Atomic Underworld: Part One (10 page)

In
any case, he had to do something about the briefcase. He couldn’t keep carrying
it around with him; it was too easily stolen, and, besides, he couldn’t bear to
have it near him. Thus he picked his way down to the docks, which were not as
extensive as those of Muscud.
Taluushians
might trade
with the denizens of the Rift, but evidently they did not trade much with other
undercities. Nevertheless Tavlin was able to buy a length of chain with an
anchor attached—a rusty, pitted thing that looked ready to break apart if
breathed on too hard—and rented a boat with an outboard motor. It looked
suspiciously like the one he had brought here, including a fresh plank where
the bullet had struck. Sgt. Wales had likely not donated it, either. Crime did
pay.

Tavlin
revved up the motor and took the boat out into the tunnels. He ventured so far
out he wasn’t entirely sure if he remembered the way back. At a conspicuous
cross-roads, he tied the length of chain about the briefcase and dropped the
anchor overboard. Chain rattled against wood, there came a
plop
, and the heavy metal dragged the briefcase under. Tavlin
stared at the ripples with satisfaction, feeling lighter already. The ripples
faded, he revved up the engine once more, marked the intersection in his mind,
and headed back toward Taluush, hoping he remembered where it was. He thought
of returning to Muscud, but for some reason he didn’t. He told himself that the
enemy’s presence was stronger in Muscud—gods knew how many Octunggen bastards
resided at that factory—but the truth was he knew better.

Still,
after he docked the boat and paid the second half of the rental fee, he did not
set off for the doctor’s office but instead returned to the coffee bar. More
news filtered in regarding the fighting, and he listened to it tensely, side by
side with the others. Gasps ran through the crowd with each new revelation.
Tavlin added liquor to his coffee and drank it interspersed with puffs on his
pipe, slowly chewing a bagel. When he’d had a belly-full of caffeine,
carbs
and bad news, he set off toward the Pleasure Garden.
To reach it from this point he had to pass the Lavish, the first hotel he had
stopped at.

As
he approached the area, he heard flames and the cries of many people. He
smelled smoke.

He
rushed forward, rounded a bend and saw the Lavish caught in a bright
conflagration. Black, foul smoke curled upwards toward the stalactites of the
cistern ceiling, and a crowd had gathered before the rearing hotel. A
rudimentary fire department blasted fluid from hoses onto the fire. Other
firemen manned the pumps: the hoses ran down to the lake and pumped nasty water
onto the flames … which only made the smoke fouler.

It
seemed to work, though. As Tavlin watched, the fire began to diminish.

“How
did it happen?” he asked one of the passers-by who had stopped to gape.

“No
one knows.”

“Was
anybody hurt?”

She
shrugged, but a man nearby said, “I saw them wheel several bodies away, and
they said there were more trapped in the upper floors still alive.”

The
woman looked pale. “They’re not trapped anymore.”

The
man grimaced. “No. I suppose not.”

Tavlin
stared for a long time, feeling cold despite the flames. Those people had died
because of him. He had led the killers here, had even set up a decoy for them.
I didn’t know they’d burn the whole fucking
thing down!
he told himself.
I
thought they'd just go after the decoy!
Still, people had died because of
his actions.

Sudden
concern for the working girls and the nervous man at the Pleasure Garden
flooded him. He hurried up one ramp, then another, finally reaching the
Singh-Hiss, that horizontal junkheap structure suspended from the ceiling
between two vertical spires. Sweat popped out on his forehead as he neared the brothel,
and as he scrambled over the scaffolding he knew what he would find. Still, as
he came within sight of the whorehouse entrance, he saw no flames, no crowd.
Perhaps there was time yet to warn the employees.

Hairs
lifted along his neck as he entered the whorehouse. His eyes scanned the
abattoir-like lobby, with all its garish red trappings. It was substantially
more like an abattoir now, with dead bodies sprawled across the floor, blood
pooling in thick puddles. Whores and johns, all tangled together, flies
settling on eyelids, on protruding tongues. Some of the victims had been shot,
some stabbed. Most were gagged. One prostitute had been stripped, tied up, then
had the flesh on the left half of her face peeled away. Another had had an eye
gouged out. The nervous man had been nailed to the wall and tortured, with
grisly results, perhaps while the killers sliced up his girls in front of him.
For information on Tavlin, it must be. Others must have guarded the doorway to
prevent guests from leaving or prospective ones from entering.

