Atomic Underworld: Part One (5 page)

Tavlin
ducked behind a corner just as the Suulmite lifted its gun and fired at him.
The bullet struck chips from the wall.

Tavlin
waited for the creature to approach, then popped out and threw his knife at its
head. It had to adjust the angle of its gun to deflect the oncoming blade. The
gun fired anyway, but the bullet passed harmlessly over Tavlin’s head and
struck a warehouse wall.

Tavlin
rushed the wet, dripping Suulmite, and slammed hard into it. He grabbed its
wrists in his hands, forced them up and kneed it in the crotch. The Suulm
apparently were not so sensitive in this area, and the creature opened its
large snout and snapped vicious teeth at Tavlin’s throat. He wrenched himself
away, taking the gun with him.

He
aimed at the
Suulmite’s
chest. Before he could fire,
a strong black hand swatted the gun away and sent it hurling end over end down
the docks. It landed atop one of the squid cages and nearly fell through. The
Suulmite’s other hand made a fist and crashed into Tavlin’s jaw. He staggered
backward, keeping his feet with an inelegant flap of his arms to balance
himself as starbursts flickered in his vision.

Enough.
Tavlin edged around the
Suulmite, making for the gun.

The
Suulmite wasn’t about to let him get to it first. The creature leapt to all
fours and waddle-ran toward it, tail wagging for balance behind it. The
Suulmite moved on all fours faster than Tavlin could run, but Tavlin had a head
start. Still, they reached the gun almost at the same time. Tavlin just barely
scooped it up and fired—not at the Suulmite, who was low and moving, but at the
thick padlock just before him.

Freed,
something massive and misshapen erupted from the cage in an orgy of tentacles,
huge eyes and snapping beaks. Tavlin ran, screaming, but his screams were not
as loud as the surprised Suulmite, who was immediately caught up in a dripping
limb. Tavlin did not look back to see the Suulmite’s fate, but the salamander
creature’s screams lasted longer than Tavlin would have supposed, then ended
abruptly.

Dear gods, I just killed a man.
Or whatever a Suulmite is.

Feeling
sick, Tavlin reached a space where the docks stretched out over the lake, and
many boats of various sizes bobbed on the calm waters, heaving up and down very
slowly to the small swells that rippled across the lake, mostly caused by the
movements of the town itself. He sucked in deep breaths and grabbed his knees
for support. Sweat stung his eyes. His legs shook. If his hands had been steady
enough, he would have stuffed and lit his pipe. Behind him, he could hear the
thrashing of the squid-thing, the breaking of wood, the groan of metal and the
shouts of townspeople rushing toward it in order to contain the thing, but the
noises were far away now. He was safe for the moment.

What
had the Suulmite been guarding? What was in that factory, and who owned it, and
why did they need whatever the killer had been bringing to them?—if he
had
been bringing anything. Tavlin
thought he’d seen a pouch on the man’s belt, but he couldn’t be certain. Still,
he had to assume the man had been about the same business he’d been about
earlier that night when he’d killed the five people at the Hall of the Wide-Mouth.
If, of course, it had been the same man. Perhaps Tavlin should double back, try
to sneak into the factory ...

He
shook it off. They would be on high alert now.

“Shit,”
he said, partly just to hear his own voice. It didn’t sound as steady as he’d
like.

As
he was standing there collecting his thoughts, a white mist rolled in off the
water. At first he barely noticed it, but when it moved closer his eyes were
drawn to it. It flowed across the lake, a contained cloud of whiteness, coming
straight toward him. At first it was just a dark, amorphous shape at the edge
of the city lights, then the roils of darkness became roils of whiteness, and
the cloud streamed toward Tavlin as if driven by phantom winds. It was coming
straight for him
, and only him, there
could be no mistake.

The
hairs lifted on the back of his neck. His knees turned to jelly. A pit formed
in his stomach, and he felt cold. If he’d been able to reason logically he
would have run, but an odd paralysis had come over him.

The
cloud rushed toward him.

I’m safe here on the docks
, he thought. Whatever it was, it
must be limited to moving on the water. Surely.

It
reached the docks and sped across them, a churning cloud whose summits rose
higher than Tavlin was tall. It bore down on him.

Before
he could shake off his terror to run, the cloud slowed, and the tendrils of
vapor sloughed away from its central mass, revealing a beautiful young woman.
She was all of white, not like porcelain, and not quite ghost-like, but
somewhere in the middle. He could see the suggestion of shadows through her,
but she was not
quite
translucent.
She glowed, very faintly, a pulsing whiteness, and when the light pulsed bright
her limbs glowed like glass. Flowing blonde or blonde-seeming hair fell to her
delicate shoulders, and it was almost like vapor as it swirled there.

