The Grand Dark

by Richard Kadrey

  “It’s over,” he said. “Schöne Maschinen. Your eugenics. Remy. Listen, Baron. Can you hear the car taking her away from you forever?”

  The Baron’s eyes were hard but wet. From pain or from losing Remy? Largo wondered. A small knot of fear scratched at the back of his skull, but he remained indifferent to it. It was just another kind of pain in a body that hurt all over. Whatever happened now, Largo was sure that the Baron wouldn’t find Remy. That was all that mattered.

  Hellswarth struggled under him for a moment, trying to maneuver the pistol. Largo dropped all of his weight down on the man, forcing his hand down. The Baron never looked away from Largo’s eyes.

  He kept steady pressure on the Baron’s arm. Soon the weapon was almost level with the older man’s head. Seeing it, Largo froze, not sure what to do. Kill him? Leave him alone in his misery? None of the choices made sense. Nothing made sense anymore. He pictured Remy at the Grand Dark. He saw himself cowering from bullies in Haxan Green. The theater, the squalid streets that shaped him, both places were poison, but for a moment Largo wasn’t sure if he was strong enough to break away.

  He kept pressure on the pistol.

  How many people have I killed already?

  He looked down at the Baron. The hand not holding the pistol clutched at his letters to Remy. His face was red, and not just from the burns. Tears fell from his eyes. He spoke very quietly.

  “Remy might not be mine, but remember this: She’s not yours either. She’s something no one has ever seen before.”

  Largo thought about what Dr. Venohr had said: “She’s still herself, just, you see, different.”

  “What do you mean?” he said, pressing down on Hellswarth. “What did you do to her?”

  The Baron said, “I made her perfect.” He jerked his body violently to the side and pressed his head against the pistol.

  The sound of the gun going off sent Largo rolling onto the floor. Hellswarth’s blood covered the letters. Largo looked away. Getting up, he staggered to the bathroom to wash the filth off of his face. He found a fresh hole in the side of the oilskin coat and understood how the Baron had missed shooting him earlier: the garment was bulky enough that the man had aimed off center, hitting the material and not Largo.

  I owe Vera a drink. Many, many drinks.

  He left the love letters on the floor with the dead man who wrote them and filled the box with the cash and jewels. Before he left, he spotted his copy of Der Knochengarten. He’d used Ernst’s business card for a bookmark. Largo went to Remy’s Trefle and told the operator the number. The line rang several times before Ernst answered.

  “It’s me, Largo,” he said.

  “Largo,” said Ernst blearily. “I thought you might have been eaten by sea monsters. Do you have my High Proszawa story?”

  “I have a better one. I know you enjoy a good scandal.”

  “It’d better be very good if you’re going to cheat me out of High Proszawa.”

  He gave Ernst Remy’s address. “Get here as fast as you can. You’ll find Baron Hellswarth and the sad truth about a national hero. Be sure to take lots of chromes.”

  “Are you serious?”

  Largo looked down at the Baron’s body.

  “Deadly.”

  “I’m on my way.”

  He put on the mask, tucked the box under his arm, and left Remy’s flat for the last time.

  At the nearest tram station, a drunken mob was tearing down the signs, singing patriotic songs, fighting, and pissing on the tracks. Cars had been overturned. A few were on fire. In the distance stood a group of police, but they weren’t foolish enough to approach the revelers.

  Above the thick clouds overhead, something rumbled. Not thunder, but something ringed with lights. One of the new airships? Largo wondered. The mob cheered its passing.

  This is who we are now. We drank and played to celebrate the end of the last war and now we’re doing it again, but to ring in the new one. It’s horrible, but at least we’re our own fools and not Hellswarth’s, the Nachtvogel’s, or anyone else’s.

  The idea was small comfort, but it would have to be enough for the moment.

  He took side streets all the way on his long walk back to the house in Granate.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  WHEN HE LET HIMSELF INSIDE, HE FOUND REMY AND ANITA CURLED UP asleep together on the sofa. He woke them and showed them the box of jewelery and cash. Remy picked up a diamond necklace and held it around her neck for a few seconds before throwing it on the table.