Noise
in the hallway. Shadows flung on the wall, marching toward the lobby.
Footsteps.

Tavlin
froze. The killers had completed their search of the whorehouse, finished
killing and torturing everyone they could find. Now they would burn the place
down to remove any evidence.

Tavlin
reached for his gun, knowing even as he did that a shootout against such men—and,
possibly, women—could only end one way. These weren’t thugs like the men on the
boat. They were trained killers. Agents of Octung. Deadly, ruthless spies of
the Lightning Crown, which had just declared war, if not in so many words, on
the world.

The
bootsteps came closer. The shadows on the walls grew larger. Tavlin saw an arm,
a foot, a gloved hand gripping a heavy revolver with a silencer on the end of
it. Blood dripped from the muzzle.

Tavlin
ran.

He
fled back outside, weaving through the scaffolding. There was little traffic on
the sidewalks in this seedy section of the city at this time of day, but he
scattered the few people in front of him. “Run!” he shouted. “Get away! They’re
after me!” Panicked, several followed him. Others disappeared into holes in the
structure. Tavlin was tempted to join them, but he wanted to put as much
distance between him and his pursuers as he could.

A
bit of scaffolding exploded by his cheek. Shards flew. He whipped his head back
to see three figures racing toward him from the brothel entrance. The lead one
had a gun outstretched. As Tavlin watched, a flash appeared at its silenced
muzzle. Tavlin threw himself to the ground. Something shattered overhead. He
hefted himself back up. Ran.

Sweat
burned his eyes, but he was hardly aware of it. He realized he was still
gripping his gun in a shaking fist. He rounded a corner and pressed himself flat
against the wall. Swiveled and fired back the other way. The three figures
crouched. Flame spat from their guns. Tavlin felt a sting against his ribs,
another at his thigh.

He
staggered back, nearly dropping the gun. He ran on, limping, bleeding.
Shit
shit
shit
. He was leaving a trail of blood for them to
follow.

Various
lifts led from the dock level to the upper levels of the city, though Tavlin
had never taken one before. He didn’t like the feeling of being caged. He was
desperate, though, and he couldn’t walk far, so when he put the Singh-Hiss
behind him he found the nearest lift, bodily hurled the two people that were on
it off of it, stabbed the button and descended just as the three figures ran
toward him.

They
raised their guns, but then he was below their level. They beat the bars and
cursed above him. One squeezed off a shot, but the angle was wrong. The bullet
went wide. The people that had been on the lift ran.

Panting,
Tavlin sagged against a wall and analyzed his wounds. He was bleeding, not copiously,
but not a little either. He needed a doctor. Or a nurse.

No
, he thought.
I can’t involve her. It’s not fair. I’ve put
her through enough
.

He
was feeling weaker by the moment, though. At the level just above the G’zai
Zone, at the buffer level, he lurched out of the lift, shoved his gun away—it
would only alarm people—and found a public plaza. There people wandered the
shops and crowded around radios. Tavlin found a young boy smoking a cigarette
and hawking watches that were surely stolen. “Bring me the nurse Sophia,”
Tavlin told him, shoving a wad of money into the boy’s hands. The boy’s eyes
lit up, and Tavlin added, “There will be more when she gets here. Tell her to
bring her kit. Oh, and tell her it’s Tavlin.” The boy nodded and ran off. Tavlin
slumped against an alley wall, wondering where his hunters were.

He
was beginning to think the boy had taken off with his money and not bothered about
Sophia, but at last he saw the lad leading her out to the area where Tavlin had
engaged his services. The two scanned the shops, benches and crowds looking for
him, and Tavlin whistled. Sophia glanced up, and their eyes met. Some
indefinable emotion washed though him.

When
the two came over, he paid the boy the promised money. “Would you like a
watch?” the boy asked. Tavlin raised an eyebrow, and the boy shrugged, as if to
say,
You never know.
“You could time
the pumping of your blood,” the boy suggested.

“Just
clear off,” Tavlin told him. Then, as an afterthought, he added, “You should
steer clear from this area for a few days. There’s bad people out looking for
me. They won’t reward you for information, so don’t get your hopes up. They
will
carve off your bits and pieces
until you tell them everything you know about me, though.” He thought of the
nervous man at the Pleasure Garden and shuddered.

