The Stars Were Right

by Alexander, K. M.

Level Two is rough. It is the junction between the Sunk and the upper city, and it draws a host of illicit activities. The presence of the underworld outfits is apparent in the graffiti that lines the walls of the buildings. The police avoid it. The streets are wild and makeshift. Trash piles up everywhere, usually washed down from the more elevated levels by the rains. Lovatines forced to live down on Level Two build shelters out of crates and boxes. It's difficult to navigate these shanty towns; the streets become an incomprehensible maze for an outsider like myself.

  I'm no stranger to Level Two, though. I have my haunts, but those are usually near a lift or a stairwell. I rarely navigate away from those lifelines to the upper city. The innermost parts of Level Two—those were as foreign to me as the city states to the south or the fabled sprawl of the eastern territories.

  I needed the safety of the unfamiliar. I needed its labyrinth of streets.

  Stepping off the stairwell, head down, I quickly disappeared into parts unknown.

  * * *

  I wandered for what felt like hours before I located the pitch den I had discovered earlier.

  Pitchfork, or "pitch," is a harsh blend of common chemicals. Codeine, iodine, phosphorus, a bit of gasoline, some lighter fluid for flavor, and a dab of industrial cleaning oil, and you have yourself the chemical makeup of pitch. I don't know the damn measurements, so don't ask. It's dangerous stuff. Caustic, numbing, and apparently so euphoric that addicts ignore the dangerous side effects.

  There's no mistaking an addict. Their arms nearly skeletal. Covered in open, festering sores. With prolonged use the injection areas rot away, exposing muscle and bone; in some cases gangrene sets in, causing whole limbs to decay. Still, the pitch addicts inject away, eyes rolling up into their skulls and thin streams of drool dribbling from their open mouths.

  Addicts are rare in nicer warrens and on more elevated levels, usually shooed away by police or shopkeepers. Like most of the downtrodden they go where they won't be bothered, tending to set up small communes down on Level Two that the papers liked to refer to as "dens."

  This is where I found myself. Down in the subs in a pitch den on Level Two. A pocket full of lira, a Lovat Ledger, an arm with a hole in it, a few bruised ribs from my arrest, a belly full of Mrs. Sardini's ravioli and bolognese, and coming off a buzz from Nickel's hundred-year-old scotch.

  I suppose there are worse places.

  I settled down between two passed out addicts. On my left was a cephel, missing two tentacles and a third showing advanced degrees of rot. To my right was a young man, human by the look of him, with a shaggy beard and long brown hair. He looked similar enough to my mug shot in the Ledger that he could have passed for me. An empty needle hung from his arm. Sediment from the home brew concoction settled near the plunger. I pushed my way softly between them, pulling my cap low and my jacket's hood up over my head. I unfurled my paper and set to reading.

  I fell asleep this way. Tucked between two junkies, paper in hand, and feeling relaxed for the first time since my arrival.

  * * *

  Screams woke me.

  The flailing of arms. The occasional slap of a tentacle.

  I jolted awake, leaving the paper I was still clutching and scrambled to my feet.

  "RAID!" came the scream from somewhere deeper in the den. "RAID!"

  Were they after me? Were the cops here to flush me out? How could this have happened? I wondered briefly if Nickel had betrayed me, wiping the thought from my mind as soon as it had come.

  Ridiculous. I must have been spotted.

  Flashes of red and blue illuminated the dingy windows on the wall opposite me. More screams issued from deeper in the den. A burly human burst through a cheap cardboard wall next to me, dragging the body of a junkie by one hand, a bloody knife in the other. He grinned a yellow smile and let out a roar as he turned and rushed toward the entrance and the flashing lights.

  I backed away quickly, hoping to make an exit out the rear of the building before Lovat's finest burst in and had me in cuffs for a second time.

  My heart hammered as I pushed past a few dazed junkies staring blankly at the mad confusion that churned around them.

  A weight hit me from behind.

  Damnit.

  I was slammed forward and down to the floor. My face was buried in a filthy mattress older than I was. A metal spring pushed against my cheek as a massive hand pressed my head down into the dirty fabric.

