Chapter II: Slate

Slate stood shovel in hand. It was caked in layers of dust and old cement, now with the addition of a red pattern on the back, drops slowly inching downwards, giving it the image of a red ghost. He had acted on instinct. He had assaulted a ‘lord.’ A lord that had just been torturing a child. A lord that, even though he had worked in the man’s factory for the past twenty years, probably couldn’t pick him out of a lineup. As he watched the man in his dainty suit kicking up dust, convulsing on the ground, he considered his options. The penalty for attacking one of his ‘betters’ was death; the penalty for killing one, however, was also death. So, with a shrug of his shoulders, he once again raised up the shovel, this time plunging it downwards to a satisfying crunch.

He spit at the ground and turned around to see the young boy and his mother staring. For an instant, they had a look of gratitude, but then she picked up her mangled boy and ran. He didn’t blame her. This is a situation that was going to turn real ugly, real fast, and the bobbies weren’t famous for their listening skills. Being a lowlander was already more than half the way to guilt.

He could always run, but they’d catch him. They’d ransack the whole area looking for him before they did. That pair he just saved would be in the crossfire. Some hero he’d be then, saving people from one wolf, only to throw them into a den of lions. His hands were shaking. It wasn’t about anything so fanciful as heroism, it was hate. Pure hate distilled over a lifetime of slow toil and constant humiliation. Still, he already killed the fuck, so he might as well play the part.

Slate climbed the narrow stairways of the stacks, cluttered with peoples’ shit. He got up to his place, kicking some trash bags out of the way. His place didn’t even have its own toilet. Just a bed, a boiler, a few bottles, and black mold. He grabbed one of the purple bottles of tigal spirits, went back out, and sat down next to the corpse he made. He drank from the bottle and lit a cigarette. If a copper like him was murdered, the bobbies would hardly bat an eye—just trash killing trash—but canaries got paid well for tips on this sort of thing. The phone probably started ringing before the stiff hit the floor.

They would be there soon. He could feel the tingling spread throughout his body, his breathing slowed. He watched the cherry of his cigarette glow softly and felt something that he hadn’t felt in a very long time. He felt human. He could have lived maybe another twenty years as a dog, but this way, this way, he’d die like a man.

The bobbies arrived on the scene within an hour or so, swarming like flies. They circled around him. The bottle was empty.

“Did you see what happened here?” Said a man in a well-pressed uniform with a dark handlebar mustache. Clearly didn’t think a man could have the balls to sit next to a goldy he just murdered.

Slate was no stranger to a bottle or three of tigal but decided to play up his drunken slur all the same. “Yeah, saw it with my own eyes I did, officer. This man lyin’ dead ‘ere was torturin’ folk, sick bastard that one.”

“We don’t care about what happened to some slummie trash—what happened to this man here?” Pointing to the nearly decapitated corpse in the stylish blue suit speckled with blood as if Slate were blind.

“Ah, well, you see there officer, he happened to come into contact with my shovel somethin’ fierce to the back o’ ‘is head, then seeing ‘im writhe on the floor as he was, I thought it was only right merciful o’ me to stop his squirmin’.” Slate was grinning.

With a nod from the man with the mustache, a younger bobbie held his nightstick aloft, and then all was darkness.

Slate woke up on the ground of a crowded cell. He looked at those around him, marked them all—lowlanders like himself, many of whom still trying to put up a front as if it mattered at this point. His forehead ached. Lifting his hand to his face, he could feel the lump left by the nightstick. He hadn’t tried to resist, but he wasn’t exactly surprised. Now all that was left was to wait. He propped himself against the wall and patted his pocket, searching for a cigarette. The bobbies had taken them, the bastards. He was sobering up just enough for the hangover to start.

“Heard you killed a goldy.” One of the other prisoners spoke. He was young and spindly. He didn’t look like a man who was accustomed to hard labor. Probably a thief of some sort.

“Ya, recon I did,” Slate said, “turns out they look jus’ the same on the inside as any other bloke, soft ‘eads to boot.” He had seen the insides of more than one man in his lifetime.

The other prisoners all turned and stared at him, “What ‘appened?”

“Well,” Slate said, cracking his knuckles. “This guy tore a kid’s hand open, fer some reason, an’ was chatting up the mum while the lad was layin’ there screamin’.”

“Those toffs do whatever they like.” One voice said.

“Wish someone would kill ’em all.” Another voice said.

Slate straightened his back against the wall, his chest naturally puffing out, “Any you lads manage to sneak a smoke?”

“For you? Sure.” The spindly man handed him a crumpled cigarette, which he lit. Pity Slate was a dead man. He could get used to this.

