Atomic Underworld: Part One (3 page)

“Coupla-three
hours ago. I figured it was Grund at first and sent some boys to get him or one
of his men for questioning. But it just didn’t feel right—how could that
bastard have done …
this
? So I sent
for you, too.”

“I
don’t know what I can do.” Tavlin made his way through the room. Frankie hung
back by the doorway. None of the other men had accompanied them. “Who else
knows about this?”

“Just
you, me, Frankie and Galesh,” Vassas said. “And that’s the way it stays. The
other boys know somethin’s up, but they don’t know what. Shit, I don’t know how
we’re gonna get rid of the bodies. Can’t let the boys see ‘em like this.”

Tavlin
wanted to ask why, but that would be disingenuous. He knew Vassas feared any
questioning of his power. An unfathomable attack in his very lair resulting in
the deaths of five people under his protection would rattle his organization to
the foundation. If it had just been straight murder with normal corpses, that
would have been bad enough, but this ...

Tavlin
found his way to the largest statue of all. It stood before Vassas’s huge
wooden bed, a cluster of small black obelisks, with the central obelisk rising
higher than the others, though how high it was impossible to tell, for the
statue had been broken off, and black stone shards littered the floor around
it.

Tavlin
eyed the broken top. “Why would they take the top?”

“There
was this gem, a bloody red gem big as your fist,” Vassas said.

“I
hated that thing,” Frankie said from the doorway. His eyes were on the bodies,
and he looked nervous. “Always gave me the creeps.” To Tavlin, he added, “It
looked like it
burned
. There was some
fire, deep inside.”

“It
was beautiful,” Vassas said. “Got it from a merchant from Taluush. Said he
found it in some ancient ruins.”

“How
ancient?” asked Tavlin.

“Pre-human,
he said. Some inhuman thing built that statue. I always liked to think the gem
gave me power. Maybe that’s why someone took it. I want it back. But that’s
secondary.” His eyes misted as they returned to Nancy. “I want
revenge
.”

The
Boss’s voice shook, and Tavlin felt something twist in his heart. Nancy had
been a hell of a gal, even a friend. By the expression on Vassas’s face, she
had been something more to him than that, more even than a lover.

“I’m
no assassin,” Tavlin said. “I’m a card-player. And, lately, not a very good
one.”

“I
don’t want
you
to get revenge for
me,” Vassas said. “If I know who did this, I can get that myself. But I need to
know who. Here’s why I had Frankie get you, Tavlin: I need someone, someone I
know, someone I can trust. You ran my gambling hall for ten years. You’re a
good man, and we been through a lot of shit together. You helped make me the
most powerful boss in Muscud. I don’t know why you left, but I let you go and
never thought about doin’ anything else. Now I need you back. Somethin’
dangerous is out there, and I don’t know what it’s up to, but it ain’t good. It
killed five people by unnatural means to
obtain
something unnatural.” His voice hardened. “What do you think it’s gonna do with
that gem?”

“I
can’t imagine.”

“Me,
either. But these sewers are home to all sorts of things that have fallen
through the cracks o’ regular society. Secrets lost long ago up top are still
shakin’ things up down here, and some are still waitin’ to be found. And some
shouldn’t
ever
be found.”

“You
think this is one of those.”

Vassas
nodded. “If I send one of my men to poke into this thing, word will get out.
People will find out what happened here. Whatever did this will find out I’m on
its trail.” Vassas ran a hand across his face. “I don’t want that.”

“I
wouldn’t either.”

“But
you … they won’t suspect you. You’ve been gone long enough to be seen as
independent. So that’s it, Tavlin. I need you to figure this mess out and end
it before it gets any worse. I’ll pay you for the trouble, but I know you. You
liked Nancy almost as much as I did. You’d probably do it just for her. But pay
you I will. What do you say?”

A
motorcycle nearly ran Tavlin over, but he was so wrapped up in his thoughts he
forgot to give its driver the finger as he crossed the street, coughing on the
diesel fumes.