  Mumbles from behind me I couldn't make out.

  I rolled, twisting in the grip, expecting to see the yellow smile of the burly human. Instead I was looking into the face of an angry maero. It was clear in an instant that neither of us were pitch addicts. Both our eyes were too clear, our gazes too leveled, our movements too smooth.

  I fought back, hand on his chin, pushing him away from me. He punched at my stomach with a free hand. I grunted, feeling the wind blast out of me as I brought my knee up.

  My knee struck his crotch. Say what you will about the maero toughness, but no male can withstand someone messing with their tackle. He rolled off me with a high-pitched yowl. The blue and red lights decorated the movement in a strobe-like stutter.

  I scrambled backwards, watching the maero turn his head toward me, a wicked grin splitting his ugly face. Back to the wall, I steeled myself.

  The maero launched himself toward me and I kicked out, landing a solid kick to his chest. It hurt him, but with his momentum he still crashed into me.

  Shouts from the entrance of "Stop!" and "Police!" boomed through my head like thunder.

  I pushed upward, my wounded bicep screaming at me and my ribs adding to the racket. The force pushed the maero off me and he fell aside. I felt a tear in my arm and hoped I hadn't ripped my stitches. I didn't imagine Doctor Inox would be keen on seeing me again. If she saw me again.

  I scrambled to my feet, planting a kick squarely across the attacking maero's jaw as he struggled to his own. Teeth scattered across the pile of mattresses absurdly reminding me of candy tossed from a parade float. The maero whipped its head back around toward me, mouth bloody, hate in his small dark eyes.

  He wasn't a junkie.

  He wasn't a cop.

  I took a step back. Confused. Who was this person? I wondered ever-so-briefly if he was an outfit enforcer. One of the organized crime thugs who preyed on the weak and shook down shopkeeps. It was possible, but why me? Was there a bounty on my head?

  He leapt with a roar, and I reached out, grabbing for anything. Feeling my fingers tighten around the collar of his jacket, I pulled and swung with all my strength, carrying him past me. He smacked against the cinderblock wall with a thud. The collar of his coat ripped away and remained in my hand. He didn't stir.

  A cop rushed past me, tackling a junkie who had been staring awkwardly at my tussle with the maero. One of the vanguard with more behind him, batons raised, angry looks on their faces.

  I ran. In danger of capture yet again, I ran, sprinting away from the police, away from the maero, and toward the rear of the den. I could see the reflections from the cops' flashlights shine against the brown walls; shouts of "Stop!" and "Get back here!" broke against my heels.

  I burst out a rear door and into some Level Two alley. The torn collar still in my grip.

  I disappeared.

  NINE

  Eyelids growing heavy, I lay among the trash, listening to the rain. My body surrounded by stinking plastic bags, rotting half-eaten meals, and the buzz of flies. I had no idea where I was. Probably for the best. I breathed lungfuls of the reeking air and tried to calm down, my heart punching at my ribs from within.

  I ignored the humidity and listened to the settling sound of the summer rain; it was soothing. In the distance I could hear the wail of the sirens drawing away. Somewhere a man screamed, elsewhere a baby cried, nearby a motor-coach rumbled. Its pistons fired like a great mechanical heart.

  The continuous rush of a downspout or a broken pipe added a layer of white noise to the sounds of Level Two. I
was exhausted and the constant woosh lulled me into a sense of ease, and for a while I felt all right. I felt at home. Among the trash bags I was safe. I was well-hidden. I had disappeared.

  Relaxing, I stretched out, hearing the plastic bags groan in protest. A smile crept sleepily across my face. I chuckled even as I began to drift off. How was it that now, here in the trash, I felt more at home than I had since returning to Lovat?

  Here—behind a random dumpster, in a random alley, off a random street, my mattress a pile of trash bags—I passed out from exhaustion.

  It's funny. That feeling of home. It's so temporary, like bathwater: the warmth eventually grows cold.