The
boy stared at him. When Tavlin made shooing motions, the lad shot him an
obscene gesture, which Tavlin didn’t blame him for, and left.

“You
do have a way with people,” Sophia said.

“I
try,” Tavlin said.

She
looked him over, then dug into her kit. “Why not the doctor’s office?”

“I
didn’t want to lead them to you.”

“And
who are ‘they’ exactly? Enemies of Boss Vassas?”

“Not
exactly.” He grimaced as she tore away his shirt and inspected the first wound.
A bullet had grazed his ribs at the level of his elbow, and blood leaked out in
a trickle.

Apparently
satisfied that the injury was not life-threatening, she had him pull down his
pants, and she inspected the wound on his inner right thigh. This one bled more
freely, but her expression did not change, which reassured him.

“A
grimy alley isn’t the best place to do this,” she said. “Let me take you
somewhere moderately sterile, at least.”

“Where?”

She
peered up at him, her expression neutral. “My place isn’t far.”

“Your
place …”

She
misread his surprise. “Don’t worry, I remember how to make sure I’m not
followed.”

He
swallowed. “These guys are good, Sophia. Better than some crook that might want
to rip off the card-player’s wife.”

“Do
you want to die of bacterial infection?”

“No.”

“Then
come.”

“Ouch!”

“Is
that all you can say?” She pulled another suture tight, cinching closed more of
the wound along his ribs. His shirt and pants were off and he lay on her
kitchen floor atop a towel that, while clean, had seen better days. He wore
only his boxers and socks. With the hand not propping himself up he drank from
a bottle of
Urzan
whiskey: thick like honey but with
a smoky, almost clove-like flavor.

“That’s
not even a straight line,” he said, eyeing the stitching.

She
started to sew another stitch, tugged on it. When he gasped, she smiled, “Now
might not be the best time to complain.”

“Afterward
will be too late. I thought
I
was the
one that was drunk.”

“Not
my fault you can’t pace yourself.”

“It
damn well is.” He glanced at the ragged wound on his thigh, which she had
already stitched up. Blood caked the towel underneath. “I wouldn’t drink so
much if you could sew straight.”

“Maybe
I like seeing you drunk.”

“So
you admit it! You’re sewing crooked on
purpose
.”

“Got
to take life’s pleasures where we can.”

“I
knew it!”

For
a moment their eyes met, and he was uncomfortably aware of her body bending
over him, of her firm breasts straining against the fabric of her white uniform
just inches before his face. He could smell her, over the antiseptic and
alcohol, a sort of rose scent. Then she placed a hand on his chest, which was
tacky with sweat, and pushed him down. Her fingers were very warm.

“Two
more,” she said.

He
drank. Her apartment was small and tidy. A neon sign flashed through the
window, illuminating the rooms in strobes of red.

She
scanned his torso, and he saw her eyes linger on his new scars, on the tattoo
over his right breast, a serpentine lion coiled around a flaming sword.

“What
have you been up to the last few years?” she said.

“I
thought you knew all about it.”

“Only
the cheating and the getting kicked out of clubs. I used to think you were
intentionally getting kicked out of clubs up top so you would be forced to
return down here. But you never showed up. You kept finding ways to remain up
there, gambling in taverns, rooftop gardens.”

“Yeah,
well, I had to balance things out. You were upwardly mobile, I had to be
downwardly.”

She
started on the last stitch. “So where’s your laundry case?”

“At
the dry cleaner’s, where else?”

She
tugged the stitch tight, using more force than she had to, and he hissed
through clenched teeth. Instead of tying it off or snipping it, she pulled
tighter. “I’m going to ask you something, Two-Bit, and I want an honest
answer.”

“If
I have strength left.”

“Those
sirens earlier, the fire at the Lavish, and the police rushing up to the
Singh-Hiss on our way here—that was you, wasn’t it? Whatever you’re involved
in?”

“What,
no—”

She
tugged the stitch tight, and he groaned. Blood leaked down from the wound.

“Yes,
all right, yes.”

She
released the pressure, but did not snip the line. “What’s it all about, then?”

“You
wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

“Try
me.”