He
pressed his way through the thickly-packed gathering on the cracked sidewalk,
making his way down streets that had once been familiar but were now subtly
alien, though he couldn’t define exactly why. Strange buildings of crumbling
brick, stone and mud huddled over him, and weird light bathed their windows. He
passed a concert hall and heard the singing of a fish woman. It was unsettling
but oddly beautiful. A man with a tentacle where his right arm should be played
a guitar as he lounged against a peeling wall. Stroking the strings with his
suckered limb, he accepted donations out of a patched hat at his feet. A pretty
little girl with yellow curls and the stunning colorations of a rainbow fish
passed out fliers; Tavlin accepted one and saw that it was for the Church of Magoth.
He crumpled it up and threw it away at the next fly-covered trashcan … which
needed emptying.

A
man that looked like a great anthropomorphic clam, his white skin glistening,
sold fish that must be diseased on a street corner, and Tavlin blanched at the
sight. Diseased fish from the Atomic Sea was what contaminated most people in
the first place—that and unprotected sex with an infected person, or birth from
same. Seafood had to be carefully processed to be safe, but some were too poor
or too hungry to care, and so they ate black market seafood regardless of the
risk. The result was mutation or death, sometimes both. Once they were mutated,
they didn’t seem to care anymore, and they would eat diseased food willingly,
perhaps even preferring it to clean food, but the sight turned Tavlin’s
stomach. Of course, the infected down here were different in some ways; many
were descendents of the original mutants from the Dark Times, and as such they
held themselves with more pride than first-generation mutants and would exalt
in thumbing their noses (if they had them) at an uninfected.

Here
and there throughout the city he saw them—normal people, uninfected, true
humans like himself. They were people who for one reason or another had left
mainstream society and joined the mutants. Most were on the run from the law,
debt collectors, the sanitarium, or some combination of the three. Tavlin
couldn’t remember what exactly had driven him down here all those years ago.
He’d been a junkie and a thief and he thought he remembered having some vague
notion of getting clean and starting over again. He hadn’t believed in the
cities in the sewers—like most people he thought them an urban myth, though one
that had lasted for hundreds of years—but his underworld connections had led
him to Muscud, and there he had stayed. He’d gotten clean like he’d promised
himself, had even found a respectable job, by his standards, and he had found a
lot more besides. Until ... Jameson.

He
sighed, kept going.

At
one point he nearly collided with an unusual form clad in a trench coat, but he
quickly saw that the coat was merely to hide the being’s true shape. It was one
of the Ualissi, the gelatinous pre-human race that occupied its own ghetto of
Muscud. Its mucus had penetrated the trench coat, making it sticky, and Tavlin
wiped his hands on his pants as he gave the creature space to pass on by. Above
and below the trench coat the being pulsed with bioluminescence, and Tavlin had
to admit it was beautiful in its own way, if eerie. And sticky. Mostly the Ualissi
kept to their own quarter, and he was surprised to see this one out and about,
but then they did have errands that took them beyond their area of town, and who
knows, maybe they had become more outgoing since he’d been away. Then again …

The ruby.

As
casually as he could, Tavlin scanned the thing’s pockets for any suspicious
bulges. They were all wet and pasted against its swollen form. If there had
been any pre-human gems hidden upon the creature’s being, Tavlin would see
them. He could find nothing, though. The creature was innocent—of this, at
least.

Tavlin
pressed on. Soon he found himself before a tall building crammed between two
others. It had a gabled roof and a wide front porch. Music drifted out from it,
something swinging and light, and there were lights and the sounds of laughter.
A wooden sign proclaimed
THE
TWIRLING SKIRT.

He
mounted the front porch, passed a couple necking on the swing bench, its chains
creaking, and crossed into the parlor where people danced on hardwood floors
and others reclined on sofas or chaise lounges, while a jazzy band played on a
dais, their saxophones flashing like molten gold, violins sawing like
grasshoppers. The women dressed scantily, some barely dressed at all.

A
pretty young woman with iridescent scales on half of her face approached Tavlin
and stroked his arm. “And how are you doing this fine evening, handsome?”

