Out Through the Attic (14 page)

Plat turned his gaze from the bird—and Lana—to the thick wooden doors of the tavern in hopes of spotting Dimont. He pulled out his pocket watch, stretching the long gold chain as far as it reached. He had to squint to make out the numbers, muttering a quiet “Damn” at the realization that he would soon need spectacles. Time, he realized, was the one son-of-a-bitch he could never out-maneuver.

He returned the pocket watch to his waistcoat, a concerned frown drooping the edges of his handsome, platypus’ face.
Nearly nine bells and still no sign of Dimont
. It was unheard of for his first mate to be late, especially for drinking.

Turtles are like that, always there before the grog hit the table.

He and Dimont were supposed to be celebrating yet another successful run of automatons down to a hideaway along the coast. They’d even gotten paid for transporting the mechanicals this time, although recompense was never a requirement for slave runs. Plat enjoyed any opportunity to take whatever the Empire thought it owned—especially automatons—and put it out of the Empire’s reach.

Plat took a sip of his grog, remembering what set him on the unalterable course of defying the Empire and freeing automaton slaves.

As a young platypus he’d served as a deck hand aboard a cargo ship. One bright, sunny morning, the Captain of the vessel excitedly announced they were bringing aboard over a hundred of the Empire’s precious new automatons. A year before, no one had even heard the word ‘automaton;’ the machines just started appearing one day as the property of wealthy Raelish citizens. Most thought that the Empire manufactured and sold them, but there were rumors that an expedition far to the north had unearthed some great machine … a machine that created machines.

A platoon of Raelish soldiers with rifles and electric stun-sticks herded a hundred bronze, green-eyed automatons aboard the cargo ship. Plat assumed the automatons were just machines … tools to do complex work, created in the shape of simians. But he found himself asking why, if that was the case, the soldiers needed rifles and stun-sticks.

On that first night, well after midnight, Plat awoke to a gunshot. He was low man in the pecking order of the crew, so his hammock was aft near the engine room. It also put him closest to the cargo hold. The gunshot was followed by metal clashing and men screaming. More gunfire erupted from the hold, so he leapt from his bunk, assuming pirates had attacked the ship. As he approached the frakas, he spotted a number of automatons fighting the Raelish soldiers.

He dashed into the room, screaming at the top of his lungs for them to stop, that they would rupture the hull.

Most of the automatons cowered in a nearby corner, their hands covering their heads, but several dozen of the machines clawed and hammered at the soldiers. The soldiers fought back, shooting their rifles, swinging their stun-sticks. Blood spatters were everywhere, and the smoky air smelled of electricity. Six soldiers lay sprawled on the deck, their heads smashed or their bellies torn open. Twice that many automatons lay in various forms of dismemberment, pieces of them and their insides scattered here and there.

Plat shouted again for them to stop.

One of the nearby soldiers spun on Plat and raised his rifle, pointing it at Plat’s chest. The soldier’s eyes were wide with fear, and he paused for a second. Suddenly his eyes narrowed. A wicked smile crossed his lips. He pulled the hammer back.

Plat froze. Knowing was in the eyes, and Plat knew with certainty that the Raelish rat was going to shoot him where he stood. Maybe it was for interrupting the fight. Maybe it was because Plat was not Raelish … wasn’t a rat. Maybe Plat had seen something he shouldn’t, or maybe the soldier just hated platypi. It didn’t matter. Plat was about to meet his maker.

Frozen in terror, he saw the soldier’s finger squeeze, and then a flash of bronze darted in between Plat and the rifle, coming in from the direction of the cowering automatons. The shot rang out, and there was a sound of tearing metal. Bits of the machine hit Plat in the chest, and he fell backward, running his hands over his shirt in search of blood.

He looked up to see an automaton standing there, its arms outstretched to either side like a bronze cross. A gaping hole marred the machine’s back, the interior revealing clockwork and copper tubes. With a clatter of metal limbs, it crumpled where it stood. The soldier raised his rifle again, this time aiming for the cowering machines. He fired again and again, and with each shot another automaton went down. The soldiers managed to destroy the remaining mechanical attackers.

The captain arrived with several of the crew, demanding to know what was going on, but they were held back as the soldiers finished shooting the rest of the automatons …
all
of them.