She
came straight toward Tavlin. She stopped when she was near, and he gasped as he
stared up at her, buoyed as she was on her cloud. He could not see her feet.
Vapor swirled all around her.

She
was beautiful. She possessed an otherworldly splendor, an inhuman
exquisiteness, that he had never before been able to imagine. Her nose was
small and straight, her lips full and round, but not overly so, her brow fine
and high, her cheekbones chiseled as if from ivory. But her eyes ...

Luminous,
startling, possessed of an indefinable color, they pierced him. He felt their
presence as if her gaze was a physical weight, settling on his shoulders,
driving the breath from his lungs.

He
stumbled back. He felt as if he were about to pass out.

She
flowed toward him. One of her slender arms rose up to his face, and he realized
for the first time that she was utterly naked. Clothed only by the clouds, and
this only barely, she stood before him nude, phantasmagorical, otherworldly. If
she had been human, he would have placed her in her late teens, but there was
no telling. She was slender and supple, delicate and graceful.

Her
bone-white hand reached toward his face, and as if in a dream he let it
approach. She smiled softly at him, and he was struck again by her luminous
eyes. They transfixed him. Speared him.

Her
fingers brushed his cheek, and they were soft and warm but light, oh so light,
almost as if they didn’t exist at all.

“Tavlin
...” Her voice was like a sigh.

“Lady
...” He wanted to kiss those perfect lips.

Her
hand seized his throat and squeezed. Pain like fire filled him. Her beautiful,
angelic face twisted into an expression of wrath, and her eyes burned.
“Why did you take it?”

“
Wh-wh
—” He gasped around her hand but couldn’t speak.

“Why did you take it?”

She shook him like a rag doll.

He
tore himself away, and for a long time he knew nothing save the vague patter of
his feet. Dimly he realized he was running, but to where, or from what, he did
not know. Often he looked over his shoulder, as if making sure something wasn’t
following him, but he wasn’t sure why.

In
the morning he awoke in an alley. His head throbbed and he was covered in
grime. He remembered everything. He couldn’t stop the shaking in his hands and legs.

He
returned to the Twirling Skirt. Entering through a rear entrance, he cleaned
himself off in his room, used the lavatory and descended to have breakfast with
the ladies of the establishment. He was still trembling. Never could he remember
being so out of sorts—but he was also hungry. Ravenous. His stomach growled
loud enough to hear from several feet away. The women of the Skirt smiled at
him, but the smiles were sad.

The
food smelled heavenly, eggs and biscuits, tainted seafood of various sorts,
mutated mollusk, diseased zappers, fried flail, plus orange juice, toast and jam
of questionable freshness. Tavlin filled his plate (eschewing anything that
came from the water or had contact with same), sat down at one of the crowded
wooden tables whose scars were hidden under frayed but pretty checkered
tablecloths, and commenced eating. His trembling began to subside, but slowly.

Young
women (and a few men) filled the room, trickling in a few at a time. The women
assigned cooking duty would cook all morning, so there was no hurry. Many of
the prostitutes rubbed red-rimmed eyes, and all looked sad and scared. Groups
huddled and spoke of Madam Elana and of what had happened last night. Several
made tear-filled speeches. Tavlin began to feel bad about listening in—he was
an outsider here, after all—and rose to leave.

As
he reached the doorway, someone squeezed his arm. He turned to see Henrietta.
She was clad in a flimsy shift, though the illusion of sensuality was somewhat
ruined by the curlers in her hair and the thick, fluffy orange leg warmers that
crawled halfway up her thigh. She too looked as if she had been crying, and she
flung herself against him and sobbed into his chest.

He
patted her back. “There, there.”

“You
were so
brave
.” She lifted her face
to look into his eyes.

“I—what—”

“Going
after her killer last night—oh, that was so amazing! Did you get him? Did you
kill
him?”

Other
girls glanced up, and many clamored to know what the result of last night’s
activities had been. They seemed a bit too bloodthirsty for Tavlin’s liking.

He
gently disengaged himself from Henrietta. “I didn’t get him.”

There
came a disappointed
ahhh
.

“But
I think I know where he went.”

Their
eyes lit up.

“What
are you going to do now?” asked one, and others echoed the sentiment. Tavlin
knew that Muscud did have its own mayor, and the mayor employed a single police
officer, but both were eminently corruptible and unreliable. If you wanted
something done in Muscud, you pretty much had to do it yourself—or, apparently,
get Tavlin to do it for you. Despite that, he felt his chest swell as the
women’s eyes seized on him like graphite shards to a magnet.

