Aeroparts Factory by Paul Kater

Chapter 1
    Sweaty, dirty horses pulled carts up and down
the street, from where most cobblestones had disappeared. The
cobbles had been put to good use over the years, to repair houses
or to be thrown at coppers on some raid or other. Someone had done
a reasonably good job in making sure that the carts would be able
to go through the street despite that: there were two paths in it.
Calling them lanes would be overdone, but there was one cobblestone
side and one made of sand.
    The street was in a neighbourhood that, let's
face it, did not belong to the better parts of town. Nor would it
fit in the more regular ones. The rows of low buildings on either
side of the road, the slate roofs in various states of miserable,
were not appealing to the eye, yet there was a lot of business
going on in front of some, and inside some others. The few
buildings that lay abandoned were unfit for living creatures so
much that even rats preferred taking a detour around them.
    The street looked raggedy, and not at all
cared for. It was perhaps best portrayed by looking at the few
people that lay huddled up under motley blankets and other pieces
of fabric that were meant to offer some protection against the
elements. They had found their refuge in what had been a
blacksmith's shop. The blacksmith had long since gone, lacking
paying customers. The shop had remained though, and access was made
easy through now non-existent windows and the missing door.
    Opposite the improvised 'homeless shelter'
was Lena's brothel. Business there thrived at the strangest hours.
Most of the time nobody was aware of the squeaking and moaning in
the rooms of Lena's employees, but on the odd moments that the
street was calm, it was easy to determine how many customers were
in at the time. The walls of the houses in the street were thicker
than folded-up newspapers, but not by much.
    The door of Lena's establishment opened and a
woman stepped outside, blinking her blue eyes against the light of
the setting sun. She had made an attempt to tuck up her blond hair,
but half of that had fallen down again. She couldn't care less, it
seemed. Her clothes were crumpled and had seen better days. Under a
mostly blue cardigan showed a green blouse, its collar worn from
too much wear. Her long black skirt had originally been adorned
with white flowers along the seam, but like its current owner, the
dress had been deflowered long ago.
    "Hey, Dotty," a carriage driver in typical
dark workman's clothes yelled at her as he passed by, "blown a good
job again?"
    Dotty raised her hand and showed the driver a
finger, in a very unladylike manner. "Fuck you, Tommy."
    The man laughed. "Only when it's for free,
doll."
    Dotty did not pay him more attention. She
crossed the busy street and walked along the uneven sidewalk,
cursing the pitfalls in it. Dotty did that more out of habit than
from being annoyed; it had been like that since too long to get
worked up about it, and no complaint had ever done anything. She
stepped over a sleeping person who had not made it inside the
blacksmith's place and walked the last steps to Bromsky's. The
clatter of glasses, the off-tune piano and the laughter brought a
smile to Dotty's face. They were the sounds of her second home.
    -=-=-
    Bromsky's did not look like much on the
outside. (Truth be told, it did not look like much on the inside
either.) The outer wall consisted mainly of dark, weathered bricks.
A considerable number of them were still the same kind. Many places
showed repairs however, done with a staggering lack of
craftmanship. Chopped-off bricks had been pushed into holes and
were kept in place with something that looked suspiciously like
newspapers. Behind a rough rectangle of wood had once been a
window, but clearly glass had been in short supply at the time of
shards.
    Dotty pushed the door open. A gust of warm
air rushed up to greet her, treating her to a familiar mix of
smells. As usual, the smell of beer in all its varieties won. Sweat
and