by Pavel Kornev
"The regent's!"
"Oh devil..." Smith groaned, sitting on the couch and pressing his face in his hands. "But we have to do something! Have them close off Palace Square!"
"The ritual will take place underground."
"Why?"
"New Babylon is defended against infernal beings," I assured the investigator, not telling him the story of the electromagnetic radiation devices. "But these beasts can hide in the catacombs as long as they like. This Itztli will certainly be taking shelter there."
"The ritual will take place in the next few hours. We must stop it!" Thomas Smith declared and suddenly shuddered: "Wait, Lev, did you say the avatar of Itztli had no skin?"
"It was a beastly spectacle," I shivered.
"Was it bleeding?"
"Yes, and what of it?"
"I can track him!" the investigator lit up and stood from the couch. "Let's go!"
But I blocked Thomas's path and shook my head skeptically.
"I won't ask how, but alright, we'll track the beast. But what then? We need something more serious than a Gauss caster. And even more powerful than the portable Hotchkiss, if you still have the machine gun with you."
"I do," the investigator confirmed. "And what do you mean by 'more powerful?' Grenades?"
"Something like that," I nodded. "I need to make a call. Where is the easiest place to do that around here?"
"The pharmacy on the corner. But you'd better not show yourself on the street."
"Drop it!" I laughed. "No one is gonna care about me today. The attack on Riverfort–that's what they’re concerned with."
"Let's hope so," Thomas Smith sighed and clipped his cap on my head. "Yeah, this is much better..."
6
THE INVESTIGATOR'S WORRYING was utterly in vain: the city-dwellers were just discussing the attack on the mint and the majority of patrolling police had been moved out to reinforce Riverfort.
Thomas ordered a mug of beer in a cafe on the corner and stayed on the street. I meanwhile bought two packs of aspirin in the pharmacy and used the telephone, but the first conversation, to my utmost pity, ended without result. Alexander Dyak could not create a portable electromagnetic radiation transmitter in one day, nor even a week, and his present device, as he said, was completely impossible to lift.
I had to call Ramon Miro's office. No, I wasn't planning to rent his armored vehicle to transport Dyak's new equipment. It wasn't a bad idea, but the self-propelled carriage would certainly not be able to drive through the catacombs. I was interested in the incendiary grenades he had offered me this morning. White phosphorus explosives had proven to have a high worth in conflicts with supernatural creatures; a flamethrower would help as well, but Ramon didn't have a flamethrower.
My former partner and I agreed to meet at Euler Bridge in two hours. I left the pharmacy and threw a box of aspirin on the table Thomas Smith was sitting at. The hectic flush of his sunken face was not at all to my liking.
"Take some!" I demanded.
The investigator smoothed out the wire brush of his black mustache, but didn't argue, tearing open one of the paper packages and sticking the contents into his mouth. After that, he finished his beer and smiled.
"Happy?"
"Completely," I nodded, although Smith's smile looked more like a scowl. "In two hours, we have to be at Euler Bridge. Do you know where that is?"
"Approximately," Thomas answered none too certainly and looked at the sky. Wisps of gray clouds were quickly drifting across it. "It's getting dark, that's good..."
I didn't ask exactly why that was good, and followed the investigator to the carriage-house, where we were awaited by the Model-T. To my utmost relief, Thomas didn't seem drunk at all and walked straight without stumbling.
He was also not taken by a particular desire to speak and fired up the steam engine in silence, thinking over something in agitation. I decided not to interrupt his thinking. All told, we exchanged just a couple words the whole way. We were doing more looking from side to side. By evening, there were obviously more police on the streets, but the traffic flow was not being limited. We managed to reach the meeting place without particular difficulty an hour before the scheduled time.
The square on the Yarden embankment was unusually crowded: gathered in groups of five to ten people, the esteemed public was discussing recent news vivaciously; there were two constables on horseback maintaining order.
After parking the Model-T down an alley with a view of the bridge, Thomas raised the carbine from his legs and popped a new magazine into it.
