rare to find maero blood outside an elevated hospital, and even rarer to find a Bonesaw that had stock on hand. Maero blood—as one would expect—is an expensive commodity.

  Generations ago the capture and draining of maero for blood was common within the black market. It continued like this for years until a few enterprising maero formed Lifeblood Incorporated in West Lovat. With legal, willing donors, cheap maero blood flooded the market and put the black market dealers out of business. Maero tolerant individuals demanded it, and Lifeblood Inc. made millions.

  The doctor quickly cleaned the wound. I felt a needle slide into my forearm, and could feel the rush as saline and blood were pumped into my veins. The pain was constant, but the knowledge I would be all right placated me.

  The doctor hummed and spoke to me, words I couldn't understand.

  I let myself drift off to sleep.

  * * *

  The Doctor gently shook me awake.

  "You need to move on," she stated, not unkindly.

  I blinked. My eyes sharpened around the square shape of her stainless steel mask. Blue eyes. The metal "nose" was shorter than most and a few scratches marred the polished surface. I sat up slowly, feeling my head lurch.

  "How long was I out?"

  "Few hours. You lost a lot of blood, so it's lucky you stumbled in here."

  "I'll say," I said, rubbing my temples. "My head is pounding."

  She nodded, "Side effect. You were dehydrated. You needed a huge transfusion; you drank me out of maero blood. It'll be a while before I can get more."

  "I'm sorry," I said.

  "That's what I have it on hand for, hon," she said with what sounded like a smile. "That persistent hangover feeling will last a few days. Get some pain meds from a pharmacy and it should cut it down some. You'll want to rotate those bandages at least once a week. I'd suggest once a day, but I doubt you'll do it."

  I smiled. "That obvious, huh?"

  She chuckled but didn't respond.

  "I...well...er—I don't have any money on me. I have the lira to pay, just not right now."

  She nodded. "You aren't the first. I run on a thirty day cycle. Just pay me before then."

  "You have a name?" I asked.

  "Inox," she said with that same warm tone in her voice. "Eliza Inox. You're Waldo Bell."

  I swallowed the lump in my throat and worried what she would say next.

  "Your face is all over the monochrome, you know that? They're not saying what for yet. Just that you're a person of interest and a dangerous escapee from Lovat Central." She whistled. "Bold. Escaping Lovat Central. They the ones who have your money?"

  I nodded, remembering the bottle of brandy Thad had given me. "Among other things."

  "If spotted, I'm supposed to alert the authorities immediately and avoid any and all contact."

  "Too late for that," I said with a sheepish grin.

  "Am I going to regret patching you up?" she asked, crossing her arms over her ample chest.

  "If you take Lovat PD at their word you might. I
can assure you none of what you'll hear is true."

  "They the ones who shot you up?"

  I nodded.

  "By the Firsts, you are trouble!" she said, humor lacing her words.

  "I know. It's dangerous lingering, so I'll get out of your hair."

  "First, here's twenty lira. It'll get you some food, rent you a bed and such. I'll add it to your bill. Second, you need a new shirt. I have an old box of lost and found that previous patients have left behind. Maybe you'll find something in there. Finally, I do expect to be paid. I'll do what I can to help you out, but I'd like to avoid the Collectors if I can, a messy bunch. You play fair with me, I'll play fair with you. And I'm not into that compounding interest bullshit."

  "I appreciate the help."

  "If you need a place to stay, there's a hostel a few blocks over. It's not especially clean or especially nice, and it's usually full of pitch addicts, but it's off the beaten path and folks there know how to keep quiet. Good place to lay low. Tell them Inox sent you and first night's on me."

  Charity isn't something you ignore in Lovat. "Thanks. Seriously."

  "Don't mention it, and I mean what I said about the bandages. You don't want an infection."

  I nodded and extended my hand.

  Doctor Eliza Inox shook it and smiled. "The box is in the corner. Get what you need and get out of here."

