Atomic Underworld: Part One (16 page)

A
sound came from a side-room.

Hairs
raised on the back of his neck, Tavlin leapt inside. It was dim, and he had to
strain to see. Conscious that he might be visible silhouetted against the
doorway, he moved aside, rotating this way and that to find his quarry. Nothing
but shadows. It was a dark, crowded room full of shelves laden with what looked
like technical equipment—plenty of hiding spots. Below, gunshots rang. Men
yelled.

A
small, dirty window admitted a scant amount of light, and by this radiance
Tavlin searched the room, finding nothing but shadows and equipment. Just as he
was about to give up, he heard a noise behind him.

He
spun.

A
man—not the man he’d been chasing, but one he recognized nonetheless—stepped
out from the shadows. The man struck the shotgun from Tavlin’s hands with one
hand and with the other raised a gun of his own.

By
the faint glow of the window, Tavlin saw a polished pistol of foreign
manufacture aimed at his head. And holding it, bald head gleaming greenly in
the light, was the man who had offered his hand to Tavlin in Taluush.

“We meet
again,” said the bald man. He spoke with a thick brogue, and though he sounded
like a well-traveled sort—his voice showing flecks of various accents—there was
nothing in that voice to indicate nationality.

“Maybe
this time we can chat,” Tavlin said. It seemed an appropriate comment, as the
other option was less amenable. Before the man could either answer or shoot
him, Tavlin added, “It was you that conspired with the G’zai, wasn’t it—to
destroy Taluush?”

The
man showed no reaction, save a vague hardening of his craggy, pocked face. “You
destroyed Taluush, Tavlin Metzler,” he said. “You destroyed it by not
cooperating with us. Do you want the same thing to happen to Muscud?”

“You
didn't give me much chance to cooperate, did you? Anyway, you’re Octunggen,
aren’t you? That’s how you communicated with the G’zai. Octunggen can deal with
the old races.”

The
man didn’t deny it. “You know what we want. You know how to get it.”

“What
are you doing here? Why are you with Grund’s men?”

Gunshots
crashed from below, and there came an explosion. The floor jumped beneath
Tavlin’s feet, and dust rained down from the ceiling. He leapt for the bald
man’s gun. The man lunged aside with astonishing speed and clubbed Tavlin on
the head with the butt of his pistol.

Tavlin
collapsed. A hand went to his head, and he felt wetness there. The world gyrated
around him.

The
dark shape of the bald man remained steady, though. He seemed older than Tavlin
had thought, his face heavily lined, his bushy white brows showing many
curling, wiry hairs. The pox that had ravaged his face had not made him ugly,
strangely, but somehow only more distinguished. The scars drank up the light,
creating numerous dark wells all over his wide, heavy face. His eyes glared
like arctic blue ice.

“Tell
me where the canister is,” he said.

Tavlin
spat. “No.”

“You
don’t even know what it is.”

Tavlin’s
right hand skittered over the floor surreptitiously, feeling ...

“What,
then?” he asked.

“It
could end the war.”

“Some
weapon, I suppose.”

“You
say that unthinkingly. Weapons end wars. It is their purpose.”

“Or
start them. And it would be used against my own people,” Tavlin reminded him.

“Are
they yours? Look around you, Tavlin Two-Bit. You’re in a
sewer
. Is this where you would be if your people gave a shit about
you?” The man sighed. “If you care about your friends down here, though, you
will agree. Or we will do to Muscud what we did to Taluush.”

Tavlin’s
hand found what it was looking for. He flipped his wrist, and a stone, shaken
loose from the ceiling, sailed through the air. The stone struck the bald man’s
pistol, and the gun spun away. Tavlin threw himself at the shotgun, grabbed it
and turned about.

The
door burst open. Galesh and another man charged into the room, guns firing.
Glass shattered, and Tavlin glanced at the window to see the shape of the bald
man squeeze through it and vanish.

Galesh
fired after him, then stood there, panting. Gun smoke curled around him.

“It’s
over,” he huffed. “The fight’s over.”

Dusting
off his pants, Tavlin climbed to his feet. “No,” he said. “I think it’s just
begun.”