He
started to say something, closed his mouth. Finally, he said, “There’s Octunggen
spies doing something at a factory in Muscud. I stole whatever they were
working on and now they’re out to get me. And they don’t seem concerned with
keeping it low-key, either.”

“Why
did you steal it?”

“Because
they killed a bunch of people in order to make whatever it is, and I had to
figure whatever was in that case was meant to kill a whole lot more.” He
decided to tell her about Nancy later. “Now it’s where it can’t hurt anybody.”

“But
they can. And you know where it is.”

“Yeah.”
He glanced away. “They might ... they might come for you. Even if they didn’t
follow us here, they might figure it out in time.”

“I
was just working that out for myself, but thanks for your concern.”

“They
killed everyone at the hotel. At the whorehouse. Everywhere I’ve been.”

Angrily,
she snipped the line and leaned back. He was aware of the rose-scent of her
diminishing, and he realized he missed it. She inhaled a breath, and he
realized something had changed in her. No longer was she
feistily
mad. Now she was
pissed
.

“Damn
you, Tavlin Metzler. Do you know how long it took me to get here?”

“Soph
...” He felt a sinking feeling.

“Shut
up. To start with, nursing school while whoring wasn’t fun. Three
years
of that. Three long, slow,
horrible years of whoring during the nights and studying during the days, of
changing sheets and finding veins. Then I had to look all over for a position.
Not many doctors want ex-whores as nurses, surprisingly enough, even down here.
Finally I found a job, just six months ago. The asshole doctor made me give him
favors till I proved myself, and I don’t mean taking out the trash. Lately he’s
come to rely on me so much I’ve been able to stop. That was like
three weeks
ago.” She swore. “I was just
settling in here—
just settling in
—and
now I’m going to have to leave it, aren’t I? Just because I stitched
you
up. I’m going to have to go on the
run—from fucking Octunggen spies! Shit!” Tears hovered at the edges of her
eyes, and her lips trembled. “Fuck you, Tavlin Two-Bit. I hope the Octs take
you. I should have let you bleed to death in that alley.”

He
stared at her. His head reeled from the vodka, but somehow her words had burned
away the buzz. “I ... I’m ...”

“Don’t
you dare apologize.”

He
backed away in irritation and tried to stand. His head may have been clearing,
but his body was still soaked with booze, and he fell back down, gasping.
Angrily, he spun back to her and said, “Then what do you want me to do? I did
what I had to. I’m not sorry about it.”

“Yeah,
you never are. You’re never sorry for anything. You’re Tavlin Two-Bit Fucking
Metzler, famous gambler and rogue. There’s never been a rule made that you
can’t break, a law you can’t talk your way around.”

He
ground his teeth. Her anger was sparking his own, and he felt deep wounds
unknitting
. “What are you so angry for? What gives you the
right?”

“You
ruined my life!” she said.

That
did it. The wounds opened. He sucked down a breath, and then he said something
there was no taking back. He looked her in the eyes and said, “
I’m
not the one that killed our son.”

Her
eyes went wide, and she looked as if she’d been slapped. Then her face grew
red, and she stood shakily. “Get ... out. Get out right now or so help me ...”

He
wished he could retrieve the last few seconds, but he couldn’t. He tried to
stand again, but he collapsed. She stepped forward and tried to lift him up
bodily, to hurl him from her apartment, but he shoved her away. They both fell
in ungainly heaps, glaring daggers at each other.

“I
ought to tell the Octs you’re here and let them take you,” she said. “They’d
probably spare me if I did.”

He
wiped at the blood on his ribs; with all the activity, the wound had started to
bleed again. “Do it,” he said. “You always were good at looking after
yourself.”

“Fuck
you. I was a good mother.”

He
started to say something, then stopped. “Yeah,” he said, “maybe you were. But
you were a lousy wife.”

“Oh,
sure. Blame me for trying to provide. What was I supposed to do? After you quit
Boss Vassas, we didn’t have enough for Jamie’s pills.”

“You
could’ve earned money some other way than on your back. And don’t you dare use
leaving Boss Vassas against me. You
wanted
me to leave.”

“I
didn’t want Jamie raised in the fucking mob! If you were half a good father,
you’d have realized that.”

“That’s
why I quit!” Shaking, he gripped the kitchen countertop and hauled himself to
his feet.