  * * *

  The coat was too small and smelled of sweat, but it covered me up enough. I kept the collar flipped up and my head down as I walked slowly away from the alley office. I could still hear the pitch addict behind me moaning in ecstasy from his throne of trash.

  I was exhausted.

  Arm bandaged. Head pounding. I found myself excited to fall into a bunk, any bunk, and get some sleep for the first time in what felt like weeks.

  SEVEN

  The telegraph office was empty. I sat on an uncomfortable wooden bench and waited for a response. Wensem had said that he didn't want to be disturbed, but this was an emergency. I'd also had a troubling dream and I hadn't been able to shake it. Feeling like I needed to warn Wensem, I sent the telegraph. I looked up as the operator received an incoming message. He shook his head at me silently. No one home. On some level I expected that.

  I considered trying my luck a second time: sending the messenger out to knock on Wensem's door again, but I wasn't sure it would do any good. If he was home, Wensem would have answered. Maero are straightforward folk in that regard.

  Putting my failed telegraph behind me, I made my way to a small consignment store down the street. The waters that flooded the Sunk lapped against the edge of the pavement. Higher up, you'd find guardrails keeping citizens from tumbling over the edges of levels, but the police, politicians, and the more elevated class preferred to ignore Level Two's existence altogether.

  Through the murk of the water an occasional shadowed form rushed past. The Sunk was the flooded remains of Level One; the citizens who lived beneath the waters lived a life similar to (but separate from) the dry races. Strictly the realm of the water-breathing, it was a city in itself. They had lights down there, illuminating corners in the flooded streets of the old city. Underwater traffic would flash past like a shadow in your peripheral vision. Cephels, anur, some kresh, and the occasional bok dwelled in the watery depths of the Sunk, loving, living, and dying. There are tales of vast structures even deeper below the Sunk in the flood tunnels of Humes and Moran. Rumors were they had their own police force, government, and laws. Thad always said those rumors were a load of bullshit.

  I watched a heavy, naked anur pull himself out of the brine and shake himself dry. The flaps of skin that hung around him like a heavy robe jiggled in the lights hanging from Level Two's roof. I pulled the borrowed rusty-crimson jacket Doctor Inox had loaned me closer to my chest. It was uncomfortable and bizarrely cut, with little to no collar and was a size and a half too small. On the right sleeve was a faded circular patch embroidered with eight narrow rectangles arranged smallest to largest. Down in the murk of Level Two it would be largely ignored, but if I wanted to move about freely on the more elevated levels of Lovat I needed something less... conspicuous. As grateful as I was for the Bonesaw's help, I needed some better clothes if I was to stay hidden.

  The consignment shop was empty when I arrived. The clerk was an indifferent cephel who hardly glanced at me as I purchased a new shirt, a ball cap, and a black hooded jacket. Mundane items. Boring. Easy to melt into the crowds and not stand out: urban camouflage.

  After the consignment shop I stopped at a corner market for some much needed personal supplies. Then I made my way back to the hostel, dodging prostitutes, pitch addicts, and a few thugs. The hostel was quiet and I was checked in until noon, and Carter's cross, I needed a shower. I checked the clock behind the front desk: three hours, plenty of time.

  Inox had been right about the hostel; it was full of the downtrodden. Most of the bunks were still occupied by patrons sleeping off the previous evening's binge. A few winced as I pushed my way through the door from outside and passed into the dark interior. They groaned, mumbled curses, and rolled over in their sweat-stained bunks as the light penetrated the gloom; a few gave me the finger.

  The common room smelled of alcohol, latex, hot metal, piss, sweat, and vomit—a wholly revolting little medley. It wasn't the worst place I had stayed, but it was definitely in the running. After last night, however, I wasn't in the mood to be picky; it was safe, hidden, and it had a bed. I had cleared things with the proprietor, a surly dimanian with an underbite and horns that splayed out nearly horizontal, before making my way to a bunk. I was the walking dead, intent on sleep, not even bothering to remove my boots as I collapsed into blissful unconsciousness.

  * * *

  I woke hours later and ignored the mumbled insults as I passed as quietly as I could to one of the shared bathrooms. Locking myself in, I started the shower and withdrew the toiletries I had bought at the corner market. The naked bulb above the sink was the only light in the room, and it flickered and hummed as I shaved. I had grown a beard during my last run, so it felt good to go down to bare skin. Cleaning myself up and exposing my jaw made me feel one step closer to being alive. There was also the added benefit that the recent photos the police were running featured me in my trail regalia: bearded and shaggy haired, in a road-stained shirt, looking more like a wild hermit than any respectable Lovatine.

  I let the water run as I took a pair of cheap clippers and murdered my hair. I did the best I could, taking it down as close to the scalp as the shears would let me. Slathering my skull with cream, I attacked it with the straight razor, shaving it bald. The battle was hard fought but over quickly, and I was pleased with the result. Having lost so much blood the day before, escaping a self-administered shave nick-free was a relief.

  Taking a moment I examined myself in the mirror. Nearly hairless, I looked like some sickly, penitent monk. My face was still filthy despite the odd clear spots where I had shaved. My skin was paler than its normal russet color. My cheeks were sallow and sunken from blood loss, and I had dark circles under my dust-colored eyes. Frankly, I looked like I had been run over by a cargowain.

  Satisfied, I turned my attention to the shower.

  * * *

  In a perfect world, that first shower in almost a month would have been glorious. That's what you normally see on the monochrome serials, isn't it? The trail-hardened cowboy soaks in a boiling hot bath, drinking a whiskey and smoking a cigar. Letting the hardships of the trail wash off him as he's tended to by busty tavern wenches. There were times when I would and could have said I experienced as much. There's nothing quite like a hot shower or bath after a month on the road, and a whiskey would have sat quite nicely, an ice-cold vermouth doubly so.

  But the shower at the hostel was a pitiful thing. The water at its highest setting was barely tepid. It sprayed brown and smelled of old pipes and seawater. Even as the dirt, sweat, and blood from three weeks on the trail and two harrowing days running throu
gh Lovat's streets washed away, I couldn't help but worry that I'd end up catching some disease.

  I cleaned myself with the help of some strong lye soap that stung my skin and a shampoo that claimed to smell of warm honey but seemed more akin to axle grease. After a few minutes I conquered the road dirt and exited the shower feeling cleaner than I had entered. Small victories, I suppose.

  Showers are a good place to think, and as I changed my bandages per doctor's orders and dressed in my new clothes, making sure to pull the ball cap down tightly over my brow, I had come up with a rudimentary plan.

  First, I would seek out my broker, August Nickel. He ran his business out of a storefront somewhere north of me on Level Three between the city center and here. He had a good head on his shoulders and could probably help me out.

  Second, I would see if I could get him to put me in touch with Wilem, Black & Bright. I would have contacted them outright if it hadn't been for their location. The Hotel Arcadia was heavily fortified, the doorman being only the first trial a caravaneer would have to endure to make his way to the elevators. As much as I wished I could, I doubted that even my new look would allow me to walk into the Arcadia unmolested.

  Third, I would—with the help of Wilem, Black & Bright—prove my innocence. Their books recorded when I was on the trail and should be solid enough evidence to clear me of any wrong doings in Fran Nickel's murder. I hoped that seed of doubt would help to clear me in the murder of Thad as well; if Bouchard believed the two murders were linked, then I would have had to be present to commit both, right?

  * * *

  Nickel's office occupied the second story of a two-story building in South Dome, sitting just below the section of the city where Level Four ended and Level Three stretched south under the open sky. As I stood outside the offices I looked up, seeing the round faces of a gathering of children staring down at me from Level Four. I waved awkwardly and they waved back. The edge of one world and the beginning of another.