Atomic Underworld: Part One (6 page)

“Yeah.”
Jensen was deep in the pocket of the mob; Boss Vassas had done quite a bit of
business with him.

“You
have to get his permission to build or renovate, but he gives permission out of
his wallet, if you know what I mean, and the more money’s exchanged the less
likely he is to report the sale.”

“So
someone paid him off.”

“Must
be, because it’s not here.”

Tavlin
nodded slowly. “Well, at least I know where to start looking.”

“Don’t
expect Boss Vassas to tell on the mayor. People at that level know how to keep
their lips sealed, at least about others at the same level.”

“We’ll
see.”

“Is
there anything else I can help you with? I just got a new series by Marcus
Synn
. Wasn’t he one of your favorite writers? This one’s
about that detective in the tropics. And only slight damage to the pages.”

“Actually,
I’m looking for more information on one of the old races. Pre-human.”

“Which
race?”

“The
Iuss’ha.”

Guyan
indicated with his chin. “Upstairs in the far corner. You’ll find them in the
Arcane History section.”

Tavlin
climbed up the creaking, peeling ladder to the platform that encompassed the
upper half of the building, lined by thick, sagging bookshelves exuding the
stink of mold, age and, yes, there it was, sewage. Tavlin donned a pair of
gloves to read by, a common practice down here, and selected a volume that was
so crumbly he feared it would disintegrate in his hands. The tome covered a
span of years long before man had evolved, back during the age of the Iuss’ha.

Tavlin
sat down at a listing table, swept the dust from it with a brush of his hand
and commenced to read.

Little
was known of the strange race. They had lived millions of years ago and few of
their writings had survived. It was known that they had been highly advanced
technologically, and that some of their technology had been quite otherworldly,
unlike anything men knew. Nothing was known of the reasons behind their
disappearance, though other races of the same time had left bas-reliefs of some
awful cataclysm. Early man had worshipped in the ruins of the Iuss’ha, thinking
whatever race had left them must be gods, but they were not unique in this.
Beyond that nothing was known, at least in the volume Tavlin had before him.

There
was certainly no mention of the jewels Boss Vassas and Madam Elana claimed came
from them. Nor was there mention of mysterious ghost women.

Tavlin
tried several more books, found nothing of any further use, then spoke with
Guyan.

“Perhaps
another library,” Guyan suggested.

“This
is the only one in Muscud.”

“Try
the one in Urst, or Hadmar. There’s more than just this one. You don’t remember
the raids the Urstian librarians pulled a few years back? We’re just now
recovering from them. Had to replenish the entire letter H.”

“Well,
I’m off.”

Tavlin
left the library and set out for the Wide-Mouth, and Boss Vassas. He had a few
questions to ask of his old employer.

*

“The
mayor won’t say jack,” Boss Vassas said. “Not because he’s tight-lipped—shit,
he’s as loose as Jasmine downstairs—but because he’s scared shitless. Those
boys in that factory aren’t your usual renters.”

Tavlin
was stuffing his pipe. He raised his eyebrows without looking up and said, “How
so?” They sat in Boss Vassas’s study, which was part of the suite that had been
attacked last night, though this room had seen no violence. Rich rugs covered
the floor and murky oil paintings of mutant heroes and battle scenes covered
the walls. A fire crackled in the fireplace, and the whole room smelled of
smoke. Tavlin knew the smoke from the chimneys of Muscud gathered at the apex
of the cistern chamber, where a vent with a fan in it drew the smoke out; every
now and then the motor running the fan would break down and the whole town
would fill with an acrid cloud. Fortunately that was a rare occurrence.

Boss
Vassas stared out the window overlooking the city. Turning, he said, with a
half smile on his face, “Because they’re not. Remember, I own a good chunk of
those warehouses and factories. The boys in that particular one came to me
first, looking for a place to rent, but I didn’t have any vacancies, so I
directed them to the mayor, who owns a couple himself, and one I knew happened to
be empty.”

“Who
are they?”

