Black Recluse

by Anna Bowman

  Rayn re-holstered her revolver and pushed through the double doors out into the streets. The next person who tries to get handsy is going to get a knife in the leg. These idiot people that passed through were all the same. Steering clear of the stream of travelers from the newly arrived airships, she started down the cobbled street. Her shop was situated outside of town, nestled in a small grove of oak trees.

  Turning the wheel-lock, she flipped the toggle switch on the side of the wall. With a grinding sound, the generator kicked in and the lights flickered on. Rayn took off her overcoat and slung it over her workbench, sending a cloud of sawdust flying. Files and hammers lay amidst piles of springs and metal shavings. On the far side of the room stood a small drill press and a bench grinder covered in dust; she hadn’t needed to use any of them in the past six years.

  A sleek, black rifle stood in the corner. Rayn laid it on her workbench, sat down on a chair, and removed the bolt. She wasn’t sure how she’d come by the original gun, but most of it she had modified over the past few years, putting her time into it whenever she was bored or angry or miserable.

  Now, there was nothing left to do but clean the already immaculate components. Rayn sighed and splashed a squirt of oil into the trigger-well.

  The door burst open, and she looked up in annoyance. A scrawny teenage boy ventured forward, his blonde hair as wild as his eyes.

  “Ever heard of knocking?” She wiped her hands on a rag.

  “S-sorry,” the boy stammered. His clothes were covered in black powder, and there was a series of scratches on his pale face. “I was wondering if-if you might have a look at this?”

  His hands, shaking, lay a short-barreled rifle on her bench.

  Rayn stood, her eyebrows raising as she surveyed the weapon. The barrel was ruptured and twisted in a thoroughly ruined way she had never witnessed before.

  “What the hell did you do to it?” She was astonished he managed to inflict such damage.

  The boy's hands were in his pocket, no doubt to hide their shaking. “I, well, I was practicing for the entrance exams for the 201st Division,” he stammered, trying to sound proud.

  Rolling her eyes, Rayn put her hands on her hips. The 201st Airborne recruitment posters were all over the docks these days, brandishing pictures of young men and women looking heroic in their uniforms as their famed attack ship hovered in the clouds behind them. God help us if they’re taking idiots like this sod.

  The boy cleared his throat under her hard stare and tried to continue. “Well, I fired a shot, and it didn’t’ do anything.”

  “Didn’t do anything?”

  “Well…it went off, but I don’t think it came out.”

  A squib-load. Rayn looked down at the rifle and pinched the bridge of her nose. Where’d you get the ammo?”

  “Off a pilot.” The boy was looking more sheepish, if possible.

  No wonder. It was probably twenty-year-old ammunition the man decided to unload to stupid kids like this one.

  “What did you do next?” She had a feeling she already knew.

  The boy ran a hand over the back of his neck, looking uncomfortably at the floor. “I shot another round through it,” he mumbled.

  And there it was. Rayn took a deep breath and let it out.

  “Did you really think it was a good idea to fire another round through a rifle that has one already lodge in the barrel?”

  The boy had no respect for the weapon at all!

  He stared at her, looking frightened and ashamed. He should! Rayn spared him no sympathy.

  “You’re lucky that wasn’t your hand. Or your face!”

  She pointed at the split iron, evoking a flinch from the sixteen-year-old. Reaching under the tool bench, she pulled out a brown ledger and slammed it next to the rifle. The boy jumped.

  “Fine Airman you’ll make one day,” Rayn said, shaking her head. “You’ll have to leave your rifle with me. Sign here.” She indicated a blank line.

  Stepping forward timidly, the boy gulped and scrawled in careful letters: Gabriel Glass. Eyeing him grimly, Rayn took the book back.

  “Come back in three weeks. Afraid you’ll have to practice something else for your entrance exams until then. I’d recommend intelligence, for starters.”

  “Yes, Ms.” Gabriel nodded and tripped over his own feet in getting out the door like he thought Rayn might change her mind or assault him for his stupidity. Would serve him right.

  “Shaking her head, her hand moved to her pocket and closed around the medallion which held the secret of her past. She didn’t want to fix the boy’s rifle. She wanted to leave and never look back.

