The Grand Dark

by Richard Kadrey

  “Lofty political speeches and tracts aren’t always the best way to move the public’s mind,” said Branca. “It’s easier to capture the masses with a well-placed song or a laugh. With gratuitous sex or deplorable violence. Your friend Baumann is a useful fool too. A mediocre actor, he remains a star because he performs in wildly popular films that we produce.”

  Largo’s stomach cramped again. “I’m going to be sick.”

  “If that’s true, please do it in the bathroom. I have no desire to see or smell it.”

  Largo barely made it across the hall in time. There was nothing left in his stomach to bring up, so he just leaned over the toilet while his gut spasmed.

  I really am a fool. I deserve this. A lifetime of fear. Of bullies. Of bullocks. Now a new war. The Drops and disappearances. But I should have been afraid of myself most of all. Tanz didn’t do this to me. The Nachtvogel didn’t do this.

  I did it to myself.

  When his stomach settled, Largo went back into his flat and sat down. “I don’t want to work for you anymore.”

  “Oh? Would you rather be without morphia again? Would you rather go back to jail? You’re suspected of murder, Largo. We’re the only friends you have left.”

  He picked at the dried blood on his face. “I’ve already done things for you. Can’t you just let me go?”

  “No,” said Branca with cold finality. “Rest for today. But be back to work at the normal time tomorrow. If you aren’t there, you’ll be considered an enemy of the state, and I assure you, the penalty for that is much worse than for the murder of a little rich girl.”

  Largo curled up in the chair.

  “I’ll let myself out,” said Branca. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Largo. One way or another.”

  “Wait—do you at least know if Remy is alive?”

  Branca put on his hat. “You should be more concerned for yourself right now.”

  “Because I’m a fool,” said Largo.

  “A useful one. See that you remain that way,” said Branca as he left.

  Largo spent the day trying to make sense of what had happened. His fear of working for the Nachtvogel and his despair over losing Remy fought it out in his mind, each one overtaking the other in a horrifying spiral.

  I’ll escape. I’ll wait for nightfall and go across the roofs. I can make it to the end of the block that way. Then down the fire escape and they’ll never find me.

  Largo laughed at himself.

  I can barely walk. Which is why it won’t work. They probably have an agent waiting for me on the roof right now. And if I did get away, where would I go? A few gold Valdas won’t take me far.

  He went to the table to get the whiskey but stopped in his tracks. His knife and harness lay on the table. He looked at them and thought about the sweet irony if he used the knife to slash his wrists. But the thought lasted only a moment. He knew he didn’t have the strength of will for suicide. Not if there was any possibility of finding Remy. Largo wondered if the Nachtvogel would look for her. They might have to if they wanted to keep Baron Hellswarth from going mad. That settled it, then. He would stay alive until he learned Remy’s fate.

  If she’s all right, I’ll be here. If not, the knife or an overdose of morphia will always be waiting.

  Chapter Fourteen

  WHEN LARGO LEFT HIS FLAT FOR WORK THE NEXT MORNING, HE ALMOST tripped over a bicycle leaning against his door. It was lighter and better built than his previous one, which would raise questions at work, and the last thing he wanted to do at that moment was answer questions. But he didn’t have any choice about what to do. He carried it down the three floors to the street and rode away. Again, his neighbors stared. How long before they get bored with me? He longed for another chimera stampede or a good case of the Drops. Anything to get them staring in another direction.

  His back and face hurt where the police had knocked him around. The pain wasn’t so bad that he couldn’t work, but each stab was a reminder of how far and how quickly his life had turned into a nightmare.

  He arrived at the company five minutes late and stood in the back of the room.

  “I see Largo has decided to join us this morning. How kind of you,” said Branca in his usual tone.

  “I wouldn’t be anywhere else. We’re one big, happy family here, aren’t we, Herr Branca?”

  Branca lowered his head and said, “Even family has its limits of behavior. Remember that in the future.”

