Streets of Blood

by Marc Gascoigne

  Did Transys hire people for a raid that hadn’t a hope in hell? Strange thing to do, paying people to make a complete hash of everything. Francesca was hired to make a real hit, which she did. It just doesn’t match up." Geraint retreated to the coffee maker.

  The argument went on for at least two more hours, but they just kept treading over the same territory and running into the same blocks.

  By the time the sky had washed from gray to black over the rain-lashed streets of London, Francesca had begun to stifle a series of yawns. Serrin, meanwhile, had begun to cough heavily, getting almost red in the face.

  "You need something for that," Geraint said, heading for the bathroom.

  "Yeah, it didn’t get any better in the Stinkfens." Serrin turned his chair around to face the departing figure. "If it hadn’t been for that lady I’d probably have died of pneumonia."

  When Geraint returned he was carrying a big glass bottle filled with viscous brown liquid.

  "What the frag is that?" the mage complained as he took the bottle. "Dr. Jerome Browne’s Original Victorian Cough Syrup. This some kind of joke?"

  "No, dear boy. Most assuredly not. Prescription only. Works like a charm. Uses a tried and true recipe from East Anglia. That land has always been thick with mists and general unhealthiness, and this stuff was all the rage two hundred years ago. The original mix came back on the market a few years back. I swear by the stuff."

  "Swear at it more likely. It smells like some monster with killer gut-trouble got this bottle stuck up its—"

  "Shut up and take a good mouthful, you coward," Geraint taunted.

  The elf complied, spluttering and pulling a disgusted face at the filthy taste. "Oh, that’s evil. Are you sure it works? "

  "Just wait and see." The noble did not think it prudent to tell Serrin that the original recipe included laudanum and a nice shot of opium to soothe the inflamed membranes of the lung lining. By the time Geraint had put on his overcoat to go check out the contact address, his two friends were both sound asleep in the chairs where they sat.

  * * *

  The man flicked at a grease spot on his tie with a vestige of irritation as his subordinate passed through the automatic door. The waiting game was almost over.

  "What was in the report?"

  "Oh, very punctilious. Dates, times, places, expenses. He’d make a wonderful bureaucrat."

  The figure lounging in the recliner snorted derisively. "Doubt it. Indeed, we’re hoping that’s precisely what he wouldn’t make. Did they make checks?"

  "Uh-huh. Checked the Registration Services system. We triggered the Jones file when the Welshman came browsing. He grabbed it from limbo, thinking he was being real clever."

  Sniffing and exhaling, the older man brought his hands together in his lap, a study in concentration now.

  "Well, there really shouldn’t have been anything in there. I think it would have been too much to leave any trail in that file. They’d have smelled a rat."

  "What do you think they’ll do?"

  "They’ve got lots of avenues to explore, but I doubt Ms. Young will be doing much Matrix-hopping. We sit tight. It won’t be long now anyway."

  "We could take the kidney option." They shared an unpleasant laugh.

  "No, I think we were right to reject that one. Someone in the Met police might have begun to wonder if we’d dished up that little item to the Chief Superintendent. We can’t be sure they’ll try the police again anyway. Besides, maybe Swanson wouldn’t dispense the information. No, let’s wait. The pot’s stirred and they’re resourceful enough. After all, that’s why we chose them."

  * * *

  Now the wheels begin to turn more swiftly. Elizabeth Stride does not suspect what is going to happen to her, but it will be swift, final, and terribly messy.

  16

  Rani felt weak and shaky when Smeng unlocked the door and brought her a bowl of soup and a cracked paper cup dripping soykaf. Draining the cup, she found that the powdered soya milk had formed a disagreeable sludge at the bottom, but at least the stuff had been hot. Following it up with the thick soup, Rani felt a whole lot better. She’d have preferred solid food, but her stomach gurgled with satisfaction anyway. The belch she stifled with a hand over her mouth.

  He grinned, looking down at her. "No need to watch your manners here, girl."

  Rani smiled, but she had some questions. "Why did you help me last night? What’s it to you? And what were you doing in the Toadslab anyway?"

