Robert Chance left Doctors’ Commons and headed east, taking a variety of transportation options along the way. He even jumped on the back of a passing steam truck, hitching a ride for several blocks.

At last he entered Whitechapel, and the neighborhood took a marked turn for the worse.

Here, poverty ruled, although perhaps not as strongly as it would have without the Ethinium steam vault providing food and shelter for all those willing to work in the upper levels.

But Whitechapel housed those unwilling to work, or unable.

Chance walked the last few blocks and kept his eyes open, especially as he neared the first of several alleyways. Night had not yet fallen, though the sun sank low in the sky and the shadows on the streets grew longer.

He sidestepped an old woman dressed in rags and pushing a cart, her eyes glued to the ground for scraps. She stooped over to pick up the nub of a discarded cigar, and with a croaking laugh popped it into her mouth.

Chance moved on before she could ask him for a light.

At last he spied the alley he was looking for, marked in white paint with the symbol of a cap, a dome with a long line underneath it. This one he turned into, pausing for a moment so his eyes could adjust to the dim light. Rays from the low-hanging sun did not reach into this narrow passage at all.

Several feet away the alley turned left at a 90-degree angle, and a wino sat at the bend, his back propped against the wall while facing the street.

Chance was a Tier 3 infiltrator, about midway toward attaining Tier 4. He would have recognized the lookout even if he did not already know about it. Through the dim light he could make out the man’s eyes, sharp and intently staring at him, quite unlike a real drunk.

He made his way down the narrow alley, not bothering to look up at the brick walls. He knew a window high above and to the right offered a perfect trajectory for the sniper hiding inside the room up there.

So long as the lookout did not call out an alarm, all would be well. Chance would likely survive the shots, enhanced as he was, but the Hobnobbers did not know that. He hoped he would not have to reveal the fact he was enhanced today.

Chance walked up to the bum, lying on bed of old newspapers and covered in a filthy shawl. He recognized the man.

“Charles, how are you?”

“It’s Chuck,” the fake bum said, in annoyance. “You know this.”

Chance smiled slightly and nodded in acknowledgement.

“Sorry, Chuck. It’s been a long day, yeah? I need to see the Major Domo, if I can.”

“Southsiders got business?”

“You know how it is, Chuck. This is for Mr Domo. I can’t share it with the likes of you.”

Chuck snorted, but he nodded to the left, indicating Chance could proceed.

So Chance stepped over his legs and kept walking. Another hundred feet, and the alley ended in a doorway where the two buildings merged.

A heavy metal door waited for him, gunmetal gray.

Chance squinted at the sight of it. He had never thought about it before, but the door seemed to be made from the same metal used in the steam vaults.

Filing that nugget away for future consideration, he rapped on the door three times in quick succession.

The slit for a small Judas window slid back, and a pair of eyes glanced out. It closed again and Chance heard a massive bar being moved out of the way.

The door cracked open wide enough to let him squeeze through. Inside, light seemed even scarcer than in the alley. One lonely sconce on the wall provided flickering gaslight, casting more shadows than anything else.

The man inside quickly barred the door again, then turned and pointed a Webley revolver at him.

Chance ignored the gun and the man, turning to the huge presence sitting on the far wall and facing the door.

The man known as the Major Domo sat behind a makeshift desk fashioned from a wooden door and old bricks. He leaned back in a worn chair. It creaked in protest under the shift in weight.

The Major Domo was fat. But he spoke in a soft, almost feminine voice.

“Welcome, Mr. Black. What can we do for the Southsiders today?”

The Southsiders, in fact, were a thoroughly fictitious gang. Chance spent considerable time and money cultivating their reputation. “Mr. Black” was the only representative of the gang anyone ever met.

“The Big Man heard some things, today, Mr. Domo.”

The fat man said nothing. He and the gunman at the door waited for Chance to continue.

Eventually Chance gave up and kept talking.

“Everyone’s heard about the sewer troopers attacking Doctors’ Commons, and their black airship going down in the river. But The Big Man heard something else, too. Something that bothered him.”

He paused again, this time determined not to speak too much.

He waited.

The Hobnobbers expected it. After all, knowledge was power on the streets. You never wanted to talk too much. That could get you killed.

At last Domo said, “And what other news did he hear, Mr. Black?”

“He heard the peelers arrested a couple of Nobs. Right there in the Commons. Imagine that.”

“And how does this concern . . . Mr. Big?”

Chance resisted the urge to grin. He knew Domo hated calling the leader of the Southsiders by that name. If only Domo knew that Mr. Big existed solely in Chance’s head.

“The Big Man thinks the Commons are off limits to a street gang like ours. That place is heavily patrolled. You gots the peelers, you gots the king’s guard and their guns. Then you gots the Venture Society blokes. Who would want to set up shop there? And yet, somebody has, he hears. So, the Big Man says to me, ‘Black, go and find out what Domo is up to. Maybe we can work us a deal with the Nobs again.’ He likes you, Mr. Domo. We done good in the past.”

In reality, Domo lost four of his boys the last time he had “done business” with the Southsiders. It was actually a trap which led his boys into police custody, but Chance had arranged it to make it seem like a stroke of bad luck. The story he had planted in the papers made it look like six Southsiders were arrested, too. Domo, and everybody else, bought the story.

The Major Domo sighed, looking as if he did not have time for this.

With a reluctant tone of voice he said, “Tell your boss we are not setting up shop in Doctors’ Commons. We were merely attempting to fulfill a request for some friends.”

And that, Chance decided, was vague enough to imply all sorts of things.

But he knew this would likely be all he would get tonight. At least, directly. Domo’s expression hinted he would be saying nothing more.

“Alright. I’ll pass it along to The Big Man. But remember, if there’s something we can do in the future, any potential partnerships . . . If we can scratch each others’ backs . . .”

He left the sentence incomplete, realizing it likely made him look weaker from a negotiating standpoint.

Domo nodded with a trace of impatience.

“I’ll do that. Good day, Mr. Black.”

Chance nodded. He turned and stared at the goon still pointing a Webley at him. He knew he would be expected to let himself out so the gun could remain trained on him at all times.

Once out in the alley, the scrape of the metal bar sliding back into place for the door, he walked back toward the lookout. He turned at the corner, saying so long to Chuck.

Chance needed to find a place to wait and watch the Nobs’ headquarters. And to do that, he needed a disguise.

Out on the street, he went hunting for another wino. A real one this time, not a lookout pretending to be drunk.