The Thieves of Nottica

by Ash Gray

  “What info has she got on ‘im?”

  “Pirayo’s been hidin’ down in Wheelpin,” Morganith answered. “Makes sense. He’s got Evrard’s box and Wheelpin’s in the domain of Gov Wilhelm Rackett.”

  “Right. Evrard and Rackett hate each other.”

  “We break in Pirayo’s hidey hole unannounced, we’ll have ‘im cornered. He won’t have no where to run. He’ll havta stand and fight. And one way or another, fuckin’ with the Keymasters is gonna cost him dearly.” Morganith exhaled her last puff of smoke and bitterly chucked her cigarette stub at the pale purple sky. “Tell me, Riggy. Is the fault in Pirayo’s stars? You feel the least bit sorry for ‘im?”

  “No,” Rigg said darkly.

  Morganith smiled. “Good.”

  Chapter 14

  Square

  When the Keymasters arrived in Wheelpin, they weren’t surprised to find the city in turmoil. Riots, firefights, and burning effigies were all pretty common in Wheelpin, which was the home of an underground organization known as Razor. Razor had been successfully employing gorilla warfare against the Hand in Realm Copperstone for quite a while, their goal being to liberate Copperstone from the tyranny of the Hand. Unlike the Keymasters, Razor’s was a more direct approach: their mission was to kill every Crow in sight and cause as much big, bloody trouble for the Hand as was possible. The group was largely led by a union of humans and demons alike, with Wheelpin having always been the center of the struggle.

  Razor’s latest escapade seemed to have stirred the waters, and in retaliation, the Hand was rolling tanks through the streets of Wheelpin. The tanks were patched metal and rolling gears, chugging smoke and spitting fire as their gleaming metal sides reflected the chaos around them like a dark mirror. They were guarded by Crows who marched with rifles to the rhythm of stamping boots, their indifferent eyes reflecting the fire and the twisted faces of their fallen victims. People fled, screaming and burning and bloody as the tanks rolled on, crushing all in their path and spraying fire in every direction. Those who fought back were swiftly and brutally cut down by the Crows, who snapped their necks, shot them in sprays of blood, and beat them into bloody submission. The sound of shattering bones, rattling bullets, and infants wailing was the grim chorus of Wheelpin, a chorus the Crows seemed deaf to as the blood rained around them in a symphony of screams.

  Standing on the deck of Parasol with Hari and Morganith as they sailed over the chaos, Rigg thought Wheelpin was the perfect place for a criminal to hide. Who, in the midst of such blood and death, would be focusing on Pirayo? Hiding behind the suffering of others also seemed like a despicable tactic Pirayo would have been entirely comfortable with.

  “Fucking Crows,” Morganith muttered, peering over the railing at the black-clad army far below.

  “You mean fucking Hand,” Rigg quietly corrected. With both hands on the rail, she peered in the meditative trance at the violence below, and the firelight reflected in her black eyes, magnifying the orange flame of her pupils. “The Crows are their slaves, Morganith.”

  Though Lisa’s viewpoint about Crows had actually lessoned Rigg’s sympathy for them as tools of the Hand, she still pitied them nonetheless. They were born into the world, and their masters taught them to be what they were. They didn’t know the truth of things or how the world really worked, and to discover that truth meant venturing out on their own into a world that was cold, where dismantling a sentient automaton was no more a crime than dismantling a car. It was a difficult situation and was even more difficult to escape bravely and intact, thus many Crows just chose to accept lives as murderers. That weakness made them as human as their masters more than anything else.

  Morganith didn’t argue. Beside her, Hari gave her staff a shake and it extended in a snap, the buzz saws on either end unfolding like fans. “Everyone get ready,” she said. “We’re almost there.” On her shoulder, Rivet was staring at the riot below, its small pinlights flickering sadly.

  Natasha was at the helm, a rusty welding mask down over her face, her eyes peering through it with grim determination. Like Rigg, her mass of puffy hair was tucked away in a hood and peeped out in curly tendrils. She was guiding the ship to Pirayo’s hideout, which she had been casing for months under Evrard’s direction. According to her, Pirayo and his cyborgs were hiding in one of the tallest towers of Wheelpin, in an apartment that was usually restricted to the human upper class but had been abandoned for years. Natasha explained that Pirayo had chosen the apartment strategically, the logic being that the Hand wouldn’t look among their own upper class for him.