  “I’ll write it down in one of my receipt books so I don’t forget,” Largo said. He wasn’t even sure why he was speaking this way. The world seemed slightly unreal, and he felt drunk and reckless.

  Several of the other couriers turned to stare at him, but Largo stared right back until they turned around. Parvulesco tried to catch his eye, but Largo kept his gaze firmly to the front.

  Branca called the Maras from the back room to bring out the first round of letters and packages for the couriers to deliver. The office emptied quickly until it was just Branca and Largo. When he reached for his package, Branca put a hand on it.

  “A word, Largo,” he said.

  “Of course, sir.”

  Branca cleared his throat. “I recognize today is a difficult one for you, and that it will take time to adjust to your new duties. Because of that, I’ll forgive your little performance. However, I won’t be so charitable next time. Do you understand me?”

  “Yes. Completely. If I’m rude tomorrow I’m to be shot.”

  “I wasn’t thinking of anything quite that drastic,” Branca said. “In case you were wondering, what you’re feeling is completely normal. You’re trying to provoke a harsh response. It’s called a suicidal fugue. You find yourself cornered, so you misbehave in hopes of freeing yourself through a quick and dramatic death. But I promise you that these things are never quick or dramatic. In fact, they’re rather sordid.” He pushed the morning’s parcel into Largo’s hands. “Remember what I said. Tomorrow you will be the old Largo or there will be no Largo at all.”

  Largo looked at the address on his delivery and pointed to his face. “The address is in Empyrean. I have a black eye and bloody cheek, courtesy of the bullocks. Don’t you think that will attract attention from the district’s security?”

  “Leave both the municipal and private officials to me. Should you need assistance, simply call and I’ll deal with it promptly.”

  “If you say so.”

  “I do say so. How do you like your new bicycle?”

  Largo said, “It’s very good. Better than my old one.”

  “Excellent. Then you’ll make your rounds even faster than usual. I intend to keep you busy for these first few days. Take my advice: It’s not good to think too much during this period. Neither is it good to abuse yourself. Don’t drink to excess, and be careful about your morphia intake. It will be rationed and you’ve already seen how unpleasant it can be to lose your supply suddenly.”

  Largo’s stomach spasmed with the memory. “Is there anything else?”

  “Yes. Make sure this client holds the receipt book.”

  “Why does the Nachtvogel care about some cocky bluenose?”

  Branca turned his gaze toward the ceiling, then back to Largo “Don’t ever use the name of that organization in the office. And don’t ask me about deliveries at all unless I broach the subject.” He went back to his desk and picked up a pen. “Remember, we want the old Largo back. The one who asked few questions and simply did his job.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “That’s all. I’ll see you when you’re done.”

  Before going outside to his bicycle, Largo went to a stall in the employee bathroom and put another drop of morphia under his tongue. He’d already taken two drops before leaving home, but he needed something to calm his nerves after talking to Branca. As the morphia moved through his system, he felt all the usual sensations, but they weren’t pleasant. He’d never thought morphia could feel this way, but he’d never imagined Remy being gone. Together, they were the
real pleasure. Now morphia was merely a bitter-tasting medicine.

  He put the vial away in disgust, checked his knife, and went outside.

  All the couriers had left except for Parvulesco. When Largo came down the steps he said, “What the hell was that between you and Branca? And where have you been for the last couple of days? I’ve been worried.”

  “I’m fine,” said Largo. “What happened with Branca is nothing. It was related to a discussion we had recently.”

  “You’re fine?” Parvulesco said.

  “Perfectly.”

  “Then what happened to your face? Did it come with your new bike?”

  Largo took his bicycle and rolled it to Parvulesco. He said, “Stop asking questions. In fact, stop talking to me at all. It’s dangerous. I don’t want you getting in trouble.”

  Before Largo could get on his bicycle, Parvulesco grabbed his arm. “What’s going on? I’m your friend. I want to help.”

  “Then keep your distance,” said Largo. He rode away before Parvulesco could ask any more foolish questions.

