The Atomic Sea: Part Nine

by Jack Conner

  They entered a district of activity and light, each building brightly glowing in a myriad of hues, throwing pink and green and blue across the snow-covered streets, making it seem as if they passed through a fantasy-scape. Nightclubs and restaurants crowded close together.

  Here the locals studied the newcomers carefully but showed no fear of them—though perhaps hostility. Avery marveled at their various mutations. He’d expected the usual fish-men, and there certainly were some, and lobster-men and octopus-women, too, for starters, but a great number of them showed mutations derived from infected mammals in the area, perhaps because they comprised such a large portion of the native diet. Many sported fur or spotted seal-skin, some boasting tusks or horns, webbed flippers or claws. A woman sticking her top half through a second-story window and trying to illicit custom had shaved her breasts so that they were visible, but the rest of her was covered in white fur. Some people possessed black seal eyes or the bristling whiskers of a walrus. A few slumped about on the ground, their lower halves transformed into those of seals. A handful of miserable wretches had transformed into man-sized whale-things that floundered about on the sidewalks begging for food. At least they had enough fat to withstand the cold.

  Armed, uniformed men stood at the street corners, keeping order. One of these patrols spotted Sheridan’s party and approached.

  “Stand ready,” she told the two soldiers.

  When the patrol of five men drew near, the leader, a white-furred, tusked man, snapped a question in Xlacan. Stoic, Sheridan looked to Risiglon for the translation, and the anthropologist said, “He wants to know who we are and where we come from.”

  Sheridan studied the patrolman, her gaze going to an armband he wore; it showed a trident against a rising sun. “Tell him we serve the Great Ones and are here about Their business. Give him our code phrase.”

  Risiglon translated, and the patrolmen muttered amongst themselves for a few moments before the leader turned back to them and said (as Risiglon indicated), “We were told outsiders might come. You’re lucky you didn’t fall into a district controlled by the opposition.”

  “Not luck,” Sheridan replied. “We were given a map of the city and told which groups controlled which areas. The only luck was moving fast enough to make sure they stayed that way till we arrived. We’re trying to get to the main temple. We have business with the Collossum there—has he returned?”

  The man blinked. “You haven’t heard? The Collossum’s vanished.”

  “We’d heard he never reached the Temple, but we were hoping that had changed by now. Please, tell us anything that might be useful in finding him.”

  “I don’t know how to find him, but I can tell you what happened. He’d taken some followers on an excursion somewhere—I don’t know where, some say a holy city, some sort of pilgrimage—but when he returned to Xlatleb he was set upon.” Fear twisted the man’s face. “Who would dare attack a god?” Just the thought of it seemed to shake him, both physically and spiritually. He placed three fingers to his forehead, perhaps praying for the blessing of the gods or perhaps their forgiveness for his doubt.

  “Who attacked him?” Sheridan said, and Risiglon translated.

  “No one knows—devils, it must be. People who saw the attack say the very air seemed to move around the Great One and his followers—invisible spirits come alive.” He and his comrades exchanged frightened looks. “The invisible spirits moved on the Great One, killing his followers as they passed down a street shortly after they had returned from their expedition and were making their way to the Temple. After that it was all confusion. At least, I haven’t been able to put it together. Some say the Great One invoked his otherworldly power, became in his rage his god-self—but even this the spirits attacked.” The man shuddered, fur rippling. Some of it stood on end. “That’s all I know, save that he’s gone. He’s not at the Temple. He never reached it.”

  “And no one knows who did it—not even a guess?”

  “If we knew, we would do all we could to help him.” The tusked man paused. “Do you still wish to reach the Temple? I’m not sure how much we can be of service, but we’re very willing. The loyalist militia I serve can barely keep order in this one district. The Great Temple is completely under siege.” He pointed in a certain direction, and Avery saw a huge dome glowing with purple light over the rooftops of many exotically-shaped buildings; it was the only purple-glowing structure in the city. “The opposition wants to bring it down and slaughter the priests, vulnerable without the Great One, and not even our most fervent efforts have succeeded in breaking through the rabble, though many have died trying to do so, to break the siege. Still, we’ll do everything in our power to help you. Just tell us what that is.”