  Rigg peered at the soaring tower as Parasol slowly turned toward it. It was metal and narrow, like the spike of some great creature, rising from the cluster of rusty red rooftops that covered the whole of Wheelpin like the shell plates of a tortoise. Smog curled ominously around it, making it almost unthinkable that some airship wouldn’t have crashed into it by now. Every other level was lined in great picture windows that were miraculously solid and uncracked, and beyond the windows lurked the dark shapes of old furniture covered in sheets, crates, cobwebs, and what Rigg hoped were actually fallen mannequins.

  “Kinda phallic, ain’t it?” said Morganith, who stood beside Rigg, also looking at the metal tower. “Think Pirayo’s compensatin’ for somethin’?”

  Other towers surrounded Pirayo’s, but none were nearly as tall. In fact, the other towers were so short, their flat rooftops were almost in line with Pirayo’s apartment windows, making for a quick and easy getaway should the man need to escape on foot across the rooftops. The neighboring rooftops were also large enough to serve as landing pads for airships, should Pirayo feel the need to fly away instead. Rigg was secretly impressed by his strategic thinking, much as she loathed him.

  Parasol completed the turn and lurched abruptly forward. The looming prow of the airship pointed directly toward the picture windows at the top of the tower and hurtled for them at a breakneck speed. Rigg’s heart leapt when she realized: Natasha meant to crash through the windows.

  “Hold onta somethin’!” Hari yelled, grabbing the railing and squatting down.

  “Pish,” said Morganith, unfolding her shotgun. “You mean prepare for our badass entry!”

  Hari grabbed Morganith’s coat and yanked her down. Rigg squatted down as well, and as the three Keymasters huddled against the railing, the mighty of prow of the little Parasol plowed its groaning way through sheets of glass. The tinkling cacophony rang in Rigg’s pointed ears and she covered them, hissing when tiny glass shards nicked her. Parasol screeched for over one minute as its sides scraped the metal framing of the windows. Rigg’s teeth set and she nearly bit her tongue: it was like nails on a chalkboard.

  When the ship finally groaned to a halt and remained still, Rigg slowly peered over the railing. The prow of the ship had scattered several rickety pieces of furniture, and over the scattered furniture were scattered people. Some had fallen over the moldy couch, while one had tipped back in a cushioned chair with his legs in the air, and still others were leaning against the opposite wall in shock, having dropped their tea. Rigg recognized Pirayo himself, who stood in the center of the chaos, mouth open, a dainty pewter teacup in his iron hand. Sugar cookies were scattered across the floor, glittering with piles of sugar and pink frosting, while a pewter teapot sat in the middle of the debris like a fat hen. They had barged their way unannounced into the tattered sitting room of Pirayo and his cronies, only to find Pirayo and said cronies in the middle of a tea party?

  In the center of crushed teacups and ripped chairs was a scratched coffee table, and Rigg immediately noticed the lockbox sitting innocently on its surface, surrounded by the various tools that had been used in futile attempts to open it. A radio was playing somewhere down the hall, which was barred by a torn curtain, and a single light bulb dangled from the ceiling, shedding its light over Pirayo and his people, who grumbled as they got indignantly to their feet.

  “Showtime,” said Hari grimly. She looked at the ot
hers, who were still crouched beside her against the railing. “Ready?”

  “Born ready,” said Rigg at once.

  “Let’s make this look good,” Morganith said. “We barge in all business, ready to kick ass and take names. On the counta three. One, two . . .”

  “Just get out here!” Pirayo shouted angrily.

  Morganith rolled her eyes when Natasha leapt over the railing graceful as a cat and landed down in the apartment. “So much for the badass entry,” she said. “I really wanted to kick in a door anyway.”

  The three Keymasters hurled themselves over the ship railing, landing with a crunch on the glass-scattered floor of the apartment. Rigg fiercely ignored the screaming pain in her leg and kept her face cool and angry, as either side of her, Hari and Morganith glared.

