by Kim Newman
‘Smiler, play nice,’ said Verlaine. ‘We’re in Public Relations. What we do reflects Light Industries.’
The Britisher grumbled. He smiled even wider when annoyed, and his eyes – which often didn’t smile at all – got huge and shiny.
Verlaine’s monitor issued shrill bleeps.
‘Turn that egg-timer off, miss,’ said the Smiler.
Verlaine paid attention to the screen.
‘Alerts are coming in,’ she said. ‘Automated, not from actual people. I don’t know whether they’re real or a part of the hack. Unauthorised activity on the 44th.’
‘There ain’t no 44th,’ said the Smiler. ‘Kuchi-koo says it’s an unlucky number. Like thirteen back ’ome. The floors go from 43 to 45 with nothin’ in between.’
‘That’s what the building wants you to think,’ said Verlaine.
Tired of standing about being told phones, screens and radios weren’t doing their jobs, Molinar strode into the elevator, pistol first. He’d have to go down to the 45th and use the access hatch.
He stabbed buttons.
A recorded voice told him the elevator was out of order and apologised.
He shot the grille the voice came out of. It didn’t make him feel better.
NEZUMI
Detained by the bio-terror incident, they arrived late at the Daikaiju Building. Mrs Van Epp was waiting in a reception area. She still pretended not to know Mr Jeperson, which didn’t mean she wouldn’t take advantage of the confusion to do him a bad turn. She was steamed that he’d told on her so she couldn’t get out of the Bund earlier.
Strictly speaking, venomous ex-girlfriends weren’t the scale of level-ultra threats the Diogenes Club expected Nezumi to protect their most valued member from. But there was no specific exclusion for grudge-holding, ill-advised cop-offs left over from the swinging sixties. Small, thoughtful presents hadn’t drawn Mrs Van Epp’s fangs.
The woman was dangerous. A feudal lord accustomed to commanding minions to deal with enemies, but capable of doing her own dirty deeds. She was wise enough to know turning vampire hadn’t made her untouchable. She hired her own drill instructors and trained hard. Many giddy, blood-simple new-borns didn’t bother. They thought they’d been bitten by a radioactive bat and got super-powers. They were dust before the end of their first week as a vampire. Mrs Van Epp worked at being formidable.
The latecomers were held up.
The dragon’s sturdy tail curled around its clod-hopper feet and ended in a cavemouth.
After their invitations were passed through more scanners, the guests were escorted to a suspended, egg-shaped carriage that could be drawn up into the tail like a funfair ride – something between a lift and a cable-car.
An attendant opened a door for Mrs Van Epp. She got into the capsule and tried to close it behind her as if it were a private coach.
Smiling firmly and radiating an inability to understand any language but Japanese, an attendant held the door for Mr Jeperson and Nezumi.
‘All aboard for the Tunnel of Love,’ said Mr Jeperson.
Nezumi gripped her poster tube like a quarterstaff. Mrs Van Epp flung herself on an upholstered divan. She clicked the hornrim of her digishades as if it were a slide projector, adjusting the contraption the better to ignore the people she was sharing intimate space with.
Mr Jeperson shouldn’t tease the vampire woman.
He wasn’t the one who’d have to protect himself from her.
Mrs Van Epp was being silly too. Lords and ladies could be astonishingly petty. Nezumi learned that ages ago, standing to attention while a shave-pate daimyo threw a tantrum and ordered the beheading of a horse he’d fallen off. Just like an infants’ school crybaby, except he could start a war against the horse-breeder in which a thousand loyal retainers would die and five villages would get rased.
Nezumi looked around the capsule. A ‘no smoking’ sign was bolted to a little doric column supporting a full ashtray. There were no windows, but curved screens at viewing height pulsed with gentle light. Chill-out musak played – a distant waterfall, a woman’s wail, Philip Glass on the piano. It was so calming most people would want to scream after five minutes.
Nezumi didn’t like it. They were in this small space, under the control of unknown others. It could be flooded with gas or simply sucked into the building and made to vanish. Trodden-in paper streamers on the carpet and abandoned bottles under the divans suggested the lift had seen recent heavy use.
