Nobility

by Mason Dakota

  Gabriel leaned forward in his chair and whispered, “A single choice. Now it’s late…or shall I say early. Get some rest. Tomorrow is going to be a busy day.” Then he blew out the candle on the nightstand and disappeared into the darkness. I was alone.

  But, then again, I’ve always felt alone.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  In the morning when I woke up candles and kerosene lamps were lit all throughout the den. The aroma of freshly cooked eggs and bacon strips masked the burning kindling in the wood stove. On the chair that Gabriel had sat in the night before, lay a patched-up flannel robe and matching slippers.

  I threw back the covers and eased out of the bed. Every inch of me hurt. I winced in pain as my chest felt like it twisted into shreds beneath my skin. I’d spent two nights being Shaman, and I already wanted a vacation. Using the nightstand for support, I pulled myself to my full height. The slightest movement created a wave of nausea as I put on the robe and slippers. Thankfully, they were warm and cozy.

  I shuffled along toward the table in the center of the room where I found a plate of food with toast, scrambled eggs, bacon strips, and a glass of orange juice. Two blue ibuprofen pills sat next to the glass as well as a handwritten note from Gabriel.

  I took a seat and gobbled down the meal as I read the note. It read:

  I have left to finish some errands. Over by the standing curtain you will find a suit. Wear it for today’s work with the Mayor. You will find in the suit pocket your cut of the fenced jewels. Remember. No plan, just an easy day. Gabriel

  “The only easy day was yesterday,” I said through a mouth full of eggs. I set the letter down and looked to the standing curtain in the corner. Sure enough there hung a suit and shirt. They weren’t an expensive duo, but I they weren’t cheap either. They probably cost the same as two months’ rent for me.

  I quickly swallowed the ibuprofen, downed the glass of orange juice, and shuffled toward the suit. My stomach cringed as I already knew what I would find as I reached into the pocket. I pulled out about four hundred dollars and another note that confirmed my suspicions.

  It read:

  P.S. I used a bit of your cut to purchase the clothes.

  “Figures,” I said as I crumbled up the note and let it fall to the floor. I finished my breakfast and showered off the sweat and grime from the day before. The water was ice cold, but it helped to distract the dark thoughts swarming through my head…only a little though.

  I killed. I murdered.

  I shivered, but not from the cold shower. I couldn’t get their faces out of my mind. Every time I closed my eyes I saw them staring back at me. Their last words echoed through my ears. I wanted to vomit.

  I stumbled out of the shower and got myself ready for my first day of work with the Mayor. I even combed my hair. I redid the dressings on my wounds. My injuries had been stitched up, and thankfully they weren’t deep enough to cause any major damage. That didn’t mean it didn’t feel like a hot iron pressed my skin every time I moved my left arm or right thigh or breathed too deeply, but the ibuprofen was starting to help.

  I was surprised at how well the suit fit me. I had never worn a suit before, or a tie for that matter. I guessed that was why Gabriel didn’t buy me one. But the suit felt like it was made for me. I did not know whether Gabriel measured me during the night or if he was just that good. I felt more comfortable with the latter.

  I tried to make my way to the door and almost collapsed in pain. I really needed to rest and recover. But I couldn’t stay in and sleep all day. Today, even if it was supposed to be easy (according to Gabriel) it was going to be an important day. I felt it in my bones.

  But first I had to be able to walk out the door. I looked around the room for something to aid me, and my eyes fell upon a gray cane in the corner by some umbrellas. A fancy suit and a cane—I really was becoming Ziavir! I stumbled forward and snatched the cane. With shaky arms I put my entire weight on the cane. It held my body, but I felt my soul plummet.

  Oh please lord of painkillers, help me!

  I left the den feeling like I wouldn’t make it twelve steps down the street before I was mugged or killed. I even counted. The strong stench of the Stinks didn’t help the feeling of coming doom. I coughed several times as the stench sucker punched me. You’d think I’d be used to this place.