  Pirayo and his people had all gained their feet and were grimly wielding weapons. Like Pirayo, they were all of them cyborgs, with various parts of their bodies replaced with whirling, gleaming, razor-sharp machinery. Many of them had sewn razors into their jackets and coats, so that gleaming blades stood erect from their shoulders like the spines of a porcupine. They glared behind goggles and gasmasks, metal arms and legs winking in the dim light, wrapped in tattered coats and muddy boots.

  Rigg recognized all of the cyborgs, but two in particular caught her eye. They stood side by side, leering at Rigg. One was an Aerta demon, a vicious woman with a mechanical hand, a mechanical leg, and tattoos swirling all over her skin. Like all Aerta demons, her eyes were solid black and glittered in the center like the dying embers of coals, while on each of her high cheekbones were three small horns. The other demon was a man, a very large, very strong Anikye with a wild wreath of black hair pulled in a tacky bun atop his head and the standard fuzzy eyebrows of most Anikye. The two were the ones charged with subduing Rigg in her bed six months before as Hari and Morganith were attacked. They had delighted in groping Rigg in-between viciously beating her. Rigg remembered how the woman’s metal hand had cut her face and bruised her eye, and her heart thundered in her ears. Seeing Rigg’s anger, the Aerta woman and her large companion exchanged nasty smiles.

  Pirayo himself was a slender yet muscular man whose legs from the knee down were mechanical limbs. Rigg remembered the way he had garnered their sympathies, spinning the story of how the Hand supposedly took his legs and how desperately he wanted vengeance on Evrard. He had gone so far as to meet them in a wheelchair, pretending he could not afford mechanical legs. How shocked were the Keymasters later when he arrived at their hideout, fully capable and leering. It was immediately clear that, like most people in Nimestil, Pirayo had simply been born without limbs, a side effect of a polluted world. His black hair was a wild, flyway mess and his face was unshaven, his brown skin glossy with sweat and smudged with soot. He wore a torn, sleeveless shirt that exposed his muscular arms, and his iron platted gloves were devoid of a weapon, as he often fought with his hands alone. He glared at the Keymasters and lifted his arms in sarcastic welcome.

  “Knock, knock,” Morganith said, giving her shotgun a cock.

  “What is this,” said Pirayo, unimpressed. “The ragged little Keywieners come for their vengeance?”

  “And your first born children,” Hari darkly joked.

  Pirayo paused and his eyes glanced down at Hari’s belly. He went still, as if something had occurred to him. Natasha cleared her throat, pulling Pirayo out of his trance, and Rigg wasn’t the least bit surprised when she strutted to the man’s side. She pushed back her welding mask, and Pirayo put his arm around her slender waist. They smiled at each other.

  “Was that really necessary?” Pirayo asked Natasha and waved an iron hand at the prow of the Parasol, which loomed like a whale with a curly nose into the living room.

  Natasha shrugged. “I was trying to break it so they couldn’t escape,” she said, drawing glares from the Keymasters. “The thing is far sturdier than it appears, however.”

  “And you came with them because . . .?” Pirayo prompted.

  “My father forced me,” Natasha answered, looking irritably at Morganith. “I would have warned you otherwise. I didn’t have the chance to. The ram-head rigged a drone bot to spy on me.” She glared at Hari, who smiled.

  “What the hell is goin’ on here?” Morganith demanded.

  Rigg darkly shook her head. “I knew we couldn’t trust Evrard’s daughter.” She glanced at Morganith. “Justa wild guess why.”

  Morganith looked at Natasha. “Why are you doin’ this? I mean, it’s not like I was gonna putta ring on it, but it couldn’t have been that bad.”

  Natasha laughed in genuine amusement. “Morganith,” she said fondly, “always charming. Even when you’re beaten.”

  Pirayo’s eyes flickered irritably and the iron glove on Natasha’s waist tightened.

  “I’m not doing anything,” Natasha explained. “I can’t betray you when I was never on your side. I’ve been working with Pirayo for years,” she said, looking at Pirayo with soft eyes, and Pirayo smiled with mocking eyes at Morganith. “I’ve been helping him undermine my father and the rest of the Hand.”

  “And how’s that workin’ out for ya?” Rigg said sarcastically. “The Hand is still in power.” She laughed dryly. “Hell, they’re even more powerful than ever.” She jerked her head at the broken window behind her, indicating the sound of the roaring tanks that drifted from the ground far below.