  Largo felt self-conscious as he rode through Empyrean. He was even more uncomfortable when he stopped at a lavender marble mansion on Ambrosiadorf and handed his receipt book to a young woman. After she signed it she gave him several small gold coins and smiled. He tried to smile back, but his face still hurt from his beating. He rode out of the district quickly, his head down, knowing that he looked like an unsuccessful thief and hoping that this early in the morning the police had other things to occupy them. He was breathing hard when he made it back to the company.

  “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you out of breath before, Largo,” said Branca.

  “I rode very quickly.”

  “You often ride quickly, and yet here you are panting like an overheated dog.”

  Being beaten seems to have taken a lot out of me.

  “I’ll be fine in a minute. Do you mind if I sit down?”

  Branca gestured to a small wooden bench in the corner of the room. Largo sat, but he found that he still couldn’t catch his breath. From his desk, Branca said, “Control your breathing. In through your nose and out through your mouth. You’re feel better in a moment or two.”

  Largo tried it and, to his surprise, found that his racing heart and ragged breathing soon eased. When he felt better he went to Branca’s desk. “How did you know that trick?” he said.

  “You are far from the first person I’ve seen in the throes of panic. It’s a common ailment in this transition period. Don’t worry. It will wear off in a few days.”

  “What if it doesn’t?”

  “There’s always medical intervention. Pills. Shots. Miracle potions.”

  “And if they don’t help?”

  Branca raised his eyes from his papers and looked at him. “You’ll be fine. Otherwise we wouldn’t have chosen you for this position. It’s a simple matter of—”

  “Controlling my breathing,” said Largo.

  Branca lowered his eyes back to his desk. “That’s it exactly. Your next two deliveries are over there.”

  He put two thick envelopes and receipt books in his shoulder bag. “Are these deliveries special too?”

  “From now on, assume that all of your deliveries are special. It will save us both from having to deal with a lot of pointless questions.”

  Largo left and continued to breathe as Branca had told him. If he did it too much it made him light-headed. However, when the fear came back and his heartbeat spiked, the breathing exercise brought it down to a normal level. I hope Branca is right and this feeling passes. I can’t do this forever, he thought. But then a new kind of fear came to him. How will it be when I don’t feel this way anymore? When being the Nachtvogel’s dog becomes my ordinary state? I’ll bark, roll over, and fetch strangers who’ve never done anything to me. I’ll be one of them. By the time he left for his afternoon deliveries he’d dismissed the idea of killing himself with the knife, but if he could take a little less morphia each day, in time he’d save up enough to do himself in easily and painlessly. It would take a while—maybe weeks—but it was something hopeful to look forward to, and hope felt very precious right then.

  A little girl answered one door he knocked on and her grandfather held the receipt book so that she could sign it. They both laughed and laughed, and Largo was almost ill from wondering what the Nachtvogel could want with them. He then made a delivery to a rest home for Dandies. Some of the men had their masks off, and as much as Largo tried not to look, he couldn’t help himself. He hadn’t thought any Dandy’s face could be sadder than Rainer’s, but he saw a dozen worse and left with his head down. His last delivery was the most unpleasant. It was a run-down print shop in the Aether district. There were antigovernment posters all over the city, but they grew in number and ferocity the closer he got to the shop. Some Dandies worked inside, and so did a few foreigners. Which are the Nachtvogel the most interested in? he wondered. Largo pushed the thought away. He would unquestionably go mad if he tried to guess how the secret police thought.

  Several bullocks watched him ride away from the shop. His fear for the workers was replaced by a more personal anxiety. For all of Branca’s boasting that he could handle the police, Largo was sure that if Tanz wanted to he could make Largo disappear as efficiently as any slaver gang from High Proszawa.

  After work, Largo bought a meat pie and another bottle of whiskey from a shop and headed home. He took more morphia and listened to music on the wireless Remy had given him. He didn’t want to think about her, and when her face became too fixed in his mind, he went to the whiskey and more morphia to drive her out.

