Aethosphere Chronicles: The Rat Warrens by Jeremiah D. Schmidt Page A

reconsider. Maybe his sister was
right. Maybe he was better off following her around than running
with a mischief gang. They hadn’t exactly been all that successful,
and Nickle had sucked away all the fun with his excessive
territorialism as of late. Coupled with their takes getting smaller
and smaller, and the major thoroughfares being picked clean and
filled with rivals, these days gang life mostly involved fighting
or running from bruisers and whistlers. If he went back with his
sister he could at least count on some sort of take, hard found,
but honest.
    His mates would certainly give him a hard
time about scrounging for sure, and with his sister and her friends
no less, but he could take a little ribbing from the likes of
Shoat, and as for Durreem, he wasn’t the sort to tease anyway.
Beaut was too busy fussing at his hair and clothing to care, and
Ratty was about the biggest loser any of them knew. Any attempt he
tried at giving Fen a hard time would amount to a rash on the
Necrosis (meaning not a whole lot at all). The only real issue was
how Nickle would take it. He was the only one who might look on Fen
leaving as a personal slight, but Fen would find some way to work
around him… But all that was for a another day to figure out, and
when Fen finally fell asleep it was to the grinning face of a
clown, advertising some exotic circus show that happened years and
years ago on tier three.
    When Fen woke the next morning it was to the
afternoon bellow of the Three Fat Sister’s horns, just before they
began their cyclical flush. By then he should have been well into
his day, but he was still in bed when the hovel trembled and
vibrated in time to the giant tanks. Once he got up and made his
way down the ladders, it was really of no surprise when he found
Lydia sitting at their table sorting scrounge by the light of her
own tin can lantern. She was waiting for him alright, with a scowl
on her face, and words waiting on her lips. But Fen grinned. She
could be mad all she wanted, but he’d already made up his mind; and
was she in for a surprise.
    “I made some breakfast,” Lydia snapped. This
morning she was wearing her faded blue head-wrap, and the way it
pulled back her dark hair gave her an already severe look.
    “Great.” Fen could feel his stomach rumbling
like the Sister’s pipework and he eagerly planted himself at the
table, where in amongst the bric-a-brac Lydia had set out a broken
plate for him. It was piled high with finslug eggs and fried rat
strips, and she’d even sautéed up some gutterweed, but when he
started into it he found it cold. She must have made it hours ago,
and if the meal hadn’t cost a half-token he might have pushed it
away, but instead he choked it down while his sister watched.
    “You mind not glaring at me like a harpy
while I eat,” grumbled Fen.
    His sister’s stately eyebrows lowered. “Just
finish your breakfast…so we can talk.”
    “There’s no need to, Lyd—”
    His sister was quick to interrupt, and her
tone was already heated. “Now you listen to me, Fen Tunk—”
    “I’ll go with you,” he stated, and then he
gobbled up a spoonful of eggs. In the silence his chewing echoed in
the small room, and when it got uncomfortable he turned to look at
his sister. The expression on her face nearly made him choke.
Befuddlement made Lydia look a fool; like the clown on his circus
poster.
    She frowned fiercely and folded her skinny
arms over her nonexistent bosom. “Don’t mess with me, Fen, I’m
hardly in the mood for your crap.”
    “Not messing with you, sis,” he spoke around
the food in his mouth. “I’ll go.”
    “Go,” she muttered the words in disbelief as
she stared off at the wall in front of them, looking for some sort
of clarity in the rust. “Well…good.” And suddenly she seemed to
decompress like a hydraulic piston turned off. She even ventured a
smile. “Glad to hear.”
    Fen returned to eating, glancing once at his
sister beside him. She was