  I walked cautiously, checking down every alleyway and watching every pair of eyes I passed. It was more than just a potential threat from the mob or Ziavir I feared. Dressed like this and so visibly weak, any mugger or hungry individual might take a shot at me. I’d seen it happen hundreds of times. The city might be filled with leading edge technology and enough lights to make you forget about the night, but the shadows held the world’s most decrepit society short of the Grimway, a prison city for the world’s nastiest Noble serial killers. Here, desperate people have few limits on what they’ll do to survive. It was a cruel fact of life for the homeless of Chicago. That was why many of them ended up on the gallows.

  I walked with my left arm tucked close to my side and my weight supported by the cane to relieve the pain until the medicine numbed it away. I knew eventually my body would work the pain and stiffness down to a more tolerable level where I wouldn’t feel so fragile. That would take some time to happen.

  As I walked, men, women, and children begged me for money. Normally they were familiar with my appearance and knew I shared in their poverty, but I guess seeing me stroll down the sidewalk in a suit changed that. I feared they would kill me just to take my clothes and sell them for food. I think the only thing that kept all them at bay long enough for me to walk away was that they knew me so well.

  Just like that I am afraid of my own community and think the worse of them. What’s changed?

  I came out of the Stinks alive, but I couldn’t help but feel lucky to be alive. I’ve never felt that way in the Stinks. It felt so…wrong, like for the first time I was not seeing the people there as actual people, but less than that. None of them had changed, but I had. Maybe what Gabriel said was true—that sometimes when we seek to undo something which we hate we find ourselves becoming that very thing. I despised growing up being looked at as a filthy nuisance to those entitled with power and money. And there I was doing that very same thing, because I now had money and power and prestige, that made me view others around me undeserving of my time and affection.

  Oh, how quickly I have fallen!

  Maybe the fear of a vendetta assassin brought that out in me. Maybe Ziavir leaked my identity to the public or to the NPFC, and either might soon break down my door or wait for me at the Mayor’s office.

  Despite my fears, none were good excuses for my behavior toward my neighbors. Nothing justified the wrong I’d done to them. But the more my mind began to dwell on Ziavir, the more terrified I became. My blood pressure spiked, and my heart raced with terror and anxiety. I choked on short breaths. I needed to know the truth before I collapsed to the ground in a panic attack.

  I saw one of the city’s telecommunication stands—holographic monitors placed around the city providing a map of the city or other functions, such as live news from the many drones flying across Chicago. I was half tempted to stand there in the middle of the street to read the news but feared an assassin’s knife in the back. So, I decided to call a cab (knowing that within the vehicle there’d be a monitor with the same functions).

  It took a while for a cab that wasn’t labeled “Nobles Only” to arrive. Most of the city was segregated—from schools to bathrooms and cabs to buses. Because I wore an expensive suit, most of the cabs that pulled up were labeled for Nobles. I could get arrested for getting into one of those cabs—clearly a great start for my political career—so I waved each away. There were a lot of them.

  Is it that shocking to see an Outcast in a suit?

  After about ten minutes, I rolled up my sleeve to expose my birth title and waved my arm around to the chorus of curses around me. Eventually a old and barely running cab labeled for O
utcasts spotted me and pulled up to the curb. It smelled like road kill.

  I didn’t really care if the cab was a death trap. I needed to get off the street and find answers to stop the panic attack growing in my chest. I threw open the door before the cab could fully stop and slipped in. The old leather seats were worn out and the far-left side cushion looked like a wolverine shredded it to pieces. Metal springs stuck through the cushion. Used to that, I quickly spat directions to the cab driver and settled in.

  Once the vehicle pulled out, I dove to power on the monitor built into the back of the driver’s seat. It took five tries to get the ancient device to turn on and when it did it was covered in static. I scoured the local news for anything connected to me.