The boys were all around him, chattering about. It felt like the start of some revolution. There’s a lot more of us than them. Maybe some of them might crack a skull or two. If any of them manage to get out.

He was summoned to meet with his solicitor sometime later, a pencil-neck reeking of the familiar scent of strong tobacco and perfumed gin. A stained tie was dangling from his neck. Public defenders, worth their weight in gravel.

“Mr. Stain?”

“Stein, Slate Stein.”

“Sure. I am here to represent you in the matter of the murder of one Arthur C. Swordsly.”

“Not on ma jaywalking charges?” Slate said.

“Umm…Do I have the right file? One second…” The solicitor opened his briefcase. Papers flew out in a mess as the little weasel of a man scrunched his eyes up to read the crumpled text.

“Don’t bother ya’self. I reckon I do recall killing some toff named that.” Slate probably did have some jaywalking charges as well. They probably didn’t matter much now.

“Ahh, good. But you should show respect! Imagine what the judges will think! This is a serious matter, and I shall find it a hard enough task without your frivolity.”

Like Slate had any chance to begin with. Public solicitors were paid by the same twisted bastards that made the system that held them down. They were meant to fail. If one accidentally succeeded at something, they’d probably have to write a letter of apology. They were like the bit of wood pattern on top of particle board. Just there for show, but everyone knew what was underneath. This one was a typical silver nobby besides. In his case, the only thing allowing for something like justice was the fact Slate was guilty.

Slate cracked his neck. “Let’s just get on with it. Spare a doomed man the song and dance, will ya?”

The solicitor was sweating bullets. “Good, you understand then. In the trial, you must explain how it was that your low upbringing and station would cause you to commit such an unjust action. Then you must acknowledge the greater wisdom of our society and its laws and throw yourself upon the mercy of the court. If you do this, you will get a swift and merciful execution, perhaps even peacework.”

“O’ course m’ lord, o’ course.”

“Glad we are on the same page.” Taking out a soiled handkerchief to wipe his brow, he continued, “You’re lucky, a real priority, they fast-tracked you, so your trial will be later today. Remember what we discussed. I must now get to my other clients.”

Clients my ass, Slate thought. Apparently, he had caused enough commotion earlier to get his own cell in solitary. He could feel the last tingles of the tigal wear off as he passed into sleep.

He was roused from the cell, shaved, and put into a suit. It fit like shit. Slate could barely move his arms without the seams threatening to burst. He stood in front of the three judges. Why would you need three people to say the word guilty? This was all just for show. Slate would make sure to give them something to wag their gobs about.

He listened to the prosecutor wax on about what a kind and gentle family man Sir Arthur Swordsly had been. The only son of a high noble house, leaving with only a young boy, his son to carry out the family legacy. They talked fancy about the great tragedy of his early death, of how those unfortunate souls in the lowlands would now be bereft of his firm but fair guiding hand. Slate just wanted it to be over. It was almost as bad as when that prick was alive and would show up at Crius and gather everyone together so that he could prattle on about some nonsense while everyone else was itching to fill their quotas. Leadership and guidance my ass. Toff like him, only ever talked to a mirror. His widow was crying. She looked more like someone cutting onions than attending a funeral.

Then it was the turn of his own solicitor. “This man you see before you, Slate Stain, is, as his name would suggest, an anathema to the glorious order of our empire. A hardy weed raised in the dirt, but one whom up until this point provided productive labor without troubling anyone outside of the lowlands. His guilt, honorable gentlemen of the court, is as obvious as his pronounced distended brow ridges, this I shall not pretend to deny.” The solicitor paused for effect. Rubbing his sweatstained handkerchief across his face again, he continued. “But still, I believe redemption can be something he can work towards. He is surely very sorry for his unprovoked attack. Most likely, he was out of his mind on the tigal the constables found him besotted on. Evidence of this can be found in the fact that he was lying next to the very Noble he had killed! Does that sound like a man who was in his right mind? Let him serve out the rest of his life, using those strong hands of his to provide peace work in penance. Or failing that, most honorable judges, give him a quick and merciful end, as one would a rabid dog that had previously served his master loyally.”

The verdict, to the surprise of precisely fucking no one, was guilty. But for the sentence, Slate would get one chance to speak on his own behalf. He would show them who was a loyal dog.

“First off, it’s Stein, not bloody Stain. An’ ya, I dun killed the bastard, an’ I’m not ‘bout to pretend that what I did was wrong. Dun’t yous pretend otherwise. You prolly knew the whoreson better than I. Glad I did it, glad he’s dead. I’d do it again in an ‘eart beat. I’d kill ‘im even sober an’ the like.”