  Anita sat down next to Largo. “You’re limping. Bleeding again too, I bet.”

  He let his head fall back. “I don’t suppose you have any thread left?”

  “I’ll get the box.”

  Remy held his hand as Anita mended his shoulder.

  “I have good news,” she told him. “My friends know that you helped in the attack on Schöne Maschinen tonight. They’re willing to get travel papers for you both—if you’ll help them.”

  Largo thought about it for just a second. “We will. From afar,” he said.

  Anita continued sewing. “Where will you go?”

  He looked at Remy. “Where do you want to go?”

  She shook her head, more awake than before but still fighting through cobwebs. “I don’t know,” she said. “I still feel like I’m dreaming. Where do you think we should go?”

  Largo thought about it for a moment. “What did Vera say? Somewhere no one has ever heard of Lower Proszawa, the Great War, or the Nachtvogel.”

  Anita sighed. “It sounds lovely. Let’s all go.”

  Largo turned to Remy. “Does that sound all right?”

  “I’m really not dreaming?” she said.

  “Not even a little.”

  They waited in the house for two days. Anita received calls on the Trefle at all hours of the day and night. Afterward she would sometimes seem happy, but at other times nervous. Largo asked her what the calls were about, but all she would say was “They’re doing their best, but some of the border crossings have been closed.” When he asked her what that meant for them, Anita wouldn’t answer.

  They kept the lights off at night. Crowds marched in and out of Granate. There were parties in the street outside, with people singing old folk songs. At some point, someone would start a bonfire and the songs would turn patriotic and angry.

  On the third day, their food ran out. Largo volunteered to go to a nearby market, but Remy insisted that she should do it.

  “Are you sure?” he said. “It’s only been a few days.”

  She took some cash from the box Largo had brought back from her flat. “I’m much better now,” she said. Largo had to admit that in the past day or so, she’d come around to seeming like the old Remy again. “Besides, I’m tired of people fussing over me like I was a laboratory rat. I’m capable of walking to the market and back.”

  “I’m sorry,” said Largo. “I didn’t mean—”

  Remy took his hand. “It’s all right. It’s just that I’m so angry all the time and I don’t even know exactly why. I can’t remember much about what happened to me.”

  “Maybe that’s for the best,” said Anita.

  “No. I want to know everything. Now that I’m better you’ll tell me, right, Largo?”

  He sat down at the battered living room table. “If that’s what you want.”

  “I do.”

  “All right.”

  After she left the house, Largo watched her go down the block from behind the curtains until she was out of sight. Anita sat on the sofa with a cigarette. “You’re worried about her.”

  “She might have a condition.”

  “What kind?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Does she need a doctor?”

  Largo dropped onto the end of the sofa. “She had a doctor. That’s the problem. I don’t know if she’ll ever trust one again.”

  “What happened to her?”

  “They experimented on her. The doctor and her
uncle. Don’t ask me what kind of experiments because I don’t know.”

  Anita frowned. “That’s horrible.”

  Largo bounced a fist lightly off the arm of the sofa. “They won’t hurt anyone again.”

  Waving some smoke away, Anita said, “Is that why there was blood on your hands the other night?”

  Largo looked at his palms. “I thought I’d washed it off.”

  “You got most of it, but not all.”

  He drew in a long breath. “I hate this place.”

  Anita puffed the cigarette. “You’re sure it’s all right for Remy to travel?”

  “Is there any choice? Besides, Remy is strong.”

  “I didn’t doubt that for a minute. I’ll help you keep an eye on her.”

  “I’d appreciate that.”

  Remy soon returned with wine, cheese, and bread. She turned an envelope over in her hands. “It was on the floor when I came in. Someone must have slipped it under door.”

  “May I see it?” said Anita. Remy gave it to her and she ripped it open. There was a small slip of paper inside.