  Someone knocked on his door around ten that night. Unlike when the police had burst in, this knock was gentle and hesitant. Largo stumbled to the door and opened it a few inches.

  “Largo?” said Hanna. “My god. You look like shit.”

  He stood there staring at her. “What do you want?”

  “May I come in?”

  He looked past her down the hall but didn’t see anyone. “I don’t think that’s a good idea,” he said.

  She put a hand on the doorframe. “Okay. I just came by because I wanted to tell you that I believe you. I know you couldn’t hurt Remy, no matter what anyone else says.”

  His heartbeat began rising. Largo took a couple of gulping breaths. “Thank you. But you don’t mean ‘anyone.’ You mean ‘everyone.’ They all think I killed her.”

  Hanna shifted her shoulder uncomfortably. “Yes. The bullocks have been all over anyone you’ve as much as spoken to. That Tanz character, he’s quite something,” she said.

  Despite his breathing, Largo felt flushed. “He said that the Baron wants me dead.”

  Hanna pressed her lips into a thin line and nodded. “I’ve heard the same thing. Hardly anyone has seen him. He’s either locked in his office or with Venohr.”

  “Dr. Venohr? He was treating Remy. Is he the Baron’s doctor too?”

  “No. He has a private laboratory in our section, but they’re old friends. I think the Baron goes in there to talk, away from everybody else.”

  “I wish I could speak to Venohr,” said Largo.

  “That’s not a good idea. Even if he believed you, he’s very loyal to the Baron. He’d never go against him.”

  Largo rubbed sweat from his forehead. “It was just a thought.”

  “I’m sorry I can’t bring you better news,” said Hanna, looking miserable.

  “That’s all right. Thank you for coming. But you shouldn’t come back.”

  Hanna looked concerned. “Are you in danger?”

  “No, but I’m being watched. I don’t want you tangled up in this mess.”

  She straightened herself. “I’m a big girl. Don’t worry about me.”

  “Still,” Largo said.

  “All right, but if you need anything just call me. Do you have my number?”

  “Remy gave it to me,” he lied.

  “All right, then. Take care, Largo,”
said Hanna. She touched his hand where it gripped the door. “This is going to work out. I know it is.”

  “Thank you. Good night.”

  Hanna blew him a kiss. Largo closed the door and went to bed. Through his window, he could hear the sounds of revelers down the street, a morbid reminder that, while he wallowed in misery, the rest of the city went on as it always did. And if Branca flicked a finger at him and he disappeared, it would make no more difference to the world than if he crushed a slug while riding his bicycle.

  Chapter Fifteen

  THE NEXT DAY LARGO MADE IT TO WORK ON TIME, BUT HE STILL STAYED AT the back of the room. He didn’t want to be where anyone could look at him. His eyes were red and his head felt like concrete. He had taken a couple of drops of morphia before work and they dulled the pain, but it still lingered behind his eyes.

  When the room was empty, Branca called him to his desk. “What did I tell you about drinking too much? I assume you’ve overindulged in morphia too.”

  “You’re right on both counts.”

  “I’m not your mother, Largo. I can’t make you behave, but I suggest you learn to cope with the situation in less self-destructive ways.”

  Largo said, “I’m destroying other people, so why not join them?”

  “Don’t be so dramatic. You sound like a child whose sick dog has to be put down. Sometimes things, and people, are so broken they can’t be mended. It’s our job to make sure these broken things don’t injure other people.”

  “That’s a very nice way to put what we’re doing.”

  “It’s true,” said Branca. “Enemies of the state are your enemies too, even if you don’t know it. They’re enemies of your friends Remy and Parvulesco. Hanna too.”

  Largo looked at him. He’d been right. He was still being watched. His skin flushed, not with fear this time but with anger. He wanted to spit at Branca or, better yet, pull his knife and gut the bastard.

  “You can try it, you know.”

  “What?”

  “Why, to kill me. It’s what you’re thinking, isn’t it? You won’t be the first to have nursed the fantasy. But remember—I know you. And I know you’re not going to do it.”