“I’m
... going after him,” he said. The words were easy to say, at any rate.

Henrietta
smiled, somewhat insanely. “Good.”

“Tell
me, did Elana ... was anything missing last night?”

The
women looked at each other. Then one of the older ones, with threads of white
in her red hair, said, “Yes. Her favorite necklace. Why?”

“Was
it ... was there anything odd about the necklace?”

More
strange looks. The redhead said, “Yes. The stones set within it were taken from
old ruins, or so Elana always said, and I believe it. Ruins from one of the
pre-human races—the
Iuss’ha
, I think. The stones ...
sort of glimmered. Like a fire was somewhere way down inside them, and they
weren’t clear exactly. You couldn’t see into their depths. They were sort of
... smoky. But they were the most beautiful stones I ever saw, like
honey-burgundy, a color I’ve never seen before. Never seen their like, either.”

Tavlin
nodded. It’s what he had expected. “I mean to make sure you see them again.”

These
were more bold words, of course, and as he stepped out onto the street several
minutes later he began to regret them.

*

The air
smelled of musk, rust, stone, an underlying, hardly-noticeable foulness, the
scents of various restaurants and streetside vendors—fried rat, squid, egg
wraps, grilled slugmine, bagels—and a thousand strange secretions.

It
was too early to visit the Wide-Mouth. Deciding he could do with some coffee,
Tavlin made for a place he used to frequent and dry-swallowed his daily
pollution pill on the way. All non-infected coast dwellers carried a supply on
them just in case; skipping even a single day was risking infection. The pills were
lifesavers and, coupled with the air processors up top, they allowed humans to
live along the coasts of the Atomic Sea. They still weren’t enough to protect
someone from contaminated food, water, or swapping bodily fluids from someone
already infected, however.

As
he made his way through the streets and over the canals, he remembered
strolling these same avenues before. Many of those instances had been with
Sophia. They had been through here countless times together. They had likely
explored every square inch of Muscud, from the Razor Quarter to the Shingles,
from Dockside East to Dockside West, from the depths of the Innysmere to the
heights of the Spire, even a brief foray into the Ualissi Quarter. He
remembered casting pennies with Sophia off the Waythern Bridge; there were said
to be spirits in the Way Canal that granted wishes. Sophia had believed it.
Together they would often picnic in the Syssl, a rooftop garden with an
unparalleled view of the city, or grab a hot dog along
Liechsmarg
Canal; she knew the vendor there and was always assured of the hot dog’s
safeness. Of course, that was only for Tavlin’s benefit, as she had been
infected long ago, before they met.

Her
mutations were subtle, one webbed hand, some scaly skin, gills. He remembered
he used to trace the left side of her torso, from her ribs up over her breast,
to her collarbone. The whole expanse was covered in glittering silver scales,
and when she moved it flashed brilliantly. It was oddly beautiful, and the
smooth, cool, raspy feel of it had sent tingles down his whole hand. Sometimes
she would shudder at the caress, at the twist of a blue nipple, and when she
did her gills would flutter briefly, and her gorgeous hazel eyes would widen,
and her toes flex.

Those
days were over now. After Jameson ...

Tavlin
switched the thought off. Better to think of other things, things that he could
make some difference in. There was no changing the past.

He
found his coffee bar, Gezzyr’s, perched on an old stone bridge above a canal,
and he reclined on the terrace smoking his alchemically-laced tobacco, drinking
coffee, and trying to come up with a plan. Below him boats came and went, the
early morning traffic of Muscud. The fog that had crept throughout the city
during the night at the lessening of activity now broke up and faded away as
boats whipped it aside, but that fog made him remember …

The girl in the cloud.

Did that really happen?

She
had been like a ghost, he thought. But ghosts didn’t exist. Did they?

Horns
blew through the still-hazy air, and mutants called to each other, or honked
the horns of their motorcycles. Somewhere music played so loudly that it echoed
off the stone ceiling that was Muscud’s sky high, high above, stirring the
flails that nested there in their dripping stalactite mounds.

Tavlin
smoked on. Thinking.

When
he was done, he moved swiftly toward the industrial sector. Though his skin
crawled as he neared the factory he’d seen the assassin vanish into, he forced
himself closer. It seemed just as busy today as yesterday, only he saw no
Suulmites at the moment, only mutants. Then again, the Suulm were nocturnal
creatures, in as much as they recognized the time of day. Tavlin found the
address without getting too near, then ducked down an alley, climbed a building
and squatted on its roof for some time, studying the comings and goings of the
factory. It was a hive of activity, with much traffic in and out, some of it
from beneath the docks.