The delay with Mrs Van Epp’s extremist co-religionists had separated them from the mass of other guests. Mr Jeperson and Nezumi were in a perfect position to be picked off.
Or they could be on their way to a nice party. With games. And surprises. And presents.
‘Hold up,’ said someone to the attendant shutting the door.
A young-seeming vampire in top hat, white tie and narrow-waisted tails squeezed through the closing gap. He was Japanese, with an Elvis ’do and sideburns. An eyebrow pencil smear passed off stray hairs as a moustache.
‘Room for one more inside,’ said Mr Jeperson, cheerfully.
The vampire was comically stricken. His shoulder pads shivered.
‘Don’t say that,’ he gasped. ‘I’ve heard of a fellah who had a dream where someone said that. Ended with an awfully big catastrophe.’
‘I know that story too,’ said Mr Jeperson.
‘I adore creepy stories,’ enthused the newcomer. ‘Hanako in the girls’ toilet. The hairy-handed hitch-hiker. Isn’t there a ghost story about four strangers in a lift? The lights go dim, they count heads, and the tally keeps coming to five.’
He was only pretending to be a nervous soul. As he was only pretending to bend and stretch and shiver. Nezumi sensed a steel core.
Mr Jeperson introduced himself.
‘Anthony Peak,’ said the vampire. Not a name that sounded Japanese.
‘This is Nezumi,’ said Mr Jeperson. ‘We are not strangers.’
Nezumi nodded. This vampire did not rate a bow.
‘I shall have to watch you, pretty thing,’ said Peak. ‘My heart flutters easily.’
He kissed her hand, leaving wet on her knuckles. His hair oil was pongy.
The door finally shut, a lever was thrown – the controls were on the outside, which she didn’t like – and the capsule began a smooth ascent into the tail.
‘This is Mrs Van Epp,’ said Mr Jeperson.
‘So much beauty, so little room,’ said Peak, making butterfly motions with his hands.
‘She is a stunner, though you can’t tell with the x-ray spex and the brainbag hat. Sacrifices made in the name of faith. The Wire is watching, I understand. Or the Watch is wiring. Never can tell.’
Mr Jeperson was still ribbing Mrs Van Epp.
‘Beauty shines through,’ said Peak. ‘I am perfectly dazzled.’
Nezumi knew exactly who this was and what he was here for. Anthony Peak – the name came from a genus lupinus she’d studied in botany – was a charmer and a cad, and not averse to nipping a fair maid or two. But he was mainly a thief. She bet he was on his way to the penthouse to rob everyone.
If she’d been wearing rings, he’d have had them in his mouth while he was smarming her hand. She’d better tell Mr Jeperson to check his wallet.
Mrs Van Epp was tense, as if she suspected she was trapped with assassins.
‘We have no plans to harm you,’ Nezumi said to her in Farsi.
That perked the woman up. Addressing a person in their own language was always a welcome courtesy and conveyed sincerity.
‘But you should mind Mr Peak’s fingers. He’s a crook.’
‘I resent that remark,’ Peak said indignantly, in English. ‘What, surprised I know Persian jaw-jaw? We’re all cunning linguists in this tin egg. I’ll have you know I’m no ordinary tea-leaf. Just as none of you are ordinary guests. I’ve come to steal nought but a lady’s heart.’
‘Yuck,’ said Nezumi, meaning it.
‘So young, so bereft of romance… ’tis tragedy
,’ said the creep.
Anthony Peak had no idea who she was. He took her for a new-born dolly biter. That suited her fine. He’d be surprised when she ran him through.
She’d already cut off someone’s foot this evening.
Where Mrs Van Epp came from, they chopped off thieves’ hands.
That rude joke about cunning linguists was second-hand. Nezumi had heard it yonks ago from a third-form filly who collected smutty postcards.
Naturally a thief would steal comedy material.
The capsule rose, at speed. Gimbals and giros kept the ride smooth. All very high-tech and frictionless.
Then, with a lurch, they stopped.
‘Oh, dearie me,’ said Peak. ‘I shouldn’t have tempted fate by mentioning that spook story. We appear to be stuck in the gorge of the dragon.’
DETECTIVE AZUMA
The surviving perp’s passport and wallet were in his back pocket. More bad news: the Aum Draht pustule was American.