The crowd broke into a mixture of real and feigned outrage. Gavels were struck, powder from white wigs was shaken loose.

The center judge took control, silencing the room. “Given that you are so low as to not even repent to your crimes, we three have determined to auction the right to hunt you off and to have the proceeds of such auction go to the grieving widow.”

“I suppose the grieving widow oughta thank me twice then.” Slate said, grinning.

“Bailiff!” A judge called out, but this time the nightstick didn’t manage to knock him out. It just stung a bit. The bailiff was a limp wristed mary. Slate decided that he might as well fake it, so he closed his eyes and went limp.

“Poor bastard.” one of the men carrying him said.

“Yeah, the stones on this one, never seen the court so riled.” said the other.

“Pity ‘e’ll be a corpse soon, seems the sort I’d like to have a drink with.” said the first man. Who the hell do they have carrying me, janitors? He had hoped those fru-frus would have to carry him for a change, but of course, they never do their own dirty work.

Slate already knew what his defiance would buy him. If he had played a good little servant, he would have maybe received ‘peace work,’ life in some remote asteroid mine, but killing a goldy made that proper unlikely. Best he’d hope for was the guillotine. Peace work was a thing they dangled before men desperate to cling to life to get them to cooperate with their little justice play. Slate hadn’t been in a very cooperative mood.

So his life was instead sold to some toff. Probably a bunch of lads who bent down and licked justice’s hairy toes did too. Slate had grown up watching judicial hunts. Usually, some winded sod running through the streets for a few minutes, then falling to his knees begging and getting blown away. Seeing a guy running through the streets and getting his head blasted off probably went a long way in getting coppers to keep theirs down. Wasn’t rare for a hunter to take out a few more in the process, collaterals they called them. You saw the bull’s-eye on a forehead, and you ran away just as fast as the unlucky mark.

After the carriage ride, they splashed water on his face, his cue to wake up. The rules were read to him, though it wasn’t as if the rules for a justice contract weren’t public knowledge among the folk in the lowlands.

“The timer would start as soon as the defendant agrees to the terms. The timer shall be thirty minutes head start in which the defendant can run and hide from their pursuers. You have the right only to run or hide. Any additional force may result in discipline to family members. You will be given a brand on your forehead. This brand shall signify you as the subject of a justice hunt. You may not seek aid from others. If others aid you in any way, including but not limited to: getting between you and the hunter, sheltering you, or fighting on your behalf, they may also be killed with no penalty.” That’s where all the ‘collaterals’ came from.

“Dunno,” Slate said, “Seems a little one-sided to me, guess I’ll ‘ave to refuse until you blokes come up with better terms.”

The constable sighed and gestured. One man held his shoulder down while another holding a red hot brand approached him. Like most things, asking him to agree was just for the look of things. The brand was the mark of the empire, a circle surrounded by a honey comb, with each comb becoming smaller and more numerous the farther from the circle they were. All the little lines on the periphery would swell together, becoming an outer circle. The end effect, he knew, was indistinguishable from a bull’s-eye. Slate didn’t struggle as the man approached with the brand. He pressed it into Slate’s forehead, searing his flesh. Slate bit the inside of his cheek as hard as he could. His eyes watered, but he wouldn’t scream. He now knew what he would smell like cooked on a grill. His eyes watered so bad he could barely see. He wasn’t crying. Those bastards better not think those were tears.

The guy behind him undid his cuffs. “You have thirty minutes preparation. Best of luck, chappie.”

As a child, he had played hunter and hunted with his mates. He knew the neighborhood, the alleyways, the cracks, holes in the wall. But even with just a bunch of snot-nose kids, you always get found eventually. Real hunts were worse. Justice hunts were the fucking worst, people running everywhere you go. He had seen too many chases to believe there was any real escape. Slate would be damned if he dragged anyone down with him. When he lifted his shovel, he had already decided he would die like a man. His body wanted to shake. He wouldn’t let it.

Instead of running like a chicken with its head cut off, instead of hiding like a rat in the sewers, instead of trying to hijack a carriage, Slate went to the nearest bar.

Upon seeing the mark on his head, the patrons fled. The bartender, a robust man around forty with cheeks reddened from drink, slammed an empty glass on the counter, “Hey! You get the frik outta m’ bar! I don’t serve deaduns, especially not corpses liable to attract bullets.”

Slate gave the bartender a flat look. “Got thirty minutes left t’ go b’fore the hounds are unleashed. Just wanna few drinks, mayb’ a smoke er two b’fore then. Give a bit o’ mercy to a dead man.”

“You that guy what killed the goldy ain’t ya? The one who attacked the boy?”