The
industrial sector was raised above the level of much of the town, and boats
made pick-ups and drop-offs under the docks from trapdoors in the factories
above. Tavlin could not see what it was the boats picked up or dropped off, of
course, which was likely intentional. No smoke issued from the factory’s
smokestacks. He wondered what they might be making.

After
a few hours of spying, he climbed down. He drew on his pipe as he made his way
back through town, thinking as he went. At last he found his way to the
library, a listing building of wood, brick and stone several hundred years old,
scarred by smoke and covered in grime. Several flails sucked on the walls in
the alley he passed, making squelching noises, and he saw orphan mutants
preparing traps for them.

The
library was ancient, and as Tavlin entered the small, two-story building he had
to wrinkle his nose at the smell of must and decay. The librarians of Muscud
were virtual literary pirates, and they had been stealing, looting and tricking
their way into books for as long as the library had stood, erected by Tithanus
Marl, said to be a disenfranchised royal back in the Imperial Age—which had
just ended fifty-odd years ago with the Revolution—and he had intended on
bringing the sophistication of the mutants up to a more refined level. Tavlin
thought the cause righteous but doomed. Nevertheless modern librarians carried
on the tradition, stealing and reappropriating books whenever possible. They
would even send raiding parties into the world above to bring back tomes.

The
current librarian slouched behind the counter. He was a hulking creature with
webbed hands, no nose, and covered in dark striations like tribal tattoos. He
looked up when Tavlin entered, blinked, and then, in what seemed like a gesture
he had used very little in his life, smiled. His teeth were white and shiny and
sharp.

“Two-bit!”

Tavlin
shook the man’s hand, careful not to let the fellow see him wipe his palm on
his pants as he dropped his hand to his side. “Guyan! How are you?”

“Good,
good. Business is slow.”

“There
never were many readers here.”

“It’s
worse than that. It’s the ...” He paused. Sudden wariness entered his eyes, and
he looked Tavlin over carefully. Gradually he seemed to find what he was hoping
for. In a lower voice, he added, “It’s fucking Magoth. Or its worshippers, take
your pick.”

Tavlin
had finished his bowl, and now he tapped it out into the misshapen clay ashtray
on the counter. “Not big into reading, are they?”

“Not
unless it’s their damned bible.”

“They
have a bible now? Interesting.”

“If
you say so. Anyway, I shouldn’t be talking like this.”

“You
afraid of them?”

Guyan
shrugged his broad shoulders. “There have been some ... disappearances. People
that speak out against them don’t speak out for long, if you get me. And
they’re spreading like fungus. I thought they’d be satisfied when they had
their own church. Not only were they unsatisfied, but they’ve taken over
several other churches since then. Remember the House of the
Laug
? Theirs. The
Laugians
vanished overnight, killed or driven off, no one knows which. Same with the
Satherists.
And
the Church of the
Vygun-Iss
.”

“Might
be time for you to set up shop elsewhere.”

“And
abandon the sacred trust? No. I’m in Muscud for the long haul.” Darkly, he
added, “One way or another. Anyway, it’s good to see a friendly face. Been
awhile since you’ve been around this kink of the Stink. Heard you were
topside.”

“I’m
only back temporarily.”

“You
know, we could use you. You brought some color to this place.”

“It’s
colorful enough.”

“What
happened to you, anyway? You don’t look the same. You’re not still ...” Tavlin
just watched him, and Guyan dropped his gaze. “Oh.”

“Listen,
I was hoping to look through the public records, see who owns a particular
piece of property.”

Guyan
made a face. “You know how sketchy the records are, but I’ll do what I can.
Which property?” Tavlin gave him the address, and Guyan yanked out a ledger and
thumbed through it, dust pluming upward as he cracked the pages. His eyes
scanned a page, then another. Finally he slammed the book closed—triggering an
explosion of dust—and looked up. “Do you know anything about the public
property records, Two-Bit?”

“Can’t
say I do.”

“Well,
we didn’t used to have any, but as the city grew, over time parts of it would
shift, break away from other parts. Much of it was made of trash and cast-offs,
and it wasn’t meant to last. Whole sections would sink, or break away into
little islets. Finally we elected a mayor and got some organization, and
properties had to be approved before they could be built, and more of them were
built of stone and wood, and pillars were sunk into the lake bed. Well, it’s
been hundreds of years since then and the mayors aren’t what they used to be.
Mayor Jensen, well ...”