  He shook his head to halt the torrent of questions. "Hey, not so fast! Don’t rush me, girl. Two of our blood had birthdays so we went out on the town. We also had a little business up there, something to collect and deliver, remember?" She nodded and he went on. "We don’t get out too often. Six of us hadn’t ever been above ground in their lives. It was an interesting time for them.

  "As for you, well, we were just on our way home. We can smell the fascists a mile away. Sometimes the skins, White Lightning and their friends, learn about one of our little jaunts up to the surface and lie in wait for us. We’ve lost blood to those slints a few times. It’s always good to have a chance to settle the score. You’re an ork, ain’t you? We got the same enemies."

  She smiled sadly. Growing up meant learning the ways of the world, but when those ways included crazed fascist street thugs, learning the lessons wasn’t much fun. She decided to pursue other queries.

  "Who lives down here? I mean, I’ve always wondered, ever since I was a kid and my uncle Ravi used to tell me about the Undercity. He used to sit me on his knee at Saturday tea-times and we’d have chapatis and bhuna, and he’d go on about India and the dust and heat and the sacred places and buildings, and then he’d talk about the city beneath the city. He’d never seen it, of course, and I used to think he was making it all up to entertain me. But I didn’t care. It was swell."

  Smeng looked at her as though weighing something in his mind, as though trying to decide whether he could trust her.

  Finally he gave her a smile and held out one hand. "Well, come see a little of it then. I can’t show you much, Rani, because it’s not safe to let spitsiders know too much about the place. You understand?" It wasn’t really a question. "Some of our people believe that overgrounders who find out too much should never be allowed to leave. But without your help some of us would be dead now, so we owe you. Strictly speaking, I guess we’re quits, but I wouldn’t hear a word about keeping you here." His tone suggested that some of the others might have demanded that precaution.

  "Anyway, come on. Work to do."

  Smeng ducked his head under the door and headed back into the first tunnel complex, leading her by the hand. Both of them had their pistols readied. Rani would have thought it was safe here, but maybe having your weapon ready for use at any moment was the trick to staying alive in this new existence she’d discovered. Not that life expectancy was ever ensured.

  Eventually they came to a connecting passage, and Smeng pointed out the various routes they could take.

  "More Civil Defense that way," he growled, pointing sharp left. "Most of the dwarfs hang out down there. They strip stuff out of the tunnels and service ducts. Last year they even got a half-mile or so of copper cable, the lucky buggers. Bought them enough beer to keep them sozzled for a month. You get a power failure overground, and I bet you fifty-fifty it’s because of a crack team of dwarf cable-strippers." Smeng laughed and it sounded like distant thunder.

  "Down that way," he said, indicating another direction with a sweep of his right arm, "well, that leads to other territories. We got all sorts down here. There’s a great network of mail tunnels below the old sorting office complex, but it’s too much of a warren for anyone to live there. We guard some of the exits, and so do the Ratskinks. They’ve been allies of ours for a few years now. More of us stay alive that way. They’re good kids, most of ’em, though there’s the odd trancer and crazy. But then you get that kind anywhere."

  "Who are the Ratskinks?" Rani asked. Something sm
all and dark scuttled away down one of the tunnels accompanied by a high-pitched squeaking.

  "Street kids, mainly. Dumped into the streets and back alleys by East Enders too poor to feed ’em. Mostly, they die of exposure or starvation, or they get picked up by the meat hunters looking for fresh tissue to sell to the body shops. Feed ’em up, whack ’em full of vitamin shots. When the scans say the body’s okay, it’s time to cash in." He drew a finger across his throat with a grimace.

  "Some of ’em get picked up by agencies supplying nobles with young flesh as pleasure slaves. There’s a racket like that at the London Hospital, right on your patch. Pediatrics give ’em prefrontal implants to dull awareness and some heavy motor conditioning for the right reflexes. Unofficial, of course, but everyone knows about it."

  Rani was aghast. Mohsin worked at the London Hospital; did he know about this? Good God, did he even participate? His headware implants were the best street doctoring available in the area. She shuddered at the possibilities.