Slate cracked his knuckles. “Yep, that was me. ‘Justice’ is awful swift these days.”

“Story made me think of my nephew, bright lad an’ all but a bit on the thieving side o’ things. Glad there’s folk like you around. But ya do ken that if I ‘elp you, I’m liable to get me own mark. Say I jus’ leave a bottle ‘ere, and flee for my life, right? An’ you get the frikin-fuck outta my bar in ‘alf an hour, they couldn’t hold that against me now, could they?”

“Hypothetically, say, I wouldn’t mind a bottle o’ Urbina.” Slate said, spying the bottle of red wine he’d seen some of them fancy folk drink when they visited the lowlands.

“Esh, along with m’ right leg.” The bartender said, sighing, “Been meaning to dust this bottle anyway.” He said, paused, “before I runs away in terror, that is.” The husky man grabbed the bottle from the top shelf, delivered it onto the table, and gave it an ornamental dusting.

“And smokes.”

“Sure. Been meaning to dust off this pack too.” The bartender said, dropping a pack and a lighter on the bar, this time not even pretending to dust them. He then left with a mock salute.

Slate opened the bottle and put it directly against his lips. The wine went down a bit smoother than tigal, but it didn’t have the same kick. It was sour and bitter, not sweet at all. It was almost savory. Wine was an acquired taste he didn’t have the time to acquire. Putting the cork back in the bottle, he bent down and grabbed a trusty bottle tigal. Alone in that deserted bar, he lit a cigarette. What a Wonderful World started to play on the radio. Slate chuckled.

This, Slate thought, is a good enough way to go.

He didn’t exactly have a watch, but it was close enough to thirty minutes. Slate left, after all, he didn’t want to mess up the man’s bar. A man does you a good turn, it’s only natural to respond in kind.

He wondered what kind of fanciful, frilly, feckless fops bought the contract to hunt down a man who was all but bound and put before them. He just hoped it would be quick. Those who take justice contracts were known for playing with their prey in the manner of a well-fed house cat. Taking the nearly empty bottle of tigal with him into the street, Slate lit another cigarette. It was his last, he reckoned.

They didn’t try to camouflage themselves much, draped in flamboyantly colored spider silk body armor. In their hands, they were sporting some fancy-looking firepower. In the lowlands, their kind could be spotted miles away. They saw their quarry in the middle of the street, bottle in hand. Slate was glad to see their disappointment. They wanted a show, not this time. He wasn’t going to give them one, not the one they wanted anyway.

“You there! Do you know who we are?” The evident leader of the group said.

“M’ eyes work jus’ fine.” Slate said taking the last swig from the bottle and dropping it, “You’s the peacocks that bought the right to end me, so jus’ get it o’er with.”

Anger flashed over the man’s face. The leader brought Slate painfully to his knees with the butt of his shotgun. “Well, if you are too stupid to run, did you think you could beg? Did you want to pray?” He said, regaining his mocking swagger and control of the situation.

Slate froze for a second, looking up into the barrel of the gun. “Ye,” he said, spitting out a toothful red mist onto the ground, “I pray yer mother never birthed such a little…”

***

Wadrian’s shotgun atomized the parts of his quarry that could continue to taunt him further. He had wanted to savor it a little more, but that sort of man didn’t make for a good bit of sport.

“The problem with these justice contracts is that they just don’t have any spirit. Just like putting down a mad dog.” He said, wiping an errant blood splatter from his cheek with a look of disgust, “Hardly worth the money, but at least it is for a good cause. One less wretch polluting the streets.” His crew strained their necks nodding in agreement.

He had tried a few contract hunts in the past. Though they were a bit more lively, he was simply too impatient to deal with the wait. Justice contracts were really a kind of charity anyway. The money going to the courts and the victims rather than some undeserving drunkard and his whores.

Sometimes Wadrian wondered if he was too generous. Even though it wasn’t a particularly good kill, he could still feel the rush he got from an execution. Looking at the headless corpse of the pathetic man, he felt the sudden urge to kick it, and he did. It shook a little unsatisfactorily. He kicked it again, this time using the heel of his boot into the man’s side. He heard the crack of ribs breaking. He continued again and again as the inert mass of man quivered violently. His foot sunk into the wet cavern he had made in the corpses ribs. Pulling it out he feared some of the blood might have seeped into his boots. Trash, this one had actually killed a noble a member of a greater house, even if it was just a Swordsly.

He turned around, walking back to his carriage. His next stop would be his mistress, a sweet little penny he collared. Shacked up in the midlands on his denarii. She knew how to show appreciation, unlike his wife. Today he had earned a good night’s sleep.