The Grand Dark

by Richard Kadrey

  He took a familiar route to the theater district. Soon he saw the bright lights of the marquee.

  THEATER OF THE GRAND DARKNESS

  Ilsa wasn’t in the box office, which was disappointing. Largo didn’t want to spend his last night with strangers. The young freckled woman who sold him his ticket said, “You’ve missed the first performance, but you’re in time for our new show, The Ghastly Fall of the Boudoir Butcher.”

  He nodded to her and went inside. The second show hadn’t started, but most of the theatergoers remained in their seats rather than gathering in the lobby to drink, chatting away, fueled by the performance and cocaine. In fact, the theater was strangely subdued as the patrons stared straight ahead at an empty stage. Largo shifted in his seat in the back row, feeling the weight of the knife against his side and the pistol in his pocket. The strange crowd reminded him of docile Andrzej and Weimer.

  He touched his chest as his heart raced. This was a bad idea, he thought. Who are these people? Do they all have the Drops? Are things really getting that out of hand?

  Largo was getting up to leave when the curtains opened on the stage and the band began to play. He’d come to the Grand Dark hoping to taste Remy’s world one last time, but all he felt was confusion and fear. The last things he remembered about the theater were Remy’s collapse. Screams. Threats. He wanted to run from the place, but he thought, Where would I go? I was almost arrested once tonight. I can’t let that happen again. The sense of panic faded as he went through Branca’s breathing exercise. He glanced around to see if anyone had noticed him, but everyone stared straight ahead at the stage like mannequins.

  The galvanic puppets emerged from the wings, moving in their ghostly way as the music swelled. Miserable and unable to move, Largo settled back and watched with everyone else.

  The Ghastly Fall of the Boudoir Butcher was about a rising young actress and her cruel lover who spent her money on drugs and other women. Worse than that, he was a murderer who killed for mobsters and later for foreign agents. The lover was able to cover up his crimes and move easily through the city because he worked as a bicycle messenger.

  God—it’s me and Remy. Una’s made us into something horrible. But why?

  When the lover killed another woman, who refused his advances—She looks like Lucie—her ghost returned to warn the actress. But it was too late. The lover was on the run from the police and when she confronted him about the murder, he threw acid in her face. Her death was long and gruesome even by Grand Dark standards. Even the passive audience gasped. Largo closed his eyes and held on to his seat as the puppet shrieked in agony. When he looked again, the actress’s neighbors, who had heard her screams, held the murderous courier and made him drink the remainder of the acid. He screamed in agony as his entrails spilled onto the stage in a sudden red gush. When the audience rose to applaud, Largo put his head down and pushed his way outside.

  Fortunately, it was after eleven. He bought a small bottle of whiskey and drank it as he rode back to Granate. It was well after midnight when he arrived at Anita’s house, so he let himself in with the key. She was waiting for him in the living room with a glass of wine.

  “I had a feeling you were smart enough to come back,” she said. “How was your evening?”

  “Aside from seeing my girlfriend’s murder and my own, it was lovely. How was yours?”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  LIKE MANY OF THE OLD SERVANT HOUSES IN GRANATE, THIS ONE WAS somewhat narrow, with a steep staircase to an upper floor. The place hadn’t been kept up very well by the owner. However, the mismatched furniture in the living room looked sturdy. A few family photos rested on the mantel above the fireplace. He wondered who’d lived there before.

  Largo sat down and explained what he’d seen and heard over the last few hours.

  “Do you think it was a threat?” said Anita.

  “I don’t know. The whole thing has me puzzled.”

  “You think the writer can see the future?”

  “No, but I’m sure Una has been talking to the bullocks.”

  “Then you’ll have to be more careful.”

  “I think it’s a bit late for that.”

  The room was warm. Largo took off his coat and put it over the back of his chair.

  Anita said, “You don’t look good. How do you feel?”

  He leaned on the table. His whole left side was numb. “I had some whiskey, so I’m a little light-headed.”

