by Green, Simon
I scowled at Julien. “Why didn’t I know this?”
“You could have asked. It wasn’t exactly a state secret.”
I decided to change the subject again. “Where’s Hadleigh now?”
“I’d feel a lot more secure if I knew the answer to that one. No doubt he’s out and about in the Nightside, walking up and down in it and disapproving of things in horrible ways. I keep waiting for the other incendiary to drop. Whatever mysteries people learn in the Deep School, it doesn’t do much for their sense of tolerance.”
“So,” I said, “Walker is a title ... like the Walking Man?”
“Might be a coincidence; might not. That’s the Nightside for you. Either way; you’re Walker now. Whether you like it or not. But let me be blunt, John ... The case I’m about to send you on is your first official mission for the Authorities. If you should prove to be ... not up to the job, the others will ignore my recommendations and appoint someone else.”
“Never wanted the job anyway,” I said.
“That’s why I wanted you,” Julien said dryly. “But think on this: you got away with a lot because Walker let you. For his various reasons. You might not do as well with some of the names I’ve heard proposed.”
I smiled briefly. “I handled Walker. And if I could handle him, I can handle anyone.”
“That is exactly the attitude that’s going to get you killed one of these days. There are ... things out there that even the mighty John Taylor can’t handle. You’d do well to arrange a support team, of people you can trust, to be your backup. Walker had all kinds of useful people on his payroll, to be his eyes and ears in the Nightside, or help him deal with the more specialised problems, and naturally you’ll inherit them ... but there are going to be times when only brute force and massed fire-power will do. Walker had the support of the Army and the Church, when necessary, and he also had the Reasonable Men. You do remember the Reasonable Men, don’t you, John? You should; you killed them.”
“They annoyed me,” I said. “Bunch of stuck-up pricks and bully-boys. I can do better than them. How about Suzie Shooter, Dead Boy, Razor Eddie ...”
“I meant people my fellow Authorities could approve of! Though admittedly, those appalling friends of yours would scare the crap out of all the right people ...”
“I think we should talk about the mission,” I said determinedly. “What’s up with the Mammon Emporium that it might go boom? Someone finally realised how unfair and extortionate the prices are? Profit margins down there are so appalling the business owners have to hire transcendental mathematicians just to do their tax returns. And their returns policy sucks like a hooker when the rent’s due.”
“You always did have an elegant turn of phrase, John. Some three hours ago, a man walked into the Mammon Emporium and announced that he was there to blow the whole place up. He gave every impression of being full-on crazy, and perhaps even industrial-strength Looney Tunes; but it only took one scan by the mall’s security people to reveal he was quite serious. He’d made himself into, or allowed himself to be made into, a soulbomb. I can tell from your expression that you have never heard of a soulbomb. I have, which is probably why I don’t sleep as well as I used to.
“When you blow something apart, you get energy, yes? Blow an atom apart, and you get a lot of energy. Blow a soul apart, and you get the kind of energy, the kind of explosion, that can blow holes in reality itself. It has happened in the past. There are those who see it as the ultimate form of suicide. Destroy your soul, and you get to cheat Heaven and Hell.”
“So,” I said, “we’re talking about an explosion big enough to destroy the whole mall?”
“At the very least. The Mammon Emporium is positively crawling with all the very latest kinds of protections, magical and scientific, hopefully enough to contain the explosion. But nobody knows for sure. We could lose the whole district. We could lose the whole Nightside ... And God alone knows what kind of fallout a soulbomb would produce ...”
“He’s been in there three hours, and he hasn’t gone off yet?” I said. “What’s stopping him?”
“You are,” said Julien. “The soulbomber says he’s waiting for you to come and talk with him. Refuses to talk to anyone else and says he’ll blow himself up if anyone tries to move him. We sent in specially trained negotiators, but he threatened to detonate immediately if they weren’t removed. Apparently, he became quite hysterical when they didn’t leave fast enough. We said we’d send for you, and he quietened down a bit. Now he’s sitting there, right in the middle of the mall, sweating heavily and singing sad songs. We’ve evacuated the Emporium. Wasn’t easy. Hell hath no fury like a shopper cheated out of a bargain.”