“Hell
if I know, my friend. But I’ll tell you one thing. This one day, after they’d
been comin’ round for a while, tryin’ to build up trust, I guess, ‘cause they
were from outta town, well one day they asked to use my phone. There ain’t many
in Muscud and they were willin’ to pay for it, so I said alright. I even left
the room for ‘em.” His face was hard. “I listened at the keyhole.”

Tavlin
lit his pipe and sucked in the first mouthful. He swirled it around his tongue,
then breathed it out. Seeing that Boss Vassas needed prompting, he said, “Yeah?
And?”

Firelight
crackled in Vassas’s eyes. “They spoke with an Octunggen accent.”

A
shudder coursed up Tavlin's spine. Perhaps the chill came from the open window.
It was certainly hot enough in here. “A lot of people have Octunggen accents,”
he said. “Octung used to control a bunch of countries, you know.”

“Yeah,
but they didn’t speak with any accent when they were in front of me. Only when
they were by themselves, when they didn’t think anyone was listening. And then
only a little, like it just slipped out.”

Tavlin
frowned. “So what do you think they’re up to?”

“I
don’t know, but I got a bad vibe from them, and so did Jensen. He wouldn’t have
rented to them if he thought they’d let him say no. Those bastards seem to get
what they want, every time, and they have connections outside, I don’t know
where, but more of ‘em would arrive, and then more. I don’t even know how many
are in that damned factory, but they seem to live there, most of ‘em.”

“What
could they be doing there? And why would they need jewelry from some race
who’ve been fossils for gods know how long?”

Boss
Vassas rubbed his heavy jowls. “And why would they kill high-profile targets to
get them? You’d think they’d at least have enough sense to not piss off people
like me.”

“Does
that mean you’ll hit them?”

Boss
Vassas looked at Tavlin, then turned his gaze to the flames. After a long
moment, he said, “I don’t know.”

Tavlin
studied him. “You don’t know how strong they are.”

“And
I don’t know what resources they have. They have weapons that can turn people
into ... well, whatever. Nothing human-looking. White mush.” His face twitched,
and Tavlin knew he must be thinking about Nancy, about what his beloved had
been turned into. “Maybe that makes sense if they’re Octunggen. They say Octung
has been developing extradimensional weapons for a long time in preparation for
their war. Maybe the boys in the factory have more than just the one weapon.”
He grunted, as if something had just occurred to him. “Maybe that’s why they
used it, to scare people like me off, if we should find out who did it.”

“So
what then? Sit and let them continue doing whatever they’re doing, right in
your own backyard? That doesn’t sound like the Boss Vassas I know.”

Vassas’s
expression darkened, and when his eyes swiveled to Tavlin, they were sharp as
knives. All of a sudden Tavlin remembered whom he was speaking with.

“What
was that?” Vassas said, his voice eerily neutral.

Tavlin
made himself swallow. “Nothing, Boss.” He busied himself with renewing the
flame on his pipe, which had gone out.

Vassas
cracked his knuckles and paced back and forth before the fire. He had asked to
speak with Tavlin alone, but now Tavlin half-wished someone else were in the
room. If nothing else, it would give the Boss someone else to focus on if he
got mad.

“I
need to know more about them,” Vassas said. He opened his mouth to say
something more, but just then gunshots pierced the night.

As
one, Tavlin and Vassas ran for the door.

They
dashed downstairs to the first floor, then made their way through the chaos
toward the front entrance. Most everyone else was rushing
away
from it. Vassas’s men had moved toward the front, and from
that direction more gunshots rang out. Vassas pulled out a pistol and Tavlin
pulled out his stolen piece as they reached the entrance, and they stepped out
into the street.

A
dozen motorcycles roared off spitting black smoke. Each one had a sidecar, and
gunmen in the sidecars turned and fired back at the men who stood before the
Wide-Mouth. Tavlin hit the ground shooting. Several of Vassas’s other men
hunkered low, as well, and the cracks of their guns popped like fireworks. When
Tavlin glanced back, he saw Vassas standing tall and indomitable, eyes
narrowed, smoke curling up from his large, oiled revolver as fire spat from its
barrel.

The
motorcyclists swerved out of sight and the gunfire stopped.