A Raelish commander told the captain to return to port and informed him that he would not be paid for the voyage or the damage to the ship. And then the Raelish rats left, chuckling as they walked.

In that night, Plat learned three things: Raelish rats were tyrannical bastards; automatons possessed the wherewithal to revolt against their masters; and an automaton had saved his
life
. Over the years he saw automatons show fear and caring and virtually every other emotion a sentient possessed. He’d even learned that they prayed to a god. They were as alive as anyone, and Captain Angios Plat was a platypus that paid his debts.

He got involved with the underground as soon as he tracked them down and freed as many automatons as he could get into his hold.

A motion at the tavern door caught Plat’s eye, bringing him out of his reverie. He gasped.

A battered automaton had been shoved through the open doors, stumbling briefly before regaining its footing. It was followed by three Raelish sailors, two holding standard-issue pistols, the other a stun-stick. They wore the gray uniforms of the Raelish navy, large brass buttons dotting their chests in two columns and high collars framing pointed snouts and sharp, menacing teeth. Like all Raelish, they descended from rats, their beady eyes glowering and their long, furless tails stretching out behind them in rigid hostility. The rodents looked around the room like predators seeking prey.

The entire room went quiet. Every sailor in the tavern glared at the Raelish. Few non-rats in Hamerheim didn’t hate the Empire.

Plat suddenly recognized the poor automaton, but just barely.

Its name was Faen—one of Dimont’s contacts in the underground—and the poor bastard’s arms had been torn off. Cables and struts jutted out from its shoulders, clattering with each uneven step. One eye lens was smashed in, while the other glowed a dim, underpowered green. The rest of its body looked as if it had endured a severe dragging behind a steamcarriage … for miles and miles.

Someone had really worked it over … and Plat quickly realized why. They were after
him
 … and the underground. “Damn those sons of motherless whores,” he cursed.

Faen’s one good eye slowly scanned the room, its head rotating with a loud grinding of gears, finally coming to rest upon Plat. It hesitated, but a prodding from the stun-stick in its back set it in motion towards him with a burst of sparks.

Its stride was uneven, and one of its metal feet slid across the floor as it approached. The pendant around its neck—a tentacled token of its feminine god—swayed and bounced against its chest with a metal-upon-metal clicking. Plat didn’t know much about the automaton god—and he certainly didn’t pray to anything—he only knew that the automaton god was part octopus and part machine … a lady of the depths who allegedly looked out for all sentient machines. When Faen finally stepped up to the table, its head drooped in shame.

“I’m sorry, Captain Plat,” Faen said in a weak, metallic voice twisted with guilt. “I had no choice.” Faen turned his head slightly towards one of the men behind him. “They have Dimont. They said they would hang him if I didn’t show them where you were.”

Plat glared, a webbed hand tightening around the pommel of his saber, but he did not glare at the automaton. There was no betrayal there…. He suspected that Faen endured the torture before the Raelish ever laid hands on Dimont. Plat’s fury was reserved for the Raelish masters standing behind their slave, their faces full of arrogant victory.

Plat wanted to leap out of his chair and cut the bastards down where they stood. He wanted to gut them and feed their entrails to Clive. He wanted to…. He took a deep breath, releasing the grip of his sword and relaxing his features. He ran a hand over the top of his gray-furred scalp and smiled.

“Now what would bootlicking Raelish scum want with a poor, old sea dog like me?” Plat asked through a deliberately maddening grin. Several gasps escaped from the sailors nearby. People simply did not insult the Raelish, but Plat knew he was already destined for shackles, perhaps even a noose, so he saw little point in playing nice.

The arrogance on the rat’s faces turned to rage, and one of them stepped forward. “Silence, you filthy cur! Your days of stealing Imperial Raelish property are over!” he screamed, smashing his pistol against Plat’s head.

Plat’s head shot sideways and he winced. He straightened himself slowly, locking eyes with the rat as a trickle of blood seeped through the fur at his temple. “Do that again, and I swear I’ll kill you.”

The rat raised his pistol again and let fly. The barrel smashed across Plat’s cheek, sending him reeling once again. As Plat rose, murder in his eyes, the rat cocked his pistol and set the barrel between Plat’s eyes.