  Frowning, Sheridan turned to Avery. In a lower voice, she said, “What do you think, Doctor?”

  Avery smiled at being asked. “Well, obviously the converts are not responsible for the attack on the Collossum, nor are the Octunggen occupiers. That casts suspicion rather heavily on the rebels, although how they would have the means to attack a Collossum eludes me.”

  “Me as well. Keep going.”

  “Let me think for a moment.”

  “But I don’t understand,” Risiglon said to Sheridan. “Can’t you just call in the pirates, Colonel? Have them launch their attack? We can retrieve both the Collossum and the Codex from the ashes.”

  “And if the Codex is destroyed in the fighting or lost in the confusion? No. We must find it first, bring it to safety and then call in Segrul, or possibly call him in as we’re leaving for cover. Ideally we can save the Collossum, too.”

  Avery didn’t mention that he would be just as happy to see the god dead. Happier, in fact. Instead, he said, “We need to contact people in the opposition, but secretly. Both sides must be riddled with spies. We just need to find some.”

  Through Risiglon, Sheridan asked the militia captain if he knew of any handy members of the rebellion.

  “Of course not!”

  “Perhaps you have some behind bars that you’ve caught and imprisoned?”

  “We kill them when we catch them—after being questioned, of course—and we’re far too overburdened to maintain a prison. We killed all the worst prisoners months ago. The rest we released if they agreed to fight for us.”

  “The underworld, then,” Avery suggested. “All we need to do is find a place where black marketers gather. That shouldn’t be too hard in this place. Crime thrives in chaos.”

  When this was put to him, the militia man grew solemn. “We can’t venture into those places. We’d be no help to you, and they’re outside our district besides.”

  “That’s fine,” Sheridan said. “Just point us the way.”

  Thinking, he said, “There’s a place known as the Bloody Tusk not far away. Many of its patrons are suspected of harboring loyalist sympathies, or at least of doing business with the other side. It’s a den of thieves and killers.”

  “Perfect.”

  Reluctantly, the man gave directions, and she led her group away.

  “Nice thinking,” she told Avery, and he felt warmed by the praise. “I’m not saying I wasn’t thinking the same thing, mind, but well done.”

  “Were you thinking the same thing?”

  Wearing a dryly amused expression, she only said, “You’ll never know.”

  He felt somewhat more useful now, at any rate. The hell of it was that he still didn’t know if he wanted to help. Sheridan was right about that, and it was entirely possible that she was also right not to trust him.

  All too soon the group left the area of town guarded by militia patrols. The streets didn’t grow any less dark—the buildings here, if anything, glowed more garishly—but the structures that lined them sagged and wilted with more abandon, many drooping so far over that they joined a neighbor; where they joined, colors did strange things, swirling and exploding. Lowlifes braved the streets: prowling toughs, only slightly furtive dealers in street drugs, prostitutes and m
ore. Avery supposed there must be less law present outside of the block-domes than in; inside would be too regulated for the likes of these folk. Ragged bands of revolutionaries lounged in taverns or erected barricades down side-streets and likely even more sophisticated redoubts in the block-domes. All regarded Sheridan’s party with open distrust. Avery felt rifle scopes staring at him from windows.

  “Watch your backs,” Sheridan said. “but don’t slow down.”

  Avery picked up his pace, feeling the cold begin to settle in his bones. If anything, the snow was falling even heavier than before. How did the people stand it? He supposed these must be the desperate ones; the more established criminals would surely be conducting their business in the comfort of the domes, where they would have worked out deals with the local authorities. The domes in the section coming up were mostly dark. Huge and hunched and black, they seemed especially sinister in contrast to their glowing neighbors. Plenty of smaller structures between them glowed, however, colorful beacons amid the shifting veils of snow.