  Largo stood up. “What does it say?”

  Anita smiled broadly and held the note out to them. “Be ready tonight.”

  The rest of the day seemed to crawl by. One or all three of them would run to the curtains every time there was a loud noise, but it was always the revelers or groups of serious young men waving bats and axe handles like rifles. It was dark by seven. They picked at the bread and cheese, but the bottle of wine they drained long before sunset. Just after eight o’clock there was a knock at the door.

  Unsure if it was the right caller, Largo brought a butcher knife from the kitchen and stood just to the side of the entrance so that whoever was outside wouldn’t see him. Anita put on her brightest stage smile and opened the door. She stood there for a moment, just long enough for Largo to grow tense. Finally, he heard a woman’s voice.

  “I was told there were three of you.”

  Anita stood back and let the other woman in. Largo lowered the knife but didn’t put it down until he saw her face. The woman closed the door and looked at him. “Hello, Largo. Going to carve the armistice goose?”

  He tossed the knife on the table. “Margit. It’s nice to see you.”

  “You too.”

  She wore a loose cap, a dirty coat, and coveralls, like a mechanic. There was a worn valise in her right hand. In the living room, she pulled a packet of papers from inside her coat and dropped them on the table. “That’s everything you need. Travel papers. Identification. Transport tickets.”

  While Anita and Remy looked them over, Largo said, “You look a lot better. The last time I saw you I thought you might not make it.”

  She took off her cap and ran a hand through her short blond hair. “I told you it looked worse than it was. I hear that you’ve been busy.”

  “Busy how?”

  From inside her coveralls, Margit pulled a copy of Ihre Skandale. The chrome on the top of the front page showed an apparently lifeless hand lying atop a pile of bloody letters. Below it the headline read NATIONAL HERO OR NATIONAL DISGRACE? Largo set the paper down on the table.

  “Aren’t you going to read it?” said Margit.

  “I’ll read it as we travel. By . . . ?”

  “Ship. You’re going on a sea voyage.”

  Largo tried to picture being out at sea. “I’ve never been on a ship before. Not one that went on top of the water, at least.”

  She pointed to the yellowsheet. “Thank you for taking care of that particular problem for us.”

  “I didn’t do it for any revolution.”

  “I know. But it still helps.”

  He looked at her. “I didn’t know that you were in Anita’s group.”

  Margit shook her head. “We weren’t originally, but since Schöne Maschinen burned, the remaining groups have banded together.”

  He couldn’t think of anything else to say in response, so he just left it with “Well, thank you for the papers.”

  She put the valise on top of the table. “There are clothes in here for all of you. A suit for you and dresses for them. If we’re going to get you onto a ship, you have to look the part.”

  Largo opened the valise and spread the clothes on the table. “Don’t admire them too long,” said Margit. “Your ship sails in just over two hours, so you’ll need to move.”

  No one bothered going to one of the bedrooms. They changed right where they stood. Anita and Remy went to the bathroom to do their makeup. When they came down, Largo barely recognized Anita. She’d done something to her face. She looked like herself, but much older and worn. The women carried suitcases with them.

  “Is there anything in them?” said Largo.

  “Whatever was in the closets,” said Anita.

  Remy said, “After all, we have to look like travelers.”

  They gathered up the travel papers and the bags, but Margit didn’t move. She looked at Largo. “I know Anita’s loyalties, but did you mean it about being willing to help from afar?”

  “I did.”

  “Me too,” said Remy.

  “It will be dangerous.”

  “More dangerous than walking through a minefield with a gaggle of lunatics?”

  Margit nodded, a faint smile on her lips. “They’re more or less the same, I suppose.” Then she looked serious again. “Anita is your contact. We’ll get in touch with her at the right time.”

  “I understand.”

  “Then let’s go. There’s a car outside. Turn off the light as we leave. No one needs to see our faces.”

  They drove in a large, heavy sedan. The man at the wheel didn’t speak to them. Margit was up front with the driver. Largo, Remy, and Anita were in the back. Margit turned to Remy. “Do you know how to fire a pistol?”