"Is your contact a reliable guy?" he asked, checking the charge of the electric jar.
"More than," I answered and prepared the second Gauss caster for battle.
The investigator nodded, touching the bandage on his neck with a pained grimace, but not saying anything.
The usual sounds were mixed up into the evening silence of the city: the clapping of powder engines, the clacking of horseshoes on the causeway, the drawn-out honking of steam trams and the cries of street hawkers. But very soon, the silence started sitting heavy on me and I asked:
"How'd you guess the victims were illustrious? Having the eyes cut out doesn't make that obvious at all."
Thomas took out his pocket watch, glanced at it and put it back.
"Six fingers," he said finally. "One of the victims had six fingers on her hand."
"And what of it?" I asked, dumbfounded.
"The power of the fallen changes peoples’ bodies. Illustrious people have children with physical deformities somewhat more often than common folk."
"First I'm hearing of it."
"Well, here in New Babylon, the blood of the illustrious is strong. It maims the conscious mind, but not the body," the investigator chuckled unhappily. "In the New World, there were many less illustrious from the start. The blood grew weak long ago, and freaks started being born."
"I didn't know."
"Anyway, as for the first two victims, I had no certainty. But when it came to light that the third victim worked in a three-ring circus..."
"In the papers, it said all the victims were prostitutes."
"Carnie or whore, is the difference so great for the esteemed public?" the investigator cringed. "The third victim worked in a three-ring circus. She even had her own trick, she could breathe underwater."
"Useful talent."
"It is," Smith nodded distantly. "She would get locked in a glass cube and they would fill it with water. She would choke for show, then the water would be pumped out and she was brought back to life. And so on, performance after performance. That's trash, not life."
"But better that then losing one's heart," I decided, mechanically rubbing my chest on the left side. "Much better."
"No one can argue that," Thomas frowned. The conversation was putting him into an obviously bad frame of mind.
Fortunately, just then, a familiar armored car drove onto the bridge. I got out of the self-propelled carriage and counted the money as I walked across the road. Ramon Miro accepted four hundred francs from me, threw open the side door and pulled an unadorned wooden box from the back.
"As we agreed, one dozen incendiary devices and the same number of fragmentation grenades," he said.
"Has Professor Berliger turned up?" I asked, accepting the box.
"Vanished without a trace."
"Find him," I asked and returned to the Model-T.
A beat cop, his interest caught by the strange fussing around, headed in our direction. But before he managed to get close, the armored vehicle drove off in one direction, and we rolled off in the other. The constable didn't whistle after us.
ON OUR WAY to Riverfort, Thomas Smith dropped into a telegraph office.
"Lev, I'm not a lone hero," he explained, catching my confused gaze. "I work for Pinkerton. The agency must know what is happening."
"What if they're against it?" I asked, throwing up my hands. When the investigator returned, I asked: "And how are you prepari
ng to find this... Itztli?"
"I'm going to track the bloody footprints."
"And the police?"
"They won't get anything done," Thomas answered confidently. "They have no idea what they're up against."
"And you? You can do it? What makes you so sure?"
Smith chuckled.
"I ran away from home at fifteen and joined the army. I spent two years in an infantry corps, and another four in army recon. I've seen everything."
The appearance of a gaunt dandy with well-manicured hands, trimmed mustache and fashionable hair didn't quite connect with his army service. But appearances are often deceiving, and I didn't place the investigator's words in doubt. As I didn't ask why he decided to run away from home; everyone has skeletons in their closet.
WHEN WE ARRIVED at the Imperial Mint, there was already dense twilight outside. The police had the whole embankment and several neighboring streets under surveillance. That caused a massive traffic jam, and it became impossible to get where we wanted to go. The traffic cops at the intersections were overwhelmed by the transport collapse and were just tearing their voices and threatening the especially slow-witted cabbies for nothing.