  Anita touched his sleeve. “You’re also bleeding. Take off your shirt so I can see your shoulder.”

  The order made him feel very tired. He said, “In the last few days I’ve been shot, beaten, and attacked by chimeras. I’m not pretty to look at.”

  Anita got up and went into the next room. She said, “The request wasn’t about your beauty, but your health. Now take your damn shirt off.”

  He did it but as he pulled the shirt over his head, the numbness in his left arm was replaced by a sharp stabbing pain.

  Anita returned with a small white metal box and a needle and thread. After she removed his bloody bandages, she took a bottle from the box and poured a small amount of a clear liquid onto Largo’s shoulder. “This will help with the pain,” she said. “You can also drink wine, if you like.”

  Largo looked at his shoulder. It was swollen around the wound, which was deep and red. “Do you have whiskey?” he said.

  “Not a drop,” said Anita.

  “Never mind then. I’ll be fine.” He watched her thread the needle and use it to sew the wound closed. Even with the anesthetic, he winced each time the needle punctured his skin. Largo looked at Anita. “You’re a singer, a dancer, and now a doctor too?”

  “No, but I know how to mend costumes. These stiches won’t be attractive, but they should stop the bleeding.”

  He changed his mind and gulped down the glass of wine, hoping it would dull the pain a little more. “Not bleeding would be a nice way to spend a night.”

  “You’ve been on the run for a while, then?”

  He almost laughed. “Only a few days. But they’ve been eventful.”

  “When was the last time you slept in a proper bed?”

  “What month is it?”

  Anita gave him a little smile. “There’s a guest room upstairs. You can sleep there.”

  “What if I bleed on the sheets?”

  “Trust me, you wouldn’t be the first,” she said. “The movement has used this house for quite a while.”

  “Then I accept your invitation. Did your meeting go well?”

  Her smiled faded. “Yes and no. The more dangerous things become, the more reckless some in the group feel.”

  Largo winced when the needle went through a particularly painful spot. “I know how they feel. I did some irrational things while I was out. But I also saw some things. Bigger Maras and flying Maras right over the center of the city.”

  “I’m sure,” said Anita. “The flying ones have always been there, just not so obviously. Did you get close to the big Maras? They don’t just say ‘Yes, ma’am’ and ‘No, ma’am’ anymore. They’re smart. They think. And they aren’t even the most dangerous things. We’ve heard about new weapons using plazma power. New, vicious bitva dogs. Flying transports.”

  Largo poured himself more wine. “What’s a flying transport? Like an airship?”

  “It’s smaller and much faster. They can drop men as well as bombs.”

  “The world has gone completely insane,” he said.

  Anita squinted as she worked on his shoulder. “Not the whole world,” she said. “That’s why some of us are trying to get out of Lower Proszawa. Some just want to run. But others want to go where they can help.”

  A little woozy, Largo said, “Which are you?”

  “I honestly don’t know yet. How about you? What would you do if you could leave?”

  Largo said, “I don’t even know if the city is worth saving. It used to be all parties, but if you’d seen the mobs I saw tonight, you migh
t feel the same way.”

  “I do some days,” she said. “Others days I’m not so sure.”

  Largo gulped more wine. He didn’t know what was more depressing, thinking about the mobs or the idea that even if he and Remy could leave Lower Proszawa they still might not be able to get away from its madness. He said, “I know a radical group. They print leaflets and put up posters. What good are leaflets against an army?”

  “You might be surprised,” said Anita, nodding her head.

  “I doubt it,” he said. “I take it that your situation is like Vera’s. You can’t travel under your own name?”

  “Exactly. That’s why I’m staying. It’s safer to hide here than to try to leave without new papers and a plan. But with luck, my friends can get them for Vera and me.”

  “I’m glad,” said Largo.

  “They might even be able to help you.”

  He looked at her but caught a glimpse of his bloody, half-closed wound and turned away. “Why would your friends do that?”