*

Tavlin’s
words were more accurate than he knew. Before Boss Vassas and his men could
trigger the small explosive devises they had planted throughout the
warehouse—larger ones might destabilize the surrounding structures, which would
bring Vassas no end of hell from the mayor and the consortium of businesses
that supported him, all of which had their own goons—the sound of motorcycles
filled the air. At the head of a fleet of motorcycles, Grund stormed in. Before
Boss Vassas could even organize a defense, Grund’s enforcers burst in and drove
Vassas and the rest back toward the loading room. Tavlin fired and ducked, and
he had to squint to see in the
gunsmoke
-filled
hallways. Grund’s men had come in large numbers, and they proved too numerous
and well-armed for Vassas’s people to repel. Grund drove Vassas’s faction
through the trapdoor and onto the water.

Tavlin
fired his shotgun at the shapes on the dock even as his boat shot off into the
darkness in the churning wake of
Galesh’s
boat until
at last the invaders were safely away. Tavlin’s limbs trembled, and sweat
drenched his hair and stung his eyes. His stomach quivered.
Please don’t puke.

Harry
Scraggs, who had received a bullet in the gut and was slouched against the
gunwale, grinned a bloody grin at him. “Fun, wasn’t it?”

Tavlin
felt a swell of dismay. “What happened?”

“Whattaya
think?”

Blood
pooled around Harry, pumping fast from the wound on his abdomen. His face
looked very pale, even in the faint light filtering down through the
floorboards above. Other men gathered around him. One squeezed his hand. Tavlin
found a flask and gave Harry a sip, then another. Harry took his last sip
before they reached the Wide-Mouth. Tavlin closed his eyes when he passed.

*

Tavlin
got good and drunk with the others. Together they toasted each other and the
dead long into the night. Toward dawn, Tavlin saw Galesh whispering to Vassas
in the corner, their eyes on him. Soon Vassas sent for Tavlin.

“Galesh
says you were talking with Havictus,” Vassas said.

“Havictus?”

“The
Octunggen bastard. I met with him before, remember. He was the leader of the
ones looking for a factory to rent. That’s what he called himself, anyway. Gods
know what his real name is. Right Bad Bastard, I shouldn’t wonder.”

“Talking
with
him’s
just the start of it,” Tavlin said. “I’ve
got a lot to tell you.” He was slurring his words a bit by then, but not enough
to be unintelligible. Adrenaline still buzzed through him, and grief too.

“Come
with me,” Vassas said.

He
showed Tavlin up into his study on the top floor, and there they shared an
expensive bottle of wine. Laughter and toasts still drifted up from the ground
floor, but the sounds were muted and somehow strange. Moths battered the
streaked window, which was lit by gas-lights below, illuminating the stains and
algae that coated the glass and filtered the light. The effect was a sort of
green hue, which complimented the eeriness of the muted cheers below. In this
light, sipping the fine wine, Tavlin told Vassas most of what had happened over
the last two days, and he watched Vassas grow grayer and more ashen with every
word. Finally, as they were slurping the dregs of the thick red wine, Tavlin
finished.

Vassas
gazed at him with red-rimmed eyes. “Taluush is gone? All of it? Are you sure?”

“It’s
a pile of rubbish, although maybe something could be rebuilt from it. I’m sure
you’ll see some refugees from it over the coming days. Where the G’zai went I
don’t know.”

“Back
to their black, watery hole, I’d guess.” Vassas stood and stretched. Pacing
back and forth before the green-streaming window, he said, “So the Octs want
the briefcase, or what’s in it—this canister of yours. The one that gave you
nightmares.”

“Havictus
said it was some sort of weapon. Maybe it's alchemical, but if so it’s like no
alchemy we know. They needed those ancient jewels to make it, remember, wrought
by some pre-human means.”

“But
why were they delivering it to this church? The Temple of Magoth, if that’s
what it was."

"Good
question. They must be working together, the worshippers of Magoth and the
Octunggen. And Octung is also working with Grund, too, it seems; that's why
Havictus was in Grund's warehouse. Maybe Havictus is the one who's been
supplying him with guns and motorcycles, maybe even money to pay for mercenary
soldiers. Havictus is using them all—toward what end, who knows, but we have to
stop him. It can’t be good, whatever it is. And it has to be us. No one else
will do it or even believe us.”

“Shit,
I’m not sure if
I
believe us.”

Tavlin
paused. “You don’t doubt me, do you, Boss?”

Vassas
returned his stare, gray and ill-looking. His eyes looked very red. At last he
said, “No. No, I guess not. Still, what can we do about it?”