While the Model-T crawled at a turtle's pace in the flow of carts, I quickly leafed through the investigator's tour guide. I didn't find any mention of ways down into the catacombs in the vicinity. However, I didn't doubt they did exist: in its two-thousand-year history, New Babylon had grown not only outward, but also upward, leaving whole streets under the earth. And there were innumerable ways down there.
It was surprisingly easy to get through the first line of the police barricade. There was a huge hullaballoo on the streets, and Thomas just calmly handed the sergeant his private detective card and a paper from the Ministry of Colonial Affairs.
"My assistant and I are expected by Senior Inspector Moran," Smith said confidently, overcoming possible interrogations about the reason for his visit.
"Let them through!" ordered the cop, caught up in his duties and waving a hand to his subordinate.
After passing the barricade, Thomas Smith drove the self-propelled carriage into the first alley he came across, got out from behind the wheel and threw open the baggage trunk.
"Take this, Lev!" he extended me a traveling bag. "You light the way."
"What do you mean?" I didn't understand.
"Take out the lamp," the investigator asked and again brought the Model-T onto the embankment.
Attracting police attention with additional lighting didn't seem like the best idea to me. But when I took an electric torch from the traveling bag, with great surprise, I discovered that the bulb was covered by a lens of black glass.
"What the heck is this?" I asked when the switched-off torch lit up with a barely noticeable purple glow.
"A Wood’s lamp," Thomas explained. "The human gaze practically cannot detect light at this spectrum, but blood spots, unlike wine or juice will start to shine with a velvety glow. You won't confuse it with simple dirt."
"Fascinating," I chuckled and pointed the light at the street.
And we drove on like that. Due to the break in the power lines, the electric lights weren't working, and the street was immersed in darkness. There were just spotlight beams coming from a dirigible hovering over Riverfort and sharp blasts of magnesium sparks coming from the river. Some newspapermen had rented boats and were competing to see who could take the best shot. Meanwhile, a constable in a steam-powered shuttle boat was coursing along the island informing them not to get too close to the mint.
The turn onto the bridge was blocked with temporary barricades, but we didn't have to drive there. The Model-T drove past it, quietly rattling its steam engine. When I saw the velvety purple footprints under the self-propelled carriage, though, I pulled air through my tightly clenched teeth with a whistle.
"Do you see that?" Thomas Smith shuddered. "Where should we go?"
"Straight!" I ordered. "Straight for now!"
We drove past the constables, who were surprised at the violet glow and rolled on, gradually getting farther from the mint. At the next intersection, Thomas Smith turned off the embankment and soon the Model-T drove past a police barricade. Then we dropped our speed and started roving the neighborhood, using the Wood's lamp to seek out the glowing black-velvet drips dotting the earth.
Itztli had run through courtyards, but his blood showed the way better than the thread of Ariadne. To our great fortune, the weather today was clear, and the rain hadn't managed to wash away his tracks.
"Where to now?" Thomas asked me at the next intersection.
"He took the shortest way, straight," I said. "Let's go left!"
The investigator did just that, then turned another few times, driving around the block, but other than the first trail of drops, we did not manage to see any tracks.
"He's in here!" Smith exhaled loudly. "Here, Lev! He must be in here!"
"Wait," I ordered and, with the Wood's lamp in one hand and a pistol in the other, I walked into the public thoroughfare.
The bright glow of the blood prints on the earth led very quickly to a dilapidated building. Its stone masonry was unlike the neighboring houses. It had a monumentality that made it stand out. The empty window frames of the ruin were filled with impenetrable darkness. I quickly looked from side to side and returned to the investigator.
"It seems I found a way down."
"Excellent!" Thomas said, joyful. Then he commanded: "Let's go!"
"Excuse me?" I asked in surprise.
"How long can a carriage stay here without attracting any attention?" Thomas noted reasonably.
And in fact, the boys smoking at the neighboring intersection were watching us with unhidden interest. The area just seemed to be asleep; in fact, our arrival attracted lively attention from the locals.