  The patrolman’s instructions led to an establishment blazing with light. The Bloody Tusk proved to be a pink-glowing tavern of two stories embedded between two massive (and eerily dark) block-domes.

  Armed men out front of the Tusk eyed the newcomers warily. One said something that Risiglon translated as, “You can’t bring your guns inside.”

  “We’re sure as hell not leaving them,” said one of the two soldiers, looking to his companion to back him up. The other nodded.

  “We have lockers inside,” one of the bouncers said. “You can store your weapons there.”

  “You’ll freeze if you stay out here,” Risiglon said. “The locals might be able to tolerate this cold, but we can’t. Come in.”

  The soldiers looked to Sheridan. “What are you orders, Colonel?”

  “One of you remain out here, armed, while the other comes in, eats and gets warm. Then that one will relieve the other, and so on, until we’re done here.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “You,” she said, pointing to one of them. “Come inside. You, stay here.”

  She moved toward the doors; Avery knew if the doorman suggested searching her, she would probably kill them both, or at least incapacitate them. Instead, the doorman who’d spoken earlier said something else and held out a hand. It seemed that a submachine gun was one thing, but small arms might be negotiable. After Risiglon’s translation, Sheridan handed over a palmful of cash; she’d been supplied with a good deal of Xlacan money in case circumstances warranted it. The Octunggen would do just about anything to complete this mission successfully. In fact, Avery doubted there was anything they would not do. Money was nothing.

  Sheridan, Avery, Risiglon and the soldier (after having his weapon confiscated) squeezed indoors, and at once Avery was shocked at the warmth. He hadn’t realized how cold it truly was outside—he’d been freezing and shivering for so long it had almost become normal. Inside not only wasn’t it cold—it was hot. At least, it felt that way at first. It was so hot that it hurt. Xlaca was a more or less civilized, modern country, and despite its extreme trappings it possessed electricity. Space heaters were raised on daises through the rooms of the Bloody Tusk, and chairs and couches were often grouped around them, along with knots of people smoking and drinking. The establishment was so hot that in moments Avery was sweating. And shivering. It seemed he shivered more than he had outside, as if his body were about to break down with release. In fact, he realized it just about was. In a desperate rush, he made it to the nearest cushioned chair and sank into it before his legs gave out, not five feet away from a space heater. The heaters were powerful, but even so the true warmth only extended in a sphere of a few yards around the machines; the building was in no danger of melting.

  A sunken bar ran along one side of the room, and shapes both human and inhuman slumped along it, all either wearing furs or being furred. Around the edges of the room more shadowy figures huddled in booths, speaking in low tones. In between grouped the heated islands, and in a corner a band with many stringed instruments played deep-throated, plinking music that reminded Avery of whale songs and freezing wind. This chamber’s inner wall of ice blazed with pale yellow light, while other rooms, somewhat screened by bead curtains, glowed with different hues. Every room in the establishment seemed to glow a different color, and from far off, perhaps upstairs, Avery heard, just faintly, different music, too.

  Various gazes had swung toward the newcomers, as well they might. The party of four was obviously from out of town, and this was a time of armed conflict. Outsiders were to be considered with suspicion.

  “Well?” Sheridan asked Avery, peering down at him critically. “Are you going to survive?”

  If she meant that at as a dig at his collapse, he didn’t take offense.

  “I think the prospects would be better with a drink,” he suggested.

  She yanked off her goggles and stamped the snow from her boots. “I think that’s an excellent idea.” Even she couldn’t suppress a shiver.

  An approaching waiter showed them to a booth, then took their orders. The drinks proved ridiculously expensive, but then such luxuries would be harder to come by during a time of war. Even food would be scarcer than it had been, especially with Segrul’s pirate fleet blockading the waters and preventing easy fishing. Avery hadn’t seen any sign of fishers using the tunnels through mountain and glacier, and as those routes had been carved and used by smugglers it was doubtful many laypeople knew them—not that they would be practical to haul fish through, anyway. Who controlled the seafood processors? he wondered. Did each side control its own? And what of the air purifiers? Surely they all needed those. The Xlacans weren’t barbarians anymore, and even if they clove to the old, strong-will-survive ways there were infants to consider, and out-of-towners.