  Anita spoke cautiously. “You helped me. Maybe you can be one of the ones who helps from afar.”

  He took a breath. “I don’t even know if I want to leave.”

  “Don’t be stupid. Of course you do,” she said. “You’re just being melodramatic because of your lost love.”

  Largo tried to think about it, but between the liquor, the pain, and the warmth of the room, he had trouble forming complete thoughts. “Is that what you think it is? Melodrama?”

  Anita used gauze to wipe blood off his shoulder. “What I mean is that you need a plan too. What if you find her? You’re a wanted man. Will you hide in her broom closet for the rest of your life? And what if you don’t find her? What if, and I’m sorry to say it, she’s dead? What then? Will you give yourself up to the bullocks? Let them shoot you? Suicide is easy. Living is hard.”

  He let his head fall back. He wanted to applaud. “You really are a good performer. That was a lovely speech.”

  “Thank you. But I meant it,” she said. “You should leave, with or without your lady friend.”

  “I’ll think about it.”

  Anita stopped sewing for a moment and wrote something on a piece of paper. She slid it into his shirt pocket. “Put this somewhere you won’t lose it.”

  “What is it?”

  “The Trefle number here,” she said. “When you’ve made your choice, call me. We need all the help we can get.”

  “So do I.”

  Anita cut the thread with a small pair of scissors. “There. You’re going to have a lovely scar to make up stories about.”

  Largo looked at his shoulder. The wound was closed neatly, but it still looked swollen and awful. “Thank you.”

  As she put the needle and medical supplies away, Anita said, “What will you do now?”

  “Before anything else, I need to get some friends out of jail.”

  She came back to the table and poured them more wine. “And how will you do that?”

  “There’s someone who can help me. He has no choice.”

  “And if he doesn’t?”

  “I’ll kill him.”

  Anita raised her glass in a toast. “See? You’re already a soldier in the fight.”

  He looked at her. His shoulder felt tight around the stiches. “Is that what I am?”

  “You’re part of the battle whether you know it or not.”

  “I don’t want to be a soldier.”

  “No one does,” said Anita. “What do you want to be?”

  Largo scratched his wounded cheek. “It sounds stupid now.”

  Anita leaned forward. “Even better. Tell me.”

  Why not? All she can do is laugh, he thought. “I wanted to be a scientist and make chimeras. Not the kind for war. Beautiful ones like they have at the carnival.”

  She didn’t laugh but rather looked at him with a sad smile. “Maybe you’ll get that chance someday. But you have to live, first.”

  At the moment, both ideas seemed rather ridiculous. He picked his shirt up from the floor and Anita helped him put it on. “Are you afraid all the time?” he said.

  “No. Are you?”

  “I was. For my whole life I was afraid of everything. But since I came back to the city it’s not the same. Yes, I’m still afraid at times, but now it’s different. Some moments I feel like a ghost. Like I died but I’m still here. There’s not enough of me left to be afraid for.”

  “That sounds very sad,” Anita said. “But you can use that feeling. Go and find the man who can help your friends. Go and look for your lover. But then call me. We can work together.”

  He applauded lightly, but it made his shoulder hurt, so he stopped. “Another good speech. Remy was right.”

  “About what?” she said with a half smile.

  “She wanted to be more like you. I think she’d want to even more now.”

  Anita pushed some hair out of Largo’s face. “You look tired. The stitches are likely to hurt tonight. Do you want some morphia?”

  His whole body tensed at the sound of the word. “I would love some, but no. Giving it up almost killed me.”

  “See? You are brave.”

  He rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand. “Do you mind if I go to sleep now?”

  “Not at all,” she said. “I’ll show you to your room.” She led him up a short flight of stairs to a door at the end of the hall. “If you need anything, I’m just down the hall.”

  “Thank you for everything.”

  “Thank you for saving me tonight.”

  “Good night,” he said.

  Anita kissed him on the cheek. “Good night, Largo.”