  "Anyway, those who don’t end up that way may get picked up by a Ratskink and brought down here. They look after their own. The older ones, they protect the kids. The clan leaders, King Rat and his bodyguards, they’re old men by anyone’s standards here. Clazz, some of ’em must be in their early twenties. They’re poor, but they’re great scavengers. Corner ’em and they’ll fight like demons. Got nothing to lose."

  She was silent. To someone from her background, the idea that a family could abandon their young to such horrors was intolerable, and her mind rebelled against it.

  Now it was time to move on again. They walked a long way down the central tunnel, until it opened out into a great arched vault with curved and flowing pillars supporting the ceiling. Rani stared in awe. She’d never been in a Christian church, and wondered if that’s what this was.

  "Not quite. Church crypt—or at least it used to be. Built by the Templars around 2030. Word is they did some heavy magic down here and then never came back. We’ve blocked off all the routes to the surface. Hi, term!" This was said to a limping dwarf toting an archaic shotgun as he stomped across the chamber toward the far door.

  "Yo, plazzman!"

  "Ho, stumpy!"

  They traded jocular insults for a bit, then the dwarf hefted the gun barrel over his shoulder and continued on his way. "Hilda and Stan comin’ for tea. See youse." Smeng turned her around. "He means—"

  "Trolls, yeah, I know. You got them down here too?" It was a rather pointless question, but he was happy to answer it.

  "Troll gang down in the old sewer complex west of here. They’re not happy folks. The sewers are really jazzed down there and they get flood waters in from the river. There’s seepage from the deep dumps, too, so they also get chemical shock epidemics from time to time. I hear say they’re hunting new territory, but they’re slim guys for trolls and they ain’t got much to bargain with. We ain’t gonna let them in, but we may decide to join with them to open up some new areas. Never did like the Blindboys much, so we might get something arranged there. Trolls get the living space and we get the booty. Everyone says the Blindboys got some good stuff. They steam on the surface from time to time. Seem to know how to pick the right targets."

  It sounded like the Blindboys were muggers, but Rani wasn’t up to asking for more details. She was still overawed by the enormity of this incredible unknown world.

  "We better go now. You’ve seen some of it, more than most overgrounders ever will. You’ll keep your mouth shut about it, right?"

  "Safe." Rani hardly used street slang in her everyday life, but this wasn’t everyday life. Anyway, Smeng’s language was odd enough; half the time he talked about complicated matters such as prefrontal lobotomies, the other half he talked like he’d had one. Guess life down here changed a person.

  As they trudged back through the tunnels, Smeng asked Rani what she’d been doing out alone so late the night before.

  "It wasn’t that late. And I had no reason to expect any trouble."

  "You kidding? Fog as thick as a troll’s skull, well past anyone’s bedtime, and you an Indian girl to boot?"

  She bristled a little at that, then calmed herself down. By now she should be used to hearing what being an Indian girl meant, but she probably never would.

  "I was doing a little business of my own. The gun, for a start." She emboldened herself with the lie. "Got people to meet and things to collect, yeah?"

  He laughed quietly as they passed the first check, three dwarfs with pistols and a series of beautifully concealed tripwires. He showed her how to avoid the mantrap with the triggering plate locked into the narrow rails of the mail wagon tunnel.

  "Rani, you ain’t no runner I’ve ever met. You’re too young and your face gives you away too easily." He patted her on the back to reassure her he meant no insult or offense.

  "Well, no, it’s not a regular thing. But I went on a run recently and it was a set-up. Three of my cousins were killed. My brother, he organized it, and now he’s hiding his face. He’s not going to do anything. Me, I want revenge. I could have been killed myself. You going to tell me that if White Lightning killed a bunch of your people, you wouldn’t start making moves to pay them back?"

  "No." He sighed. "No, we always try to do what we can. Sometimes we set up a lure and draw them to the bait. And yes, when we get revenge, it always tastes sweet." He stuffed a hand into his pocket. "Sorry, Rani, time for the blindfold again."