“You
just launched a raid on Grund. Launch a raid on the Octunggen factory. Smash
their equipment to bits so they can’t make any more of this weapon, and we’ll
work to hide what
was
made. Maybe
destroy it.”

Vassas
stopped pacing. He stood framed in the green window so that a dark shadow flung
before him and green light bathed the air to both sides. “You just saw what
happened to us, Two-Bit. We lost some good men tonight, and that was against
enemies we
know
. The Octs have weird
weapons. Powerful weapons. Shit, you saw what they did to Nancy and my people,
and that was in the
next room
. You
would have us make war on them?” He shook his head. “We’re not fucking with the
Octunggen.”

“Then
they’ll find me—or you, now—torture us for the location of the briefcase,
retrieve it and use it on Ghenisa.”

“Ghenisa
is responsible for us living in a sewer.”

“Yes,
but it’s a sewer
of Ghenisa
. You
really think the Octunggen will let you stay down here once they overrun the
country? Besides, Ghenisa’s not so bad. It’s a good country, maybe one of the
best in all of Urslin. The best food, at least that appeals to me. The best
art. Hell, prostitution’s even legal in some counties.”

Vassas
scratched his ear, looking agitated. “What do you want me to do, huh, Tavlin? I
can’t take on Octung.”

Tavlin
sucked in a deep breath. “I’m working on that. Meanwhile, I need to lay low.
And Sophia, too. She’s staying at the Twirling Skirt.”

“I
know.”

“You
do?”

“Yeah.
She just sent a runner little while ago. Forgot to tell you. Wanted to know
where you were. I told the runner to tell her you were with me, and you were
fine.”

“Good.
Thanks.” Then Tavlin sat up straight.

“What
is it?”

Tavlin
felt cold all over. “Havictus, he knows I’m working for you. He knows now if he
didn’t before. He’ll know I’m here, and he would have had people watching the
Wide-Mouth. They would have followed the runner back to the Skirt!”

He
lunged out of the chair and made for the door. Vassas stopped him with a hand
on his shoulder.

“Let
me give you a ride.”

*

Wind
tore through Tavlin’s hair, and his eyes misted under the air pressure. His
heart beat like an out of control engine. To each side roared the motorcycles
of Vassas’s men. Tavlin himself sat in the sidecar of Vassas’s motorcycle, and
the Boss hunched big as life on his mount, leading the armada through the
streets. He would have taken Tavlin alone, Tavlin knew, but what with the war
it wasn’t safe for Vassas to be out without protection.

People
scattered out of the way of the motorcycle fleet, but they didn’t run once they
hit the sidewalks. Many waved or saluted. Vassas would occasionally indulge in
a nod back to them. At least in this one quarter of the city, he was a beloved
figure. He had brought peace and stability in an age of warring bosses. Of
course, now there was war all over again, and the Octunggen were helping the
other side. Tavlin couldn’t quite get his mind around it.

At
the moment, he didn’t try. All his thought was bent on Sophia.
You’d better be all right, you’d better be
all right, you’d better be all right.

The
armada pulled up to a stop in front of the Twirling Skirt, and Tavlin coughed
at the sudden swirl of diesel exhaust and gravel. The Skirt loomed above him,
light blazing out from beneath its peaked gables. A large hunter-snail
slithered across its peeling facade and vanished around a crenellation, leaving
a trail of slime in its wake. People gathered on the veranda, talking and
socializing like always. Music flooded out through the open doors.

Part
of Tavlin sighed in relief to see the Skirt still standing. He had
half-expected it to be razed or in flames, like the hotel in Taluush, or to see
its halls running with blood, like the whorehouse there.

But
he didn’t see Sophia. She was not on the veranda, nor hanging out a window
waving to him. He would not relax until he saw her, until he held her in his
arm—however reluctantly on her part.

He
climbed out of the sidecar as the men around him cut their engines. The people
on the veranda were staring at them expectantly, perhaps a touch nervously.
Tavlin started to step away from Vassas’s motorcycle, toward the Skirt, when he
heard a voice behind him.

“Want
us to go in with you?” Vassas said.

“No.
I’ll do it alone.”

He
marched up the stairs. People made way for him, their expressions curious or
worried. He didn’t explain but pushed the doors open and moved into the parlor.
Here the music had drowned out some of the sounds of the motorcycle fleet, but
only some, and the people closest to the windows had gathered around the glass
panes to watch, and others had noticed and were gravitating in that direction,
too. Several raised eyebrows at Tavlin.