  Chapter 3

  Solomand

  Port Bilboa was founded by those who wanted no part of law and order. If you knew of the seedy port’s existence, you were either on the wrong side of the Coalition of Cities, or you were looking for someone whose bounty was high enough to warrant risking your neck.

  It was built on the top of a secluded plateau, shielded by the green outline of the Wakashall Mountains. The only way to reach it was by air, though many left via a one-way trip to the broken rocks below; that is how a typical argument was resolved in Bilboa. This was also the reason a wake of buzzards circled the plateau like a permanent cloud of broken black, perching in the trees of the surrounding cliffs.

  Only desperate or degenerate people ever came there; Solomand liked to think himself a little of both. Too much rested on getting the engine fuel cell. He would leave with it, one way or another. And if anyone got in his way—well—the vultures were always hungry.

  The sky was a swirl of angry grey clouds. Everything looked wrong here. The buildings were constructed of whatever cargo happened to be available to steal, ending in everything being built as one conglomeration of tin and pine boards on one side and steel beams on the other. The shoddy craftsmanship reflected the horde of ingrates that dwelled within.

  Solomand stepped onto the platform of rusted steel and looked around with distaste. Other ships were docked here, all of them unmarked and untraceable. One of them was an angular craft with rust-colored sails; only airships from the Continent Argos were of that design. Argos was the main importer of firebolt cores, the main power source for those with enough capital to purchase them. However, their primary trade good, and the only one anyone docked at Bilboa would be dealing in, was slaves.

  Zee stepped out of the Osprey with Will and Jank, her soft-soled boots noiseless on the metal. He turned to her, shaking his head.

  “No, Zee. Wait here.” He lowered his voice, trying to sound stern. It was too dangerous for her. The Argos slavers were always on the prowl, for young girls in particular.

  Zee pushed up her cap which was like Solomand’s, except it was grey and not as dirty.

  “But, Sol.” Her golden eyes grew wide beneath her bangs. “Last time you said I could go with you.”

  Solomand’s gaze turned to the slave ship then back to the girl, and he frowned, putting his hands on his hips.

  Zee copied him, her head tilting.

  “And, you also promised you wouldn’t try to weasel out of it.” Her lips pursed together and her jaw set. Zee was never defiant, but she believed in his honor too much. He had promised, and she would not let him back down on his word.

  Solomand ran a hand along the bottom of his bearded chin. She probably wouldn’t catch anyone’s attention, dressed in unflattering boy’s clothes like she was. He sighed, unable to say no.

  “Oh, alright. Stay close, though.”

  Smoking helped him think. A cigarette hanging from his mouth, he spun the cylinder of his .357 revolver, ensuring it was loaded before securing it in his gun belt.

  Will’s thumb was hooked in his belt, his wide-brimmed hat tilted to the side, a lever-action rifle in his other hand. Jank wore a headlamp strapped to his forehead. He looked nervous, as usual. They both looked at Solomand, waiting for orders.

  “Right.” Solomand transferred the cigarette to his hand. “You know the pla
n. Get what we need and get the hell out without getting caught. Or shot. Or maimed. Ready?”

  Jank gave Will an uncomfortable look before muttering a half-hearted, “Yeah,” and scurrying to keep up with Will’s stride. The two disappeared down the street, going around the back way to the warehouse.

  Solomand was going to distract Bazel, the underhanded goods collector who they were going to rob. The old man’s warehouse was filled with accumulated supplies, purloined from other miscreants he’d managed to feed to the vultures.

  It was his time to get the shady end of a deal, Sol reasoned and spared Bazel no sympathy or concern. It was those Argos slave traders, however, that worried him.

  “Stay close,” he whispered to Zee, gripping her by the arm and pulling her to his side as an Ironhorse sped by.

  Shadowy figures dressed in rags and trench coats eyed them suspiciously before disappearing down alleys. Less-fortunate souls leaned against the grunge of the buildings, looking like living skeletons; junkies, unable to care about anything beyond their next fix. A fire slowly rose inside Sol as he looked at them, and he quickened his pace to be rid of the scene.