“Was there a sale on?”
Julien glared at me pityingly. “There’s always a sale on at the Mammon Emporium. The shop owners didn’t want to go, either, and leave their businesses unprotected; apparently their insurance doesn’t cover soulbombers. Though I would have thought they were the exact opposite of an Act of God. Anyway, the place is quite empty now. Your mission, should you choose to accept it, and you’d bloody well better, is to go in there, talk to the crazy person, and stop him.”
“Stop him what?”
“Stop him anything!”
I thought about it. “Am I empowered to negotiate? What can I offer him?”
“Not a damned thing,” Julien said firmly. “We don’t give in to blackmail. We can’t afford to, or everyone in the Nightside would be trying their luck. Of course, feel free to offer him anything you can think of, as long as it’s clearly understood we won’t deliver on anything you promise. How convincing a liar are you? Actually, no, don’t tell me. I don’t want to know. It’s up to you, John; talk him down or take him down, by any means you deem necessary. But you have to understand: the soulbomber isn’t the real problem.”
“Of course not,” I said. “That would be far too simple.”
“If the soulbomber should detonate, he could destroy some or all of the hundreds of dimensional gateways inside the Emporium, the doors to other Earths, other realities, from which most of the businesses get their stock. Which would seem bad enough, but there are levels of appallingness here. The explosions could just destroy the gateways, effectively shutting off the doors. The cost of replacing them would be almost unimaginable; the Emporium might very well go out of business, with all kinds of nasty economic repercussions. Let us contemplate the idea of falling dominoes for a moment, then move on.
“That’s actually the best option we could hope for if he goes off bang. We could survive that. However, the destructive energies generated by an exploded soul could be enough to blast right through the gateways and cause untold death and destruction on the other sides. The occupants of those other dimensions might well become so enraged that they would invade the Nightside, looking for revenge and compensation. Probably both. Hundreds of armies, from hundreds of dimensions ... The Angel War and the Lilith War were bad enough ...”
“They weren’t my fault!”
“Yes, they were! Everything’s your fault until proven otherwise.”
“You haven’t finished, have you?” I said. “You’re saving the best for last. I can tell. What else could go wrong?”
“The destruction of hundreds of dimensional gateways might be enough to fracture reality and blast open other doors. The kind that lead to places we like to think of as Outside our reality. The kind of door we’ve done everything but barricade and nail shut from this side. You know the kind of dimensions I’m talking about, John. Where Things from Outside have been waiting for millennia, just for a chance to force their way in and destroy every living thing in creation. Do I really need to say the Names?”
“Better not,” I said. “You never know what might be listening. So any or all of these things could happen if the soulbomber detonates? Wonderful. Terrific. The gift that keeps on giving ... Let’s hope he’s only feeling a bit depressed and will respond to a nice hug and some ice-cream. Okay, obvious questio
n. Who stands to profit from something like this? You said yourself, it isn’t an insurance scam.”
“I have people working behind the scenes,” said Julien, “asking those very questions in all kinds of persuasive ways. Never underestimate the Nightside’s ability to profit from even the greatest disaster or atrocity. There has to be somebody behind this. It’s not a cheap or an easy thing, to turn a man into a soulbomb. Even if you’ve got a willing fool to work on, ready to sacrifice his entire existence for ... what? Money? A cause? Revenge? There has to be some plan, some hidden purpose, at the back of this. A pay-off big enough to make the risk acceptable.”
“You know, the soulbomber did ask for me by name,” I said. “This could all be a trap designed to lure me in.”
“It isn’t always about you, John,” Julien said patiently.
“Maybe not,” I said. “But it’s the safest way to bet.”