  She shook her head. “No. I haven’t even held one since I was a little girl.”

  “That’s all right.” Margit took out two small pistols and handed them to Largo and Anita. “I know these two can shoot.”

  Remy raised her eyebrows at Anita. “Will you teach me how to shoot?”

  “Of course,” she said.

  “What about me?” said Largo. “I’ve shot a gun.”

  “You can come along too,” said Remy. “We’ll have a picnic and kill the leftovers.”

  Margit glanced at Largo and turned back around in her seat.

  They drove through heavy traffic along Krahe Vale. At one point, their way was blocked by reserve soldiers and Dandies marching in formation before a cheering crowd. At the Great Triumphal Square people hurled rocks through the windows of shops and cafés owned by foreigners. Young men and women sat drinking atop war memorial statues, shooting fireworks and pistols into the air.

  “This is shit,” said the driver. “We’ll never make it in time.”

  Largo leaned up behind him. “Turn left here into that side street. There’s an alley that runs parallel to the main road for the port.”

  The driver looked at Margit. She nodded and said, “Listen to him.” The driver turned and they left the cheers and explosions behind.

  The road was blocked twice more on the way to the port, but Largo told the driver how to circle around the obstructions. They made it to the port with just under an hour before the ship was to set sail. However, once there, another traffic jam made its appearance. The police had set up a checkpoint at the entrance to the port. They were checking the papers of everyone coming into the area. Largo spoke to Margit. “Is this normal?”

  “Don’t worry,” she said. “Your papers have all the right stamps, and mine and Erich’s are good. It’s just a question of how slow these fucking bullocks are.”

  “They seem to be taking their sweet time.”

  “Don’t talk when we get there. We’re your loyal servants seeing you off on your trip. You’re our posh bastard bosses. Understand?”

  “Completely,” said Largo. He sat back, but made sure the safety switch on his pistol was off.
r />   It was fifteen long minutes before they reached the police line.

  “Everyone’s papers,” said a bored officer.

  Margit leaned past Erich. “Good evening, sir. It’s just our employers who are traveling. We’re simply giving them a ride.”

  “Traveling or not, if you’re on the dock, I need to see your papers.”

  “Of course, sir.”

  Margit and Erich handed their identity papers to the officer, but he didn’t check them or hand them back. He stepped to the rear of the car and rapped lightly on Anita’s window with a knuckle. Anita rolled it down. “Good evening,” she said icily, playing an upper-class snob. Largo kept his pistol by his side.

  “Papers, Fräulein,” said the officer.

  Anita opened her handbag, but before she could hand them to the officer he looked at the three of them and said, “What’s the nature of your travel?”

  “It’s a family matter,” said Margit. “Their grandmother is gravely ill.”

  “A grandmother,” said the officer. He shook his head. “Why are all you bluenoses such cowards?”

  Largo put his finger on the trigger.

  The officer pulled out a small flashlight and shone it in their eyes. “There’s a war coming and you’re pissing off to grandmama’s house?”

  Anita took her papers from her handbag and slapped them into the officer’s hand without a word. He waited for Largo’s and Remy’s before looking at them. With all of their papers in his hand, he went to a senior officer, who shone his own light on them. Largo leaned across Anita, the pistol just below the level of the door window. Margit reached back and grabbed his arm. “Sit back and don’t do anything unless I tell you. Understand?”

  Remy pulled him back into the seat. He said, “He won’t be the first bullock I’ve killed.”

  Erich half turned in Largo’s direction. Margit shook her head. “Calm down, Largo. No one is dying tonight,” she said.

  Largo watched the officers go through their papers. The senior officer pointed to them and said something loud and rapid. He pointed back to their car and the officer came back, handing everything to Anita. He touched the brim of his hat. “Sorry to have delayed you. I shouldn’t have spoken out of turn before. I’m sorry for your loss, but we’ll get the bastards, don’t worry.”