Several
men were down, and Vassas and his people knelt over them and gave what help
they could. Someone called the house doctor. Tavlin assisted in staunching
wounds and tying tourniquets. His head spun, and his heart performed a mad jig
in his chest. Four men had been shot, and one was clearly dead, his brains
leaking on the sidewalk, shards of skull flecking the puddle.

Another
body lay twisted in the street further from the Wide-Mouth’s entrance than the
others. When the wounded were seen to, Vassas, with Frankie beside him, made
his way to the body and stared down at it. Tavlin joined them. The corpse was that
of a man, naked, beaten and mutilated. His scrotum had been removed, leaving a
bloody wound, and it had been stuffed between the man’s jaws. Ragged bits of
flesh stuck out between cracked teeth.

“Fuck,”
said Frankie, “it’s Serat.”

Vassas
placed a hand to his forehead, as if a headache had come on him all of a
sudden. “Damn it all.” He swayed for a moment, then shook his head. For a long
time he said nothing, and Tavlin became aware of the sounds of the doctor
moving patients into his little office in the back of the building next to the
kitchens.

“Who
was he?” Tavlin asked, realizing that the motorcyclists must have dropped the
body off.

Vassas
didn’t answer, but Frankie did: “One of our boys. Came after your time. Boss
sent him to negotiate Peter’s return—that’s the fellow we, ah, questioned last
night. We couldn’t just give him back to his gang, that would look weak, you
know how it is, but we were gonna ransom him back and let them off with a good
bargain.”

“This
is Grund’s crew you’re talking about, right, the ones you thought committed the
murders?”

“Yeah.
Grund likes motorcycles. Don’t know where he got the cash for them all, though.
That happened real recent.” Frankie looked down at
Serat’s
body, grimaced, and turned away. “Anyway, Serat was our envoy. No one touches
envoys, not for a long time.”

“Looks
like Grund wants a fight.”

Boss
Vassas grunted, and when Tavlin peered at him he saw that the Boss had changed.
The mob chieftain was harder, grimmer, and there was a strange light behind his
eyes only hinted at by his unnaturally calm demeanor. “No,” he said. “It’s war
he wants. And by the gods, it’s war I’ll give him.”

Water
lapped at the pilings, and Tavlin felt the skin between his shoulder blades
draw tight. This really wasn’t a good idea, he told himself for the hundredth
time. Yet Boss Vassas had been so distracted organizing for battle that he
hadn’t been willing to give Tavlin the assistance he’d requested, which left
Tavlin no choice if he wanted something to get done about the murders and the
missing jewels. Now, however, as he rowed his boat beneath the raised pier of
the warehouse district, draped in shadow and all too close to the water, he
wondered if he had a choice after all.

It
wasn’t as if he
had
to be here. No
one was making him. Sure, Boss Vassas was paying him, and the girls at the
Twirling Skirt expected it of him, but who was he to do this sort of thing? He
was a gambler, a former junkie and thief, a member of the mob, a lousy bastard
all around. Did he think this bit of skull-duggery was going to make up for a
lifetime of misspent energy? It was absurd. And yet, as if despite the rest of
him, his arms continued rowing the boat forward.

He
made for the factory where the man who had killed Madam Elana had gone. 4302
Eversly. It was late at night, as the inhabitants of Muscud reckoned night, and
few sounds filtered through the boards and cement overhead, and what few sounds
did leak through were mostly soaked up by the vapor exuded by the water. Tavlin
tried not to think of the slimy things that lived just below him, things that
might regard an untainted human as a tasty snack.

Rowing
forward, he began to hear faint sounds. The vapor created a fog of sorts, a
nasty, acrid exudation that constantly made him spit, but it was thin at the
moment, and concentrated only in pockets, so that he could see, from time to
time, a boat crew make an overnight delivery or drop-off at the trapdoor
entrances to certain factories and warehouses. There weren’t many such crews
about, but they were in evidence.

The
trapdoors were marked with addresses so that the boat crews could find them. At
the dormant doors, Tavlin rowed close to find out where along Eversly Blvd. he
was. The numbers reassured him that he went in the proper direction. At last he
came within