  “Where will we stay tonight?” he asked.

  “There are inns,” Risiglon said. “Though they will not be cheap, or particularly safe.”

  “Ideally our contacts can put us up,” Sheridan said.

  “What about food?” Avery’s belly had been growling for some time.

  “Food sounds good,” said the soldier.

  When the waiter returned, they inquired about sustenance, and the answer was just as Avery had supposed; meals were available, for a price. They ordered, keeping the meals as meager as they could so as not to attract attention. It wouldn’t do to alert the locals that they were carrying a small fortune.

  After he had eaten, the soldier left to relieve his mate. The three waited for the other one to enter, but the minutes ticked by and he didn’t show up.

  “Probably sharing a cigarette,” Sheridan said. But when it became clear that no cigarette could have lasted that long, she said, “Doctor, why don’t you check on our friends?”

  He scowled, all too aware that she had selected him because he was the only expendable member of the trio.

  “Very well.”

  Shivering instantly, he emerged from the tavern and glanced around, blinking his eyes against the gloom and snow. It was darker outside than he remembered.

  The soldiers were gone.

  So were the bouncers.

  A smell lingered in the air, and after a moment he placed it: the faint trace of ammonia.

  * * *

  “Godsdamn it,” said Sheridan, when Avery informed them.

  “But what does it mean?” said Risiglon, face pale.

  “It could mean anything,” Sheridan said. “I’m sure there’s many people in this city who wouldn’t mind getting their hands on a couple of Octunggen soldiers.” She hissed out a breath.

  Avery started to mention the smell of ammonia, then held back. He really shouldn’t be trusted. Still, it was best to keep some secrets to himself, at least until he figured out how they could be useful.

  “We’d just better hope they’re dead,” Sheridan continued. “If they’re being tortured right now, and our enemies learn what our agenda is ...”

&
nbsp; Avery nodded. It was cold logic, but it was true. “I suggest we begin doing what we came here for. The sooner we accomplish it, the least likely our enemies, whoever they are, can stop us.” He paused, then lifted his glass. “To the soldiers.”

  “May they have died swiftly.”

  They drank.

  Separating, they drifted throughout the rooms, asking the locals as subtly as they could about the missing god and the item he’d been carrying. Avery spoke no Xlacan, but almost all here spoke some measure of Octunggen, the language of the occupiers, although he tried others first for obvious reasons. Perhaps surprisingly, many spoke Ysstran. Of course, the Ysstral Empire occupied a far northern position on the continent of Urslin and had a great presence in the arctic region; they had often warred against the Xlacans, though that had been long ago, and the two countries coexisted in relative peace these days.

  Quickly, Avery discovered some hints as to where the missing god (if not the Codex) might have gone. Rumors ran that a powerful underworld figure had seized the Collossum and was holding him prisoner. Avery consulted with the others and found that they’d learned the same thing.

  “He’s the patriarch of a powerful clan,” Risiglon said. “Lord Onxcor. I’ve often heard about him.”

  “‘Lord?’” said Avery.

  “That’s what they call their tribal chiefs. They used to call them kings, though they’re really just warlords. The Xlacans are inherently tribal and the various lords have warred against each other for hundreds of years. In olden times, the Ysstral Empire would use one tribe against another. It was only when the tribes finally united that they drove the Ysstrals off. Of course, after that they were back at each other’s throats again. When they became civilized, some tribes became legitimate parts of society. Politicians. Businessmen. Others turned to supplying what the legitimate lords forbade. Lord Onxcor’s one of the most dangerous and powerful of the latter type—drugs, guns, illegal prostitutes.” Risiglon’s face had gone tight. “I can’t imagine him in control of a god. What he might do ...”