  I’d never seen so many “top stories” before on a single channel. There was an article about the sudden, extreme rise in violence between the NPFC and the mob. The article never blatantly admitted it, but hinted that the violence started over a thief who called himself Shaman, suspected to be working for the Lady. It did, however, paint a nice political campaign for Kraine about the whole affair being an attempt to, in his words, “clean up the streets for a brighter future.” (It was nice to see the media spread the message I hoped for.) If the NPFC suspected me of working for the Lady, then they’d go after her instead of looking for me.

  The article documented the countless wounded and confirmed deaths in hospitals across Chicago—all attributed to the rise of violence. The article barely mentioned a massive shootout—bigger than what I remember—at the docks. Thankfully, I wasn’t mentioned. Unfortunately, neither was Ziavir. Instead, the journalist wrote that the mob and other criminal affiliates had fallen into some sort of disagreement that led to bloodshed, and an NPFC officer was killed while trying to stop the fighting. The whole incident was obviously scrubbed and rewritten to serve some higher political agenda, because the page told only enough truth to appease curiosity. Key details were left out.

  I guess I should be grateful for political secrecy. On the other hand, innocents were hurt because of me and that crushed me. I knew it would happen, and before, I thought I’d be able to handle it. But, after the docks and Murray, the guilt tore me apart. I nearly vomited with the images playing in my mind. Blood on my hands. I quickly pushed away my growing anger and depression, and told myself my actions were necessary for the greater good. I threw myself back into the news reports.

  I bet that’s what Ziavir thinks when people are dead because of him. Greater good.

  However, nowhere in the paper was Ziavir mentioned. Even the piece that talked about me saving those on the monorail didn’t include him. It only said there was a train malfunction. The article excluded the dead woman, the tied-up hostages, and Ziavir. In fact, the article again hinted that the mob was behind the sabotage without out right claiming them to be so. It seemed the media hid the truth from the public while advocating Kraine’s political campaign. Then again, if the people knew a terrorist was on the loose in the city, mass panic would ensue. The body count would double. The NPFC was already stretched thin with its war on the mob.

  At that exact moment a convertible sports car on the other side of the road flew by my cab. A masked man in the passenger seat fired off rounds at three NPFC squad cars chasing it. The taxi driver swerved the cab into the next lane and slammed on the brakes to avoid the gunfire as the convertible sped by us. Every car on the road did likewise until the car chase disappeared down the street.

  The violence is only growing. How far can this go before it ends?

  I dug through the article to find its author. Every story in which I played a part was written by the same individual—Ralph Erikson, a chief editor famous for being an investigative journalist. Many credited him to publishing articles that led to the downfall of the older mob and the rise of Lady Alexandra Carline’s organization. What Erikson wrote carried a lot of weight in Chicago.

  Might be good to pay Mr. Erikson a visit.

  I found another crime story written by Erikson on the news feed. It didn’t catch my interest until it mentioned a cyber-theft against Chicago’s richest bankers and corporate heads. I recognized a few victim names; they were notorious for illegal and corrupt behavior that hurt Chicago’s poor. The massive job not only cost millions, but the hacker also uploaded a virus into the victims’ accounts that showed a video of a laughing skull whenever they tried to access their money. The individual stole millions, and laughed at his victims.

  A surprising factor linked the victims; they all held accounts at the Lady’s bank—the same bank that I robbed. The odds that a hacker and I robbed the same bank at the same time were astronomical! Someone got a hold of the same bank records I stole, information which I intended to use to blackmail and extort the rich, cruel, and powerful of the city. That hacker possessed remarkable talent to get around the bank’s security and firewalls, take millions, upload a mocking virus, and get away with it, leaving no trace where the money went.

  Michael, what have you done?