Thomason, Andrew A.
Date of Birth: 13 Sep 82
Place of Birth: Capital City, USA
Thomason had been in Japan three weeks. His visa paperwork declared his visit was for ‘spiritual reasons’. At the airport, they’d assume that meant a tour of shrines. Maybe a few days sitting on a mat and humming. Not mass murder.
In the wallet was an organ donor card. That didn’t square with a belief that the world was a simulation. If he’d been successful in blowing himself up, his bits and pieces wouldn’t have been harvestable anyway.
The fanatic also carried a Chuck E. Cheese loyalty card and receipts for airport limo services. First class all the way. Suicide bombers didn’t care about expenses.
The poacher’s pocket of his trench coat was weighted with mini-cartons of Blue Label Sprünt. The clue Azuma had literally tripped over. The wrong flavour of fizz for the Bund. Perps were always undone by details.
So, Andy the A-Hole?
The US was unlikely to get – or want – him back. Aum Draht hired ace lawyers if adepts came to trial, but instructed them to read out garbage manifestos in court. The tactic irritated judges so much even accuseds with wriggle-room drew harsh sentences. Wolfman Inugami couldn’t just eat the catch. The rudimentary justice system of the Bund wound up at midnight. It’d be a headache to sort out who got to do what to the almighty prick.
Azuma’s fang-knuckles were knots of thirsty pain.
An alley off Daikaiju Plaza was a makeshift holding area. A canvas canopy stretched overhead. The drunks, pervs and dips busted since sunset were let loose so the prize public enemy could get proper attention. The scumballs weren’t grateful. They took release without charge as vindication.
Andrew A. Thomason was trussed in a yo-yo cat’s cradle. Saki-A, the senior officer, tugged. Her razor string cut into the perp’s torso. Saki-K and Saki-G held fast, letting boss-girl have most of the fun. They all pulled at once and Thomason lifted on tiptoes. Without his eyeball hood, he looked like a student who hadn’t slept for days. The Aum Draht regimen of staring at a screen all night while toggling a joystick was hell on the complexion. Blue Label and Chuck E. Cheese didn’t help either. Thomason was pale, blotchy and bleary-eyed.
‘This does not hurt,’ he lied. ‘There is no pain.’
Azuma walked around, sizing up the perp from all angles. They’d get less from him than from his headless boyfriend. He’d worked enough occult cases to know that. With the millennium looming, religious crimes spiked. Few new churches encouraged contemplation and non-violence. Many advocated murder and mutilation. Azuma filed robed cultists with cranks who could only achieve sexual arousal during earthquakes. Brainwashed Aum Draht dolts believed they were disembodied go masters and their flesh forms merely pieces to be shifted about a board. People they killed were only tokens. Points scored. Even their own deaths were illusory. By making sacrifice, they ascended to a higher level of play where their rewards were extra weapons and functionalities. Mass murder won them afterlife guns and rainbow glitter.
‘This is a pause in the game,’ said Thomason.
‘A game which you lost,’ Azuma pointed out. ‘To a girl.’
The yo-yo cops giggled and tugged.
Thomason had no smart answer. He might not believe in pain, but felt it.
Kamikura was in the Niide Clinic on Pear Blossom Street. Azuma hoped he was getting good drugs. EarthGuard – who had called the fucking Dick Boy Club? – were all over the crime scene with a flamethrower. Inugami would be on the phone with Captain Takeda, sorting out how to blame Beat Azuma for the mess and get commended for the clean-up. Real credit should go to the little vampire with the sword, but she was in the wind.
This whole thing smelled like a dung-heap.
Who let bughouse bombers through the Gate? Who fitted out their vests? Thomason and his beheaded pal – a Japanese with no identifying papers – hadn’t set this up alone.
According to EarthGuard, the hazardous material was stolen from an Unwin-Fujikawa facility in Osaka two days before Thomason entered the country. Why was U-F cooking up death fungus in the first place? Azuma bet that line of enquiry would not be pursued. No one wanted to know if Big Pharma were outsourcing deniable field trials of their murder products to Aum Draht.
One thing he’d learned from cult investigations was that doomsday churches were all for hire. Every psycho sensei had a numbered Swiss bank account.