  He awoke in the late morning with his shoulder throbbing. He’d bled very little in the night, but his head ached from all the whiskey and wine. Anita gave him aspirin and cooked some bacon and toast. They ate together and he felt much better with food in his stomach.

  While Anita made calls on the Trefle, Largo tried to read some of her group’s pamphlets but quickly became bored. All the radicals sounded alike to him. “Down with the government.” “Up with the people.” “Destroy this.” “Empower that.” They sound like angry children. He wanted to at least admire their sincerity but it all sounded like pipe dreams. The bullocks and the Nachtvogel. The bastard Maras. They were everywhere and as the war drew nearer, they’d only become more ruthless.

  In the evening, he put on the mask and oilskin coat and rode Parvulesco’s bicycle to the company, where he waited for Branca to leave. It was after seven when Largo saw him get into a small black sedan and drive away. He followed him across the city to the working-class suburbs outside of the Klinge district. They were nicer than Granate, but not by much. If Branca were just a low-level supervisor and not a Nachtvogel bastard it might be sad to see him here, thought Largo. Branca’s warning about their position in the company on the first day of his promotion made more sense than ever. Largo had never felt so “utterly disposable” in his life.

  The building was a seven-story tower block. After Branca went inside, Largo checked the mail boxes in the lobby and found the flat number on the fourth floor. There was a lift, but it was blocked by an Out of Service sign. He walked upstairs and took out Rainer’s pistol. After checking that there was no one around, he knocked on the door. A moment later, Branca opened it.

  “Ah, Largo. I’d been expecting you at some point,” he said. “The mask is a nice touch. Do come in.”

  Branca’s blasé tone was unnerving, but he knew that it was supposed to be, so he pushed the feeling away and concentrated on his reason for coming.

  He took off the mask and entered the flat, keeping the pistol aimed at Branca. “Sit down,” Largo said. He quickly checked the bedroom, kitchen, and bathroom.

  “I assure you we’re alone,” Branca said. He was still standing by the door.

  “I told you to sit down,” said Largo.

  “I heard you quite well. It’s that I don’t feel like sitting at the moment. You, however, shou
ld feel free to get comfortable. I heard that one of Tanz’s men shot you the other night.”

  “It was just a graze. Hardly anything.”

  “Pity. Your death would simplify so many things.”

  “How did the bullocks know I was back?”

  Branca gave him a pitying look. “After all you’ve seen, you’re still naïve,” he said. “Never trust a smuggler when he smells an easy profit.”

  Steinmetz. Branca is right. I should have known better.

  The older man went on, “I see you were wise enough to change clothes. One of the bullocks you shot lived long enough to describe his assailant as a Dandy in a pea coat. The police, literal-minded dullards that they are, are looking for that exact thing. It must be such a relief that you’re safe from them.”

  “But not from the Nachtvogel.”

  “I’m afraid not.”

  Largo leveled the pistol at Branca’s head. “I want you to tell the police to release Parvulesco and Roland.”

  “Don’t be absurd. Why would I do that?”

  “I’ll shoot you if you don’t.”

  “My superiors would shoot me if I followed the orders of someone as obviously deranged as you, and I would deserve it,” Branca said. “Your problem has always been that you don’t look beyond the tip of your nose. You’ll see Parvulesco and his friend again. And very soon, too.”

  The way Branca said it made Largo nervous. “But it won’t be them, will it? It will be someone nicer and duller and easier to order around.”

  Branca pointed at him. “This is exactly what I mean by the tip of your nose. You worry about your friends when you should be worried for Lower Proszawa and, really, the world.”

  After the ride, the pistol was heavy in his hand. “What are you talking about?”

  “Your friends will return changed because there’s no choice but to change them,” said Branca.

  “There’s always a choice.”

  “Not in their case, I’m afraid.” Branca leaned against the wall and put his hands in his pockets. “Aren’t you going to ask me about Remy? If she’s alive and if so, where she is?”

  Largo’s face flushed. “Then you know?”