“Fine,
Maya, how are you?”

Her
eyes widened. “Tavlin Two-Bit! Can it be? It’s been ages!” She gave him a big
hug and drew him aside, making him sit on an unoccupied sofa. She reclined next
to him. He could feel her thigh pressing into his own, and smell her heady,
cloying perfume, like some overripe orchid. “What brings you back Muscud-way?”

“Boss
Vassas, he ...” Vassas had sworn him to silence on the subject of the strange
deaths. One reason Vassas had wanted an outsider on the case was because he
would be less likely to spread the news. “Well, he has work for me.”

“Got
tired of the life above, huh? Well, I don’t miss it either. I mean, I miss the
shops, and the fine clothes, and how clean and nice everything is—but who needs
it? To be looked down on, treated like a plague victim ...”

“I
know.” Mutants were contagious and thus ostracized in the world above, at least
in Ghenisa. There was more to it than that, of course. The long-ago wars over
the Resettling had left their mark, and there was the fact that Hissig, a proud
fishing port with a well-regarded processing industry, saw those infected by
the sea as a blemish.

“I
was hoping Madam Saraja could give me a room for the night,” Tavlin said. “The
Wide-Mouth is full, and I’m supposed to lay low—no pun intended.”

She
appeared surprised, then a pained look entered her eyes. “You didn’t hear?
Madam Saraja died a year ago.”

“That’s
terrible. How?”

“A
shooting. Two bravos from different gangs. She tried to stop it but got gunned
down. She lasted two weeks at the hospital, but you know the doctors down here,
and the supplies they have.”

“Damn.”

“Boss
Vassas is good at keeping order, but sometimes one of the smaller gangs gets
restless, and that just encourages the others. Then the Boss has to clamp down
hard—which is a good thing, I think.”

“I
guess Madam Saraja would agree.”

“Elana’s
our new madam.” She indicated a plump woman talking with one of the girls near
the dance floor. “Maybe she’ll give you a room.”

“Thanks.”

She
kissed his cheek, and he was careful not to wipe it in front of her; the
contagion was passed through bodily fluids. “Give me a call if you’re in the
mood for a tumble. For you, half price.”

Before
she could leave, he grabbed her arm, and she looked back at him in surprise. He
gathered his courage and said, “Sophia. Where is Sophia?”

She
shook her head. “This isn’t your night for good news, dear.”

Something
balled in the pit of his stomach. His voice suddenly hoarse, he said, “She’s
not ... she didn’t ...”

“No.
But she left Muscud when Saraja died.”

The
fist balling in his stomach unclenched—somewhat. He still felt the ache were it
had been. “Where did she go?”

“I
don’t remember. Still in the under-towns, I think. Maybe Netherlusk. Or Cor.
I’ll ask around.”

She
squeezed his hand and rejoined the crowd, seeking out her next client. For a
while Tavlin stayed on the couch, taking it all in. The music seemed far away
now, as if a veil of cotton separated him from it. When a girl with a silver
platter bearing complimentary drinks passed by, he snatched one and downed a
long swallow without glancing twice at its contents. The whiskey burned his
throat, and his eyes watered. Healing waves of warmth traveled through him, and
he finished off the glass in another swallow.

Thus
fortified, he made his way to the new madam, Elana, a big woman in a loose red
dress practically spilling out her voluminous breasts, which were only barely
contained, half tease, half threat. Her eyes were bulging and somewhat
fish-like, and her skin bore the faint suggestion of scales. Currently she was
whispering with a john, possibly negotiating the price for one of her girls. It
gave Tavlin time to study her, and he realized that he recognized her. Elana
had been one of the aging prostitutes under Madam Saraja, one of those who had
fought for power within the ranks of the Skirt.

When
finished with the john, she turned her bulging eyes to Tavlin. “How may I help
you? Wait, I know you, don’t I? Yes, you used to come around calling on
Sophia.”

“That’s
right.”