  * * *

  Hours later, the buzzing of a yellow sodium light roused me. It flickered, casting spastic shadows in my trash-filled alley. Rubbing sleep from my eyes, I woke stiffly. I was wet. I was cold. I felt miserable. My whole body complained, not just the gunshot wound in my arm or my sore chest. I felt bruised everywhere.

  Not knowing how long I was out, I took in my surroundings. I felt disoriented. Waking up violently in a pitch den and passing out later in a pile of trash bags will do that to a fellow.

  My alley was tucked off a narrow street. It was early yet. Not quite breakfast and the streets of Level Two were quiet. I could hear water from the Sunk lapping somewhere nearby and a clucking argument in Cephan from one of the open windows above me.

  In my mad rush to hide myself, I had apparently placed myself behind an overflowing dumpster that was covered with a phosphorescent moss. Rolling my neck to loosen it a bit, I watched a forearm-sized rat tear into a wet paper bag full of some half-rotted food.

  Lovely.

  Standing groggily, I stuck my hands in my pocket. To my surprise I felt the collar I had torn from my assailant. The previous evening's excitement came back to me in such a rush, I had to take a few deep breaths to calm myself.

  Pulling the collar out, I examined it for the first time in the daylight brightness of the lamps.

  The collar wasn't very wide, maybe three inches. I had only gotten half of it; the rest remained on the maero's jacket somewhere in a dark pitch den.

  The material was a deep red fabric, a color that reminded me of a rich claret. I turned the piece of cloth in my hand, revealing a small patch on the opposite side sewn tightly against the fabric.

  It was familiar. My heart skipped a beat.

  Eight narrow bars arranged vertically smallest to largest. It was a mark I had seen before. First, larger, on a similar patch on the coat I borrowed from Inox. Second, darker, black on light skin as a tattoo on the neck of the man I saw leaving Nickel's office.

  Chills played the nerves of my spine like a guitar.

  My eyes widened. This was all too eerie. Too many random events were connected by this symbol. My evidence was thin—the more rational part of me said—this could just be happenstance, perhaps this was only the logo of a local jai alai team, or a popular restaurant.

  What did I know?

  I played through the scenarios in my head: the doctor in the alley just so happened to have a deep red jacket with this circle and bars symbol sewn on the sleeve. Innocent enough, I suppose. It was in her Lost-and-Found box after all.

  What else?

  That man at Nickel's office. The same mark tattooed on his neck. Coincidence? Maybe it was the logo of a band? Somehow I knew that was incorrect.

  Finally, the third time, my attacker attired in a jacket similar to the one I had found, embroidered with the same circle and bars on the collar. How did he find me in the maze of Level Two? Inox? Nickel? The tattooed man?

  My location. My telephone call. Me, telling Nickel where I had bedded down for the evening, even giving him the street address.

  I could feel the hairs on the back of my neck rise.

  Nickel.

  August Nickel was the connection.

  It all swirled around my friend. He was tied to this. He was a part of this game.

  I could remember hate in that maero's eyes. He was ready to kill, but why me? There was a warrant out for my arrest—probably a bounty. The maero could have held me down and handed me over to the police, but he hadn't paid them no mind. Focusing only on me.

  Did this symbol belong to Thad's killer? Was this some sort of gang? Were these the people who killed Fran? Is that why they were after me? Was I next?

  My head spun. The rat in the wet paper bag shrieked as I moved past. It scrabbled backwards, tearing the bag from the side, and then disappeared under the dumpster in a brown blur.

  The group behind this symbol had found me. Attacked me in the middle of a police raid. Hunted me down. Me.

  Nickel. The name blared through my mind.

  Seething, I turned the piece of fabric over and over in my hand. My mood grew darker. I've never been good at keeping my temper in check.

  I stood by the alley entrance, leaning against the gray-stained brickwork of an old building, fighting to bite back what was welling up inside me. I punched at the bricks, my fists lashing out. Waves of pain lurched up my right arm, a harsh reminder that I had been shot not twenty-four hours earlier.

  My arm and knuckles protesting, I slumped down against the gray-stained building.

  I did ring him. I did tell him where I would be.

  My friend. My trusted friend.