Thomason wouldn’t know who was paying for his killing spree. But someone sewed him into his suicide coat and pointed him at the Plaza.
Most perps would cough up their connection after being face-punched a few times. When Azuma got blood on his fangs, they spilled their guts. Yakuza hoods talked tough, but plead for a deal when their cheekbones broke.
Aum Draht weren’t like that. Their brains were scrambled. They talked as readily as anyone else. Indeed, they never shut up. But their truth was shaky. Questioning brought out demented fancies. You got a lecture, not a confession.
Azuma took off his jacket and undid his shirt-cuffs. His knuckle-fangs jutted.
This beating would be retributive, not investigational.
He took boxer’s shots at Thomason’s torso, then jabbed to the throat. His hands tingled as blood ran over his knuckle-fangs. Something was wrong with the kid’s blood.
‘Bored now,’ grunted Thomason. ‘You’re cycling through the programme. NPCs. Bad cop, worse cop. Everything you say and do is scripted. You run your wheel. You do what you do. I’m just talking to myself.’
Azuma punched Thomason in the stomach.
‘I knew you’d do that.’
He raked across the perp’s face with the fanged back of his hand.
‘… and that. Can we jump to the reset?’
Azuma boiled. Few things angered him more than homicidal pointlessness.
‘If these officers waltzed off in different directions, how many slices would you fall into?’
‘None,’ said Thomason. ‘Just pixellage. I go and you reset.’
RICHARD JEPERSON
If Syrie or the new boy started trouble, Nezumi was positioned to protect him. The stalled lift wasn’t spacious enough to draw Good Night Kiss with the proper flourish. She’d bop someone’s chin with the pommel before executing a twirly reverse and laying a slicing edge against their neck.
In a pickle like this, Sergeant Dravot might pre-emptively cripple Syrie and Anthony Peak to be on the safe side. To a hammer, everything looks like a stake. Richard brought Nezumi to Japan because she wasn’t a hammer.
They were all in the same becalmed boat, stuck in the craw of the Daikaiju Building.
The enclosed capsule reminded him of a certain hot-air balloon.
Syrie must have the same thought.
Their gondola had been filled with pillows. It had useful leather loop hand-holds. He had soft focus memories of making love as they drifted from St Tropez to Monte Carlo. If he concentrated, he had to admit the route was Warrington to Runcorn. The picnic hamper was Riviera styl
e. Champagne and oysters, not stout and chips. Though there was Kendal mint cake. A welcome restorative.
He saw Syrie smile. Then she saw him notice and set her mouth in a grim, annoyed line. A shame she took it like that.
You’d think he’d pushed her out of the balloon.
Richard looked at the other passenger.
Anthony Peak was perpetually amused but not disposed to share the joke, as if he genially thought everyone else slow-witted. Nezumi took against the fellow but Richard admired his style. The Diogenes Club kept a slim file on his antics. A fresh one. Someone pinched the original, fatter dossier and left a pressed flower in its place. A lupin. That showed a certain cheek.
‘We should call for help, I suppose,’ said Peak. ‘I hadn’t anticipated so intimate a New Year celebration, though it’d be churlish to complain of such charming company.’
The thief experimentally tipped his silk hat to the billionairess. He’d have to be wary of her morning-after routine. Mr Peak – become Mr Plunge.
A telephone was fixed between screens.
Richard picked it up and heard a recorded message in Japanese. He handed the receiver to Nezumi, who listened for a moment.
‘It’s an advertisement for an emergency phone system,’ she said.
Peak knocked walls like a treasure seeker hoping to find the panel that hid the family diamonds. As he clanged, the lift swayed.
Richard saw Peak’s act was for show. He had a way out, which he wasn’t sharing. What could it be?
‘Is it me or is it getting warm in here?’ said Richard. His brow was damp.
The other three were vampires. They didn’t register temperature variations.
If they were stuck here for weeks, he’d be the emergency rations.
The Princess had been working on this monster for nearly a hundred years, but there must still have been a last-minute scramble to completion. How much was unfinished? The failsafe installed next week would be state of the art. In the meantime, here’s a message about its future spiffiness and try not to asphyxiate in your stalled lift.