“They wouldn’t blow up the entire Mammon Emporium, and risk fracturing reality, just to get at you!”
“They might. Depends on who ‘they’ are. Now I have to go in—if only to find out what the hell’s going on and who I’ve upset this time. Tell me everything you’ve done so far, so I won’t repeat anything.”
Julien shrugged. “About what you’d expect. I sent in every professional specialist at my disposal: bomb squad, negotiators, priests, witches, CSI ... and one of the most experienced and expensive whores in the Nightside, on the chance she might be able to ... distract him from his purpose and give him a new interest in life. Didn’t work. Apparently he blushed a shade of red not normally seen in nature and threatened to blow himself up right there and then if she didn’t put all her clothes back on and go away.”
I made a mental note to check the mall’s CCTV footage later. If there was a later.
“No matter what we say or offer, he just keeps repeating that he’ll only talk to you. John, we really can’t afford to lose the Emporium. There’s a lot of money at stake here, not to mention a massive loss of prestige and tourists. You wouldn’t believe how much tax money the Emporium dumps into our economy every year. We’re getting a lot of hard talk from the various business owners to Do Something, along with all kinds of nasty and inventive threats of what they’ll do if it all goes horribly wrong.”
“So,” I said, “no pressure, then. Don’t let the mall get destroyed; don’t let the dimensional gates get destroyed; don’t let the Outsiders force their way into our reality and destroy everything that lives. How the hell am I supposed to talk some sense into someone crazy enough to allow himself to be made into a soulbomb?”
Julien grinned. “I’m sure you’ll find a way.”
“You can go off people, you know,” I said.
The Mammon Emporium is not only the biggest mall in the Nightside, but quite possibly in the world. Opinion is divided over how many floors there are because some of them aren’t always there, some only appear on special occasions, and they’re always adding more. And yes, the mall is much bigger on the inside than it is on the outside. Such spells come as standard in the Nightside, or we’d never fit everything in. Because of the mall’s size, you don’t need a map to get round; you need a spirit guide and a compass. The Mammon Emporium specialises in brand-names, franchises, and weird alternatives from any number of different Earths. Just the thing for the Nightside, where tastes and palates tend to grow jaded really quickly; for people who’ve seen it all, done it all, and produced their own T-shirts to boast about it afterwards.
The Portable Timeslip dropped me off right on the edge of the large crowd that had gathered outside the Emporium. Shoppers who’d been ejected from the mall, much against their will; shop owners mopping the sweat from their brows as they commiserated with each other over loss of trade; and a whole bunch of interested onlookers, quite ready to risk a massive explosion if only for the chance to see something new. There’s nothing so popular in the Nightside as a free show. Vendors and street traders already had their stalls up, selling commemorative T-shirts, hastily improvised souvenirs, protective amulets of dubious efficiency, and something wriggling on a stick. (Very tasty! Get them while they’re hot!)
I took a few moments to get my head back together before walking calmly and confidently into the crowd. This much I had learned from Walker: look like you know what you’re doing, and everyone else will assume that you do. That said, some people in the crowd looked pleased to see me, some didn’t, and some took one look at me and started running. Oh ye of little faith.
Half a dozen business owners advanced on me, shoulder to shoulder, and everyone else fell back to give them room. You could tell who they were immediately from their superior tailoring and sense of entitlement. I gave them a thoughtful look, and they all crashed to a halt a respectful distance short of me. The crew drew back even further to let us talk, but not so far they couldn’t eavesdrop. There was a lot of glancing at each other amongst the shop owners and a certain amount of pushing and shoving as they tried to agree on a spokesman. None of them wanted to give way to any of the others, but none of them was too keen on talking to the infamous John Taylor. I let them get on with it while I looked them over. They didn’t need to identify themselves; I knew who they were. Their names and faces were all over the glossy magazines and the giveaways, trying to persuade me to buy something I knew for a fact I didn’t need, at twice the price I wouldn’t have paid anyway.