  Clouds formed like gray mountains on the horizon, giving the town a bleaker appearance than usual. Thunder rumbled in the distance, and Solomand felt a drop of rain cool the back of his neck as they reached the door of patchwork tin. It rattled as he brought his fist down on it.

  “Bazel! Come on out. I need a word with you.”

  There was the sound of shuffling within the building, followed by the sound of breaking glass and swearing. Solomand knocked again.

  “I know you’re there, old man.”

  Another ironhorse buzzed by, raising a spray of dirty water as it tore through a puddle. They crossed the street and Zee’s hand grasped his. Solomand’s fingers closed around hers. Raindrops plinked on tin like an off-tempo drumbeat. Indiscernible grumbling sounded as the door cracked open and a man wearing thick-rimmed glasses and a droopy scowl peeked out.

  “Whatdya want, Captain Black?” Bazel asked in a gruff voice. Thinning white hair drooped over the sides of his face.

  “A word,” Solomand said, pulling Zee by the hand as he shoved his way into the warehouse.

  Bazel made a noise like a low growl as he stepped out of their way. “Word about what then? I expect it’s about that friend of yours, eh?” He coughed behind a knobby hand.

  Solomand had not gotten as far as thinking up a reason to talk to Bazel. He pushed his cap up.

  “Well now, what else would it be about?” He asked, trying to sound nonchalant. He had no clue what the old man was talking about but wasn’t going to let on that they didn’t.

  Bazel shut the door, shuffling to a chair lit by a single electric lamp. It illuminated the ghostly shapes of the junk he collected, stretching back to the extent of the thirty-foot building. He sat down in his chair and coughed again, his eyes bulging even more through the lenses he wore.

  “Well now, what’s that know-how worth to you, Captain? Information ain’t free, you know?”

  It could be. But Solomand was not thinking of loose-lipped female gossips this time. Bazel had peaked his interest. He bent down and produced a dagger from his boot.

  “How about I cut off a piece of your ear to make it match the other one, eh?” His voice was humorless.

  Bazel glared at him a hand going to his scarred left ear. “Alright,” he snarled, eyeing the blade as Solomand used it to clean his fingernails. He settled back into his chair, looking resigned to the fact he’d let a venomous snake into his den. “Came in ‘bout a month ago. Looking for, well, I expect you know.”

  Solomand didn’t. His eyes narrowed. “How do you know he’s a friend of mine?”

  “He has that look about him. You can’t mistake your type. What's more, he’s got that tattoo on his neck.” Bazel pointed to the side of his own neck as he spoke.

  No.

  Solomand knew now who the old man was talking about, and the room started to spin. For a moment, the steady pattering of rain on the tin above them was all he heard. Then, his blade was up against the old man’s throat, his eyes flashing with anger.

  “Where. Is. He?”

  Bazel held his shaking hands over his head. “Someplace down in the slums where those sorts go—Booker Street!” He shouted.

  In the back of the building, something clanged to the floor. Jank better have found what they needed. The constriction in his chest would not allow Sol to stay any longer.

  Solomand released Bazel and shoved the knife back into his boot. “Thanks for being so…accommodating.” He forced a smile and turned away from the old man, fighting to keep his breathing under control.

  The old man spit. “You’ll get yours soon enough, Captain Black.”

  I already have, he thought.

  Solomand loosened his collar, giving Bazel a grim smile. “Won’t we all?”

  The old man hobbled to the door and slammed it behind them. Solomand looked up at the pouring sky as they went to meet the others. He shoved his hands in his coat pocket to conceal the slight tremor.

  Booker Street.

  Zee’s boots splashed in puddles as she worked to keep up with his pace. “Sol, who was he talking about?” she asked, pressing her cap down on her head as a gust of wind threatened to pull it away.

  “I don’t think you’d remember him,” Solomand said. Jank and Will were nearing the Platform up ahead. The engineer lugged a burlap bag, almost as big as he was. Solomand lengthened his stride, not wanting to answer any more of Zee’s questions.

  Not yet.