  I screamed a guttural scream. Rage. Red rage filled my head.

  I kicked out, grinding my heels across the pavement, my boots leaving streaks across the dirty sidewalk. Pedestrians jumped out of the way to avoid the human kicking at phantoms.

  That had to be it.

  Nickel.

  Nickel betrayed me. That had to be it. I seethed, then stopped. Like a break in the clouds I was hit with a wave of calm. I had known him for years. Why would he give me over? If this circle and bars group was really after me, why would he help them?

  Had they killed Fran? She was like a sister to him. He wouldn't blindly associate with killers.

  Maybe they weren't connected. This could all be a misunderstanding. Coincidence, nothing more.

  Doubt crept back in. It seemed ridiculous thinking about it. It felt so wrong, so ludicrous. I rubbed my eyes with a thumb and forefinger, feeling a headache crawl back into my skull.

  "Go with your gut," echoed my father's voice. "Folks spend too much time in their head. A man shouldn't second-guess himself; if his gut says something is a sham then it's a sham. Experience means a lot. Ain't no lengthy blathering of retrospect going to change a man's mind about what he knows."

  I smiled, hearing my old man's words play through my head.

  I stared at the torn collar, the passing of time lost to me. Citizens who lived in Level Two or who came up from the Sunk to do business continued to ignore me, passing me by. To them I was just another pitch addict. Just another junkie.

  I didn't care. It didn't matter. I was lost in thought. My gut told me to second-guess myself. I was out of my element. August was suspect, true, but I needed to be sure. Needed to know. Everything was questions.

  I looked at the torn collar, wondering if I could find someone to identify the symbol. Under normal circumstances I would have just gone to the police and reported the assault. These weren't normal circumstances and that was out of the question.

  I considered the old glass library on Level Three; that would be my next best option, but I had little idea as to where to begin. I had only been in the place once, maybe twice, and the police presence there made me nervous.

  Nine times out of ten an officer won't notice a wanted suspect. They're people, too. They get the same warnings as the public, and just like the public they look at the faces, file them away, and move on. It's the nature of existence in a city like Lovat. There're too many junkies, transients, thugs, grifters, thieves, con men, ramblers, and beggars in this city to remember one face out of millions, even if that face has been all over the monochromes.

  Still.

  I'd rather not take even a ten percent chance.

/>   I studied the marking. The border was filigreed with bright gold and rich brown threads forming the shape of sapling branches. I ran a thumb over the pattern. It was intricate. A relief in string. Expensive, with an odd religious bent to it.

  Religious.

  My mind hummed along.

  Religious.

  Memories were excavated from the recesses of my mind. What had Thaddeus mentioned? Religious...something.

  I snapped my fingers.

  He had complained about the religious types. Cultist, monks, the occasional Reunification priest—weirdos as he called them—heading down Maynard Avenue to visit the newest shop in his warren: a trinket dealer specializing in religious artifacts.

  Religious artifacts.

  I looked at the patch intently.

  Maybe he could be of help.

  I struggled to remember his name. Debil? Dubin? It was something like that.

  I rose.

  * * *

  Level Two's slummy charm had finally worn out on me. I stopped at a pay telephone to try to ring Wilem, Black & Bright during normal business hours. I was holding out hope that someone would pick up and I'd have this whole business with the Lovat PD settled before lunch.

  "Wilem, Black & Bright," I said to the operator.

  "One moment."

  A click, then a hum.

  "Connecting," said the operator. Her line went silent. The telephone rang. And rang. And rang. And rang. Finally, after the fifth ring, a singsongy and slightly annoyed voice radiated from the earpiece.

  "Wilem, Black & Bright!" the voice sang. "How can I help you?"

  "Hi, my name is Waldo Bell," I began.

  "Good morning, Mister Bell."

  "Ah, good morning."

  A pause.

  "Hello?" asked the voice.

  "Er...yes, sorry, I was hired by Mister Black a few weeks ago. Bell Caravans. Me and my partner came in to get our check a few days ago. Completed a run from Syringa. Maybe you remember me?"