In
her corner, she did likewise. Tears coursed down her face, but she looked
furious more than she looked sad, though she appeared sad also. A deep pain
burned in her eyes. “We needed money. When Jamie got sick—”

He
waved her to silence, tugging on his clothes. “Your son died without his mother
by his side
because you were off whoring
.”

She
stood so rigidly he thought something had gone wrong in her head, maybe a
stroke, but then she lifted her arm and pointed at the door. “GET—THE
FUCK—OUT.”

He
lurched toward the door, still yanking up his pants. The world seemed to spin
around him. He staggered, nearly fell, but she did not offer to help. He
remained upright, barely, as he reached the portal, then sagged against it for
support. He snapped a button closed on his pants.

Without
turning to look at her, he said, “The last thing he said in this world was,
‘Where’s Mommy?’”

He
heard a choking gasp behind him, but he didn’t dare turn around. He fumbled at
the doorknob.

A
plate broke by his head. Shards of porcelain sliced his cheek. Another smashed
between his shoulder blades.

“Damn
you!” he said. He wrenched the door open.

“Damn
you
!”

Another
plate caught the side of his head, ricocheted and cracked against the
doorframe.

He
stumbled through the door, down the stairs. She followed, hurling plates after
him. She must have shoved some under an arm.

He
fled down the stairs and through the tight, winding halls of the tenement. They
smelled of mold, fungus and alchemical lamps, not to mention the myriad smells
of mutant cooking, cabbage and sulfur and unprocessed fish. Radios blasted
newscasts of the war. Plates shattered about him as he ran. Sophia cursed him
vilely.

He
made it to the front entrance, slammed the door behind him and staggered down
the road. She didn’t follow. He heard her crying through the door.

*

He
skulked through the streets. Hating himself, he buttoned his shirt as he went
and drew his jacket tight. It was cold—cold, and late. He didn’t know what time
it was exactly, but he was exhausted. And hungry.

Shaking,
he wasn’t sure why, he found a streetside café that advertised “safe” food and
ordered a plate of spiced meat and flatbread. After he’d eaten, he smoked a bowl
and sat there, staring out over the little city, trying to calm his mind. He
knew he had gone too far, had cut too deep. He hadn’t wanted to. But the
bitterness, the pain he had felt since that day, since his little boy had died
in his arms crying for his mother, and Tavlin had had to tell him lies to
prevent Jameson from knowing the truth about where his mother really was—lies,
even as Jameson shuddered and trembled and his eyes rolled up into his head,
and the last thing Tavlin had ever said to him in this world was a lie ...

He
had never forgiven her for that. He didn’t think he ever could.

But
he shouldn’t have said that she had killed him. That had been wrong. Jameson
had been their miracle—in many ways. For one, they had always used protection
to prevent Tavlin from becoming infected. Somehow, someway, Sophia had gotten
pregnant anyway. Second, Jameson had survived the pregnancy itself. All the
doctors had agreed that he probably wouldn’t, that they shouldn’t get their
hopes up, the progeny of infected and non-infected rarely survived. But then,
somehow, he had. He had been born, and he had survived his first year, and his
second, and his third. Tavlin and Sophia had dared to hope, each day a battle
against despair. Jameson was normal, healthy, non-infected. All the doctors
warned them. A non-infected child would surely bear the seeds of infection
somewhere inside him, passed on to him by his mother. But Jameson had survived
his fourth year, and his fifth, and his sixth. During the seventh year, Tavlin
had done something foolish. He’d allowed himself to believe. He thought Sophia
had, too. Tavlin had quit working for Vassas and started gambling
professionally to support them. That had been enough. Until the inevitable.

When
Jameson grew sick at last, Sophia had supplemented their income against
Tavlin’s wishes to afford Jameson’s medicine. Another year had passed, and then
another. Finally, though, Jameson’s frail little body could take it no longer.

When
he succumbed to the infection at last, Tavlin thought he himself would die.
He’d wanted to. He took to drinking and cheating at cards. He had cheated
dangerous men. Only chance and the lingering favor of Boss Vassas had spared
him. Meanwhile Sophia had continued to whore, as she had done when he’d first
met her, before he had fallen in love, asked her to marry him and gotten her to
quit. Grief and bitterness on both sides had split them apart as surely as rot
can break an oak.