  Once she was sightless, Smeng led her along by the hand again, whispering passwords or other reassurances to unseen others as they went. It was a ways before they stopped and he untied the rag from her eyes.

  They were standing at the bottom of a twisting, narrow duct that they had to navigate on all fours, clambering with gasping breaths. It led upward, taking them to a main tunnel. Feeling a current of air flowing through it, Rani knew she was near the surface again.

  Her words about her brother had also brought important questions to the surface. She made her play in the deserted Tube station.

  "I didn’t have much luck trying to locate who hired my brother for a sucker job that left so many of us killed. All I got is a name. Man named Pershinkin or something." She tried to conceal the fact that she was watching Smeng for a reaction.

  He stiffened a little and looked away. "Yeah? Well. Wish you luck with it."

  He wasn’t going to bite, she thought. Instead, the ork began to tell her where he would leave her, saying that she must look straight ahead when she got out, and not look back at her exit point. "It’s best if you don’t see too much. Just take a right, a right, a left, and you’re in Fenchurch Street. I can’t take you where we came in at sun-up, too dangerous. Just keep strolling through Aldgate and you’re back at Whitechapel High Street, and then safe at home. You know."

  "Yeah, I know," Rani said, feeling almost sad at having to return to the other world.

  When they got closer to their destination, she saw the reinforced door, and knew this was her last chance. "Pershinkin," she said. "Would the name mean anything to any of your people who go spitside? Three dead, Smeng, three of my family dead. It matters."

  He sighed and motioned her up the last few stairs. "Look, girl, I’ll do what I can. Maybe I’ll find something out, maybe not, but I can’t promise you nothing. We’re quits, huh? Now, you keep safe. No more going out alone at night. And you know how to keep your mouth shut about us. You just got flipped and woke up in a dump. Right?"

  "I hear you." A little surprised at herself, she hugged him close. After a moment he put his arms around her and kissed her gently on the forehead.

  When the ork had closed the door behind her, she forced back tears and squinted into the gray light morosely filtering through the filthy and mostly broken windows of the warehouse. It was only then that she checked her inside pocket and found the wad of nuyen, forgotten in all the excitement. With a broad smile bringing her face alive, she skipped across the dirty stone floor while figuring what to do with it.

 
Maybe I’ll get myself some slap patches with this stuff, she thought, and better ammo. What the hell, and one of Sunil’s saris, too. That lovely purple one with the silver threads.

  Her delighted thoughts raced like a child’s. At the doorway she peered in both directions, then stepped cautiously out on to the street. At that instant, an entirely new idea flashed through her thoughts.

  Banging! It’s my birthday tomorrow, Rani exulted. Sweet eighteen. I’ll go down to that old Polack store and get some of his firewater, the clear stuff with the plum skins in it. I can get drunk!

  What’s that like? she wondered.

  17

  Serrin woke in the darkened room to see Geraint still hunched over his desk, his hands moving in the pool of light from the desk lamp. Beside him a vidscreen was flickering silently, but he was shuffling a pack of heavy, large cards.

  The mage stretched out his endless legs and ran the fingers of one hand through his hair. Collecting his gangling form, he pulled up and out of the chair and sidled across the room. "Tarot, huh? Didn’t know you were interested in that."

  Geraint sighed and pushed the pile of cards to one side. "I was only just learning when you knew me before. My mother used the cards, but I resisted it for a long time. She always told me I would have the Sight, too, but I think I was hoping to prove she didn’t always know what was right for me. I’ve always been stubborn. You know that."

  Serrin looked at the paintings on the upturned cards, knowing better than to touch them without Geraint’s permission. "Think I’ve seen them before somewhere. Twentieth-century, aren’t they?"

  "You won’t have seen these. I designed them myself. Well, no, that’s not strictly true, you might have seen something very like them. Based on an old occult deck, the Thoth. Rather idiosyncratic. I liked the cards, but a few of the images seemed wrong to me. These aren’t exactly traditional designs."

  Serrin could see that from the glorious explosions of color, the sweeping ebb and flow of the complex images.