  Rain crashed down like a heavy curtain all around, making the docked airships challenging to see. Jank was already up the ramp to the Osprey, bent under the weight of the fuel cell. Will stooped to give him a hand.

  Solomand turned to make sure the girl was still at his side. To his horror, she was gone.

  “Zee!” he yelled his heart in his throat.

  A cry was quickly muffled by the rumble of thunder, and a crack of lightning lit up the platform. There Solomand saw her, being dragged toward the Argos airship by a scarfed man in mud-colored robes.

  He didn’t draw his revolver or stop to think. Tearing down the platform, a sudden, deadly feeling rose inside of him like a violent storm. Before the slaver had time to react, the girl was pulled from his grip, and he was laid out on the docks in front of his ship.

  Zee was shaking, her eyes wide with shock. Solomand drew his knife. “Get to the ship,” he told her, turning his dark gaze to the man on the ground.

  She turned and ran. Solomand’s vision went red. Will was somehow standing next to him, and he found himself giving an order. “Hold him.”

  Will dragged the slaver to his feet, and Solomand took a step forward. There was a defiance in the man’s black eyes that he couldn’t stand. He’d meant to steal the girl away to a life across the oceans of subjugation and misery, after all she had been through already!

  “You should have stayed on Argos,” his voice was a low rumble, and his hand flashed forward.

  The man’s screams raised above the thunder. His hands moved to the gaping hole where his right eye was moments before. Will let go of him, and he fell to his knees, still shrieking, red staining his soaking clothes.

  Rain dripped red from Solomand’s knife as it washed the blood away. He pointed it at the man once more and stooped down, yelling, so he was sure to hear. “You tell the rest of your slave-trading bastards, this is what happens when you cross Solomand Black!”

  The knife returned to his boot, he strode away, leaving the man to his misery, allowing the rain to cool his own temper. He walked slower, not wanting Zee to see him in his current state of mind. When all was said and done, he was afraid of how savage his reactions could be. But he didn’t regret his actions and would do it again.

  Will walked next to him, his face blank, unjudging. Solomand was grateful for this, as he was sick with himself, and wanted to put this mess behind him as soon as possible.
Will spoke through the noise of rain. “We’re heading straight for Ashbury, Captain?”

  Solomand wanted nothing more, but Bazel’s revelation preyed on his mind. He couldn’t go yet, or he would never forgive himself.

  “I…there’s something I have to do before we leave.” He took a shaky breath. “Will you go with me?”

  Will’s hand gripped his shoulder. “Of course, Sol. Where to?”

  Solomand swallowed. “Booker Street,” he said. It had to be now, or he would lose his nerve.

  The human skeletons they passed earlier were still lining the streets, not caring about the downpour. Solomand cringed, afraid of what they would find on Booker Street. Soaked to the bone, his skin felt cold. But that was not what made him shiver.

  As they reached a broken wood sign with the street name on it, a man in a trench coat and top hat greeted them. “You Gentlemen looking for quality merchandise?” He asked, his beady, blue eyes hungry for new customers. Solomand grabbed him by the throat and lifted him from the ground.

  “No, actually. We’re looking for someone.”

  Through choking sounds, the man squeaked, “I don’t know names, Cap’n! It’s all part of anonymity—gah!” Solomand squeezed before lowering him to the ground.

  “He has a spider tattoo on his neck,” he said, wiping a handful of water from his face.

  The flicker of fear passed the dealer’s face. “Ah. Him. He’s holed up down the street in number seventeen.” He pointed to a ramshackle house in between two, low garages.

  Solomand pushed past the man without another word. The door was ajar, and no lights were lit in the building, or anywhere else on the street. Holding a hand across his mouth, he stepped inside. Broken glass littered the floor where dead rats were strewn casually about the room. The smell reminded Solomand of things he’d seen in the war, filling him with insistent desperation to leave. If Will had not stood at his side, he might have.

  Then, he laid eyes on what he feared; the shadow of a man he once knew leaned against the wall amid a pile of tiny shimmering bottles. His head, where there should have been brown hair, was shaved. A rolled-up sleeve revealed dark, puncture marks.