“You
ran the gambling hall over at the Wide-Mouth, didn’t you? Yes, I remember because
you’re uninfected, and I always thought it strange that in a city of mutants,
only a human could appear so flashy. But you were especially so.”

He
smiled. “I think that was a compliment.”

“Just
an observation. You did have style, I’ll give you that.” She gave him the
once-over. “What happened?”

He
wished he had another drink. “Listen, I need a room for the night, maybe
several. Just a room, no girls. I’m trying to avoid the inns. I don’t want to
be noticed.”

“Like
I said, a human in a city of mutants is going to get noticed. But I suppose
you’re not the only one, and I do have a few empty rooms currently making no
money. I’ll give you one for five crowns a night.”

He
arched his eyebrows. “Bit steep, isn’t it?”

She
put her hands on her wide hips. The hands were slightly webbed. “It’s you that
wants special accommodations, dear, not me. Are you willing to pay for it? That
price, by the way, pays for breakfast in the mornings. You can eat with the
girls. But don’t get any ideas. No toss under this roof without compensation.”

“Fine.”
He started to hand over the coins, but she shook her head.

“Do
I look like a cashier? I’ll send someone to collect the money.” She turned to a
girl who was straightening her bodice. “Henrietta, will you take this gentleman
to Room Twenty-nine?”

“Sure
thing, Madam.” She finished straightening up, appraised Tavlin, and said,
“Right this way, honey.”

She
showed him out of the parlor and up a narrow, creaking flight of stairs, and he
admired the sway of her hips as she took the stairs ahead of him. The glossy
green fabric over her buttocks was stretched very tight, and he could see every
flex and roll of her round cheeks—as, no doubt, was intended.

“This
way,
hon
,” she said when she reached the second
story, and led down a certain hall. Frayed rugs of surprising fineness lined
the way, and a split chandelier that looked as if it had been looted from a
garbage dump, and probably had, lit the musty space. She ended at the last door
and nudged it open with her knee, letting him see a flash of leg through the
slit in her ruby skirt. The door was off-kilter and its paint peeling badly.
What with the heat and humidity of the city, plus the strange fumes rising from
the sewer, the buildings were constantly eaten away by the elements.

“This
is it,” she purred as he stepped close. She ran her hands up his right arm, and
he felt a prickle of gooseflesh. “The room looks awfully lonely. Maybe you
could use some company. Don’t worry, I have protection. Don’t want you to
sprout gills, do we?”

Tavlin
hesitated. He still had his winnings from earlier that evening ...

“No,”
he said. “Maybe later.” The memory of those mutilated, transformed bodies
lingered in his mind.

She
rolled a naked shoulder. “I’ll be here. Or maybe I won’t.”

She
sauntered away, swinging her hips as she went, and he watched her go. She
glanced back at him, winked, then disappeared down the stairs. He sighed,
entered the room and closed the door behind him. The unit was small and faded,
the window directly opposite the door streaked with grime and cracked in the
middle as if someone had thrown a stone at it. Oh, well, he was lucky to get a
window at all.

The
bed lay along the right wall, and its length was pretty much the depth of the
room. Opposite was a sink in disrepair overhung with the remains of a mirror.
Tavlin moved to the sink, turned the faucet—the plumbing banged and squealed,
but it worked, if fitfully—and nearly gagged at what came out. Quickly he shut
off the water, or whatever it was, and watched as the blackish goop bubbled and
swirled about the drain, regretfully leaving its stink behind. When it was as
gone as it was likely to get, he braced himself against the sink, took a deep
breath, and stared into the mirror.

What
he saw was a man slightly above average height, lean in build, with a likewise
lean face, long nose and high forehead. Thick eyebrows perched atop eyes that
seemed wary and alert, hiding in deep sockets. The lips, full and wide, noted
for their smiles, frowned at him. He had cultivated a seedy appearance over the
last few years, and his face reflected it –
stubbled
and unwashed, a scar on the cheek, another over his right eyebrow, hair
unwashed and over-long, his flesh scoured by the sun. Once he had worn bright,
flashy clothes, but now the clothes he wore were drab and ragged.