“I don’t think you’ll be doing any killing today,” the rat said snidely. “In fact, you’ll be lucky to live out the rest of the day.” He grabbed Plat’s shoulder and hauled him out of his seat. Stepping back, the pistol pointing now at Plat’s chest, he snarled, “Commander Caan wishes to speak with you before your trial … and hanging.” He jabbed the pistol in Plat’s chest, a vicious grin splitting his maw.

Plat slowly grabbed the lapels of his navy blue longcoat and shrugged his shoulders back into it. With a flourish, he turned the collar of his coat up and brushed off where the rat had touched him. He grabbed his blue and crimson tricorne hat off the seat next to him and settled it upon his head.

“Well, how could I refuse such a
polite
request,” Plat replied calmly, his sweet smile enraging the rat’s even further. “I’d be happy to chat with Commander Caan.” Plat placed his hands upon the silver buckle of his wide belt. Unbuckling it, he raised it with a flourish as the rats tensed angrily. “Lana, will you hang on to these for safe keeping?” he asked, placing his belt upon the table. “I’ll be needing them later.” Bravado filled Plat’s voice, as if he were merely going to take tea rather than heading for a hangman’s noose. Locking eyes with Lana, he changed his tone, slowing his words just slightly. “And tell
Clive
I hope he doesn’t miss me while I’m enjoying the generous hospitality of the Raelish Empire.” Plat winked once, certain that neither rat could see it.

Lana’s eyes flickered to Clive and then back to Plat, a knowing look on her face. “I’ll be sure to pass it along,” she said in a worried tone. “Be careful.”

Plat bowed his head with a smile and made his way to the door. One of the rats stepped in behind him, pistol still cocked, while the other hit Faen with the stun-stick to get it moving in the same direction. The third stepped in stride as they walked out. Every set of eyes followed them as they moved, eyes that glowered with impotent rage.

Plat turned in the doorway and looked over the room. “Don’t worry, me hearties!” he shouted, “I’ll be back to drinking and whoring before you know it!” He let his eyes flicker to Lana. She whispered something to Clive and gave him another of whatever delicacies she kept under the bar. Plat spun and stepped out into the cobblestone street, thick fog cocooning the city in a damp embrace. Halos of light shimmered faintly in both directions, streetlights forming bright islands amidst the gloom.

Stepping down from the wooden walkway, Plat stared at the beckoning rear doors of an armored steamwagon. The vehicle hissed and clattered, idling in the street. Another Raelish sailor stood just outside the door, and Plat could see yet another in the driver’s seat. The rat behind Plat shoved hard, forcing him towards the waiting contraption.

Plat knew the drill. It wasn’t the first time he’d been arrested. Such steamwagons were moving jails, the long interior lined with two rows of eight, closet-like cells made of brass plating, with just enough room inside a cell for one to stand upright in.

Without a word Plat moved up the shallow steps, walked to one of two open doors and stepped in. He heard Faen’s metal feet stumbling up the steps behind him. He looked back Faen along the dark, narrow corridor and placed a finger to his bill, telling the automaton to stay silent. Then he grabbed the edge of the door and slammed it shut with a loud
Clang!

Darkness enveloped him.

O O O

Plat expected a short ride through the city. The prison was only a half-mile away, but the steamwagon sputtered and clattered for nearly thirty minutes. As it rolled, the smell of the sea grew stronger while Plat bounced around inside his cell like dice in a cup. With several final lurches and the sound of the wheels shifting from cobblestone to wood planking, the steamwagon came to an abrupt halt. Plat heard large wooden doors slamming shut behind the vehicle, and then the engine sputtered to silence.

“Bring the prisoners!” a rough voice commanded from somewhere beyond the steamwagon. Plat knew the voice; it was Caan. He’d heard the fat bastard ordering his crew around the docks many times.

Plat then heard several footsteps bustling outside as well as the sound of chains rattling. The back doors of the steamwagon opened, and heavy feet stepped up into the wagon. A key hit the lock of Faen’s door, and he heard shuffling, clanking and another hit from a stun-stick as Faen metal feet shuffled along the corridor and stepped outside. Plat’s door was opened roughly, a thick shadow filling the doorway. A set of shackles flew into his face. The chains wrapped around his neck and slammed into the back of his head.