Raymond Orbison, a long drink of cold water in baggy white slacks and T-shirt, supplied musical recordings from other Earths, where music and people had taken surprisingly different directions. Where Marianne Faithfull was the lead singer in the Rolling Stones; Dolly Parton sang opera; and the Elvis Twins sang Country & Western. And Kate Bush fronted Rockbitch.
Then there was Martin Broome, fat and prosperous and perspiring heavily, who specialised in strange food and weird dishes from Earths where human biology was not so much different as downright eccentric. Broome offered dishes with different trace elements and altered isomers; eat as much as you like and never put on an ounce because your body doesn’t recognise it as food. Very popular, and very highly priced. And absolutely no warnings about possible side effects, such as bloating, anal leakage, sudden meltdowns in the night, and occasional spontaneous combustion.
And, of course, there was Esmeralda Corr, tall and willowy in flapping silks, who provided exotic perfumes from exotic sources, like moss from the canals of Mars, fungi squeezings from sunken R’Lyeh, and musk glands from extinct animals. They all smelled the same to me, but then, I’m a man.
Orbison finally took the lead and fixed me with his usual watery-eyed stare. “You’re who the Authorities sent? You’re the new Walker? I can feel my palpitations coming on. Well, don’t just stand there! You’ve got to do something, Taylor! People want to shop! All the time we’re standing round here, we’re losing money!”
“You’ll be losing that finger if you keep prodding it in my direction,” I said.
Oribison was overcome with a sudden modesty and insisted on falling back. Esmeralda Corr immediately took his place, hands on hips and pointing her prominent bosoms at me like loaded weapons. “What are you going to do, Taylor? I think we have a right to be consulted before you undertake any operation that might put our livelihoods at risk!”
“I’m more concerned with lives than livelihoods,” I said. “What is that perfume you’re wearing? Is it actually legal to smell like that in public? Step back a few paces. A few more ... Right. I’m here to shut the soulbomb down. That’s all you need to know. Now, have any of you upset anyone recently? More than usual, I mean. Someone who might bear a grudge?”
They all looked at each other, and there was much averting of eyes and general shrugging. No-one had to say anything. Business was business in the Nightside, and devil take the hindmost. Sometimes literally. But after a certain amount of nudging, elbowing, and general intimidation, Broome was finally moved to admit that they had no-one special in mind. There had been no advance warning, no threats or ra
nsom demands, and no-one had come forward to claim responsibility. The bomber was a complete stranger to all of them. He’d walked into the mall and threatened to blow up his soul.
They all turned their best business-like glares on me. They’d done all that could be reasonably expected of them, their glares implied, and now it was up to me. So if anything went wrong, it was all my fault. But there was a certain expectant look to them as well because I was the new Walker, and they were curious to see if I was up to it. I was curious, too.
Walker had only been dead for a few hours; but everyone knew. News travels fast in the Nightside, especially bad news.
I walked through the crowd, and it opened up to let me pass. It had all gone very quiet. Except for the bookmakers, who were already offering odds.
I strolled under the huge M and E that marked the main entrance to the mall, and a whole new world opened up before me. Shops and businesses, chains and franchises, speciality stores and perv parlours stretched away before me, for just a bit further than the eye could comfortably see. Corridors and passageways branched and separated, and stilled elevators led up to more floors and even more wonders and marvels, all major credit cards accepted. There was a map floating on the air in the lobby, a huge 3D hologram affair of such complexity that staring at it long enough could start you speaking in tongues. I chose a direction and started walking.
I looked carefully about me, but the whole place was deserted. Thankfully, someone had shut down the piped Muzak, and there wasn’t a sound to be heard anywhere apart from the gentle humming of the fierce fluorescent lighting and the distant rumble of the air-conditioning. It could still be a trap. Either for me, specifically, or for whoever took over as the new Walker. Certainly, I’d made enough enemies in my time, and in the Past and Future, too.