  “It’s alright, Rigg,” said Hari, glaring from face to face. “She’ll die with the rest of ‘em.”

  Pirayo smiled. “Um, no. She won’t. You still don’t get it, do you? You’re tools. Pawns. The two shits someone didn’t give. I meant for you to get caught with the lockbox. Natasha here dropped a hint to her father that you were coming. Then she was to bring the lockbox to me after the Crows killed you, but your precious Arda sacrificed herself so you could escape.”

  “Then poor little Kito had a change of heart,” added Natasha irritably. “He defied my father’s orders and swept you away on his ship. He paid for it dearly, yet he went on trying to help you. When he tried to leave you behind in Coghurst? That was for your own good.” She blinked regretfully. “He knew you’d just wind up here.”

  Pirayo laughed dryly. “And they say there is no honor among thieves.”

  Rigg blinked as the truth finally hit her: Kito had lost his arm as punishment for saving their lives.

  “God dammit . . .” Morganith muttered as the truth hit her as well.

  “Arda’s dead because of you . . .” Hari whispered tonelessly.

  Natasha nodded reluctantly. “Arda’s dead because of us,” she said, a hint of an apology in her voice.

  “Enough of this,” said Pirayo in disgust. “Time to clue the tools in.” He waved a hand at the sinister people standing behind him. “We are Razor, the real resistance. We fight the Hand by, you know, actually fighting them, not stealing knickknacks and worthless crap.”

  “Everything you do harms the very people you fight to liberate!” Hari burst. “While you huddle in here like cowards, people are dying in the streets!”

  “People always die!” Pirayo growled. “It’s this thing called war. Something you demons never quite mastered, ram-bitch. If you had, perhaps you’d be in control of your own lands right now.”

  Hari glared, her small hands tightening on her staff. “People are not inferior because they are peaceful,” she said in a low voice that purred through her fangs. “Having destructive, poisonous technology did not and does not make humans superior. And our lack of said poisonous technology was not an excuse to invade us and slaughter us like animals.”

  Rigg glanced at the people standing behind Pirayo, who were all covered in whirling metal tech, and she knew the demons among them had likely been brainwashed into believing Pirayo’s way – a human’s way – was the better way. They were all of them assimilated into the human culture of metal, gears, dominance, and violence, having rejected their own people and their own culture as inferior. Rigg couldn’t imagi
ne being so incredibly full of self-loathing. Or so lost.

  Pirayo laughed in disbelief. “You really believe your people were peaceful? That they were innocent and frolicking through flower fields when mine came along?” He paused to laugh again, and Hari glowered. “Is that what your visions showed you, ram-bitch?”

  “So people aren’t innocent if they fight back to protect their planet,” Rigg said derisively.

  “Whatever is said here,” said Hari solemnly, glaring coldly at Pirayo, “you will insist that my people are inferior because you’re a racist asshole and you need my people to be inferior to justify your own people’s savagery.” She jerked her staff and the buzz saws whirled to life. “And whenever you are done defending your racism, I will kill you.”

  Rigg glanced sideways at Hari. It seemed the angrier she became, the clearer she spoke Coglish. None of her words were chopped and her enunciation was precise.

  “Everything’s racist to you people,” said Pirayo lazily and waved a dismissive iron hand. “You simply can not handle the truth of your own inferiority. Look at you. The Keymasters are pathetic children playing pranks. Razor actually takes the fight to the Hand, shredding every facet of the status quo. Listen to them out there.” Pirayo nodded at the fiery sky, at the sound of distant screaming and bullets rattling. “The people’s wretched submission has been disrupted, the power scale tipped by the very people it sought to diminish. They have no power over us. It’s slipping.” He looked witheringly at Hari. “Humans made that change. Not demons.”

  “What?” Rigg burst incredulously. “You haven’t changed anything! All you did was make the Hand attack innocent people! When the dust clears, the Hand will still be in power, and random people will be blamed for a riot you started!” She bitterly shook her head. “Tipped the scales my ass.”

  “You’re a terrorist, notta rebel,” Morganith added darkly, “and we’re done philosophizing. Give us the lockbox and we’ll kill you.”