"Alright, let's go," I said, deciding not to track the Aztec god of obsidian blades on my own. Our last encounter had forced me to think of him with a wary respect.
To be perfectly honest, now, I didn't so much want to stop the Aztecs as I wanted to figure out what was happening before sleep wore me down. I expected that, whatever talk I would be having with my cousin, it wouldn't be an easy one...
WE LEFT the Model-T in one of the neighboring yards, after agreeing with a night guard to look after our self-propelled carriage. I picked up the overcoat sitting at my feet, shook it out and put it on.
"Help, Lev!" the investigator asked, opening the box I'd gotten from Ramon.
Working together, we screwed the fuses into the grenades, placed them and the incendiary bombs in our bags and started checking the Gauss casters. They were in perfect order. Then Thomas Smith placed long electric torch tubes over the barrels.
"What the heck is that?" I was blown away.
"Look!" said the investigator and jerked up his carbine in a sharp movement.
The torch lit up all on its own. It illuminated the neighboring fence and, in the middle of the bright spot, there was an easily visible green dot in the darkness.
"That's a target mark," Smith hinted. "Use it as a base, but remember the weapon isn't sighted. The torches turn on automatically and can be switched to constant mode if necessary."
"Not bad," I whistled, looking over the torch on my own carbine.
According to the markings, it was made by the Berlin firm Wespi. The color of the aiming dot was produced by a green crystal inside the lens.
With the weapons under our cloaks, we left the yard and headed off to the ruins. By then, it had grown completely dark outside The only light was the odd spot of bright windows and the cigarettes at the neighboring intersection. I could hear loud shouts and laughter over there.
Under the cover of darkness, we reached the stone ruins and crawled into the empty window frame. Inside, it smelled strongly of piss. The torch revealed a trash-strewn floor. Thomas Smith immediately took the Wood's lamp from me and decisively pointed it deeper in the room, where it stopped on a broken wood hatch.
When I saw the path down into the catacombs, I felt plainly beside myself. It seemed like my subconscious fear of basements had long ago retreated, but much to my surprise, I realized I was grinding my teeth in fear of walking onto the narrow stairs leading down into the darkness.
"Lev?" the investigator turned to me.
"I'm coming," I forced a smile, but didn't move.
"This is not a cellar," I mentally told myself and repeated: "This is not that cellar at all."
The panicking fear retreated somewhat and, overcoming my fear, I went off after Smith. The stairs brought us to an empty room with dirty stone walls. In the far corner, there was a gnawed-at rat skeleton next to a sewer pipe. The vaulted brick ceiling was low, and I had to triple over not to hit the top of my head on its slippery surface.
For Thomas, who was short, it was easy to get through the tube, so he walked first and lit the way. Anyhow, the smell of filth and stink of decay caused the investigator no less agony than me. Luckily, the bloody prints quickly led down a side passage that didn't stink so bad. We walked down it until we discovered a dilapidated stairwell leading down one level lower.
"I don't like the look of this," I couldn't hold back.
"Tss!" Thomas hissed and walked on.
The stairway held the weight of the investigator, so I also stepped onto it.
The rectangular room we soon found ourselves in was in some way reminiscent of a sewage collector. From it, there were four corridors heading in different directions. But it was no work to find our way. We were guided as before by the blood glowing in the light of the Wood's lamp.
Yet, the further we walked, the weaker its luster became. In places, dirty water ran from the ceiling, and full brooks streamed underfoot. At every intersection, the subterranean paths needed to be looked over for a long time to catch the light reflection of blood drops that stretched on after the Aztec deity.
"We didn't give a single thought to how we'd get back," I muttered at the investigator's back.
"We'll make it out somehow!" he waved it off carelessly.
I didn't share his confidence on that. We had descended into the catacombs no less than a half hour ago and had managed to leg it a decent distance. What was more, the subterranean paths were defined by confusion, and at times we met collapses, holes in the floor and rusted grates, while some passages were just narrow cracks or dark holes. It was a near certainty that we’d turn down the wrong path at some point on our way back.