  I shouted Michael’s address to the cab driver and threw a couple of bills onto his dashboard. The cab driver scooped up the bills and turned down a side road. I sat, ringing my hands in frustration. I didn’t care how late I was on my first day at work. I wanted answers.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  I stood at the bottom of the stairs leading up to Michael’s apartment, my fists repeatedly opened and clenched at my side. Anger made me see red. Michael betrayed us, using what belonged to us for his own benefit. His actions had compromised everything we’d worked for. I felt robbed. And the worst part was that if the authorities traced the theft back to his computer, we could all be hanged.

  No honor among thieves.

  I raced inside the apartment building and up to Michael’s floor. I ran up three flights of stairs, taking two steps at a time. Michael’s apartment was the fifth door. I marched over, knocked hard on the door, shouted for Michael to answer, and was shocked by who opened the door.

  Chamberlain.

  I had this grand speech planned to make Michael feel guilty, to expose his betrayal, to catch him off guard, but seeing Chamberlain at the door instead of Michael threw me. I stuttered and stumbled over my words, completely lost in what to say or do. Chamberlain was already one step ahead. “Here about the news article?”

  I just nodded. He nodded back and said, “Come one in, Alison and Michael are in the dining room.” I followed him.

  Michael’s apartment was bigger than mine, with a small kitchen and dining room space full of appliances that actually used electricity. The walls weren’t moldy like mine, but were covered with posters of video game characters and movie stars. Strings of yarn holding papers and article clippings crisscrossed the apartment. They ranged from equations to drawings to business memos to newspaper clippings. I thought they must all connect somehow, but I was afraid to ask how. I wasn’t prepared to dive into Michael’s mind of conspiracies and delusion.

  Overall, Michael’s place was a wreck. There were stacks of books, comic books, and magazines everywhere. Michael never got rid of anything. Trash covered the apartment, and I counted at least twelve TV dinners piled next to the kitchen trash can.

  Just to walk through the apartment, I had to duck through the curtain of hanging papers and climb over mounds of books and trash. To lose something would be disastrous in the black hole Michael called home. I guess if you have a memory like Michael’s, it isn’t as bad.

  “Oh no, not you, too,” Michael moaned after seeing me. He sat at the end of his dining room table and rubbed his hands over his face, through his hair, and then back again. He looked like he had just been awakened. “I swear I had nothing to do with any cyber thefts. Well, you know, except for the heist two nights ago that we did. But you already knew about that one, of course. You were there after all. So of course you would know about that one, but this one I am innocent of. Hey, that is a nice suit. Did you just get that? It looks great on you—you should wear suits more often. I have never
even seen you wear—”

  I lifted my hand to signal him to stop babbling. I set my cane against the wall. I didn’t need it anymore; anger and ibuprofen took effect. I licked my lips, took a deep breath, and said, “Take it easy, Michael; I’m not going to hurt you, there’s no need to be nervous. I only came for some answers.”

  I was surprised by how calm I sounded.

  Michael sighed and wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. “I wish I had them for you. I did not know about this until fifteen minutes ago when Chamberlain and Alison here woke me up knocking on my door.”

  “He didn’t take it well when we told him. He said he felt wronged and ashamed that we thought he had betrayed us. He even started sobbing a little into his little blanky,” Alison said with a smile.

  “It had little teddy bears on it and everything,” added Chamberlain.

  “Yeah, let us make fun of the guy who is being framed here! Your support makes me feel special,” grumbled Michael. “And they are not teddy bears! They are space bears with clubs from a far-off galaxy.”

  Having absolutely no idea what he meant by that bear clarification—likely from some ancient movie—I ignored him and said, “That’s what friends are for. So, you’re saying you have no ideas about this hacker? I didn’t think there was anyone else in the city with your skill level. The victims listed are the same names as the ones from the flash drive I took from the bank.”

  “I know, I know. It is pretty convincing, but I swear I did not do this. I would not risk all our work for that.”

  I believed him. Michael made me look like a good liar—and I can’t tell a good lie to save my life. Michael’s forehead beaded with sweat. I at least wasn’t that bad.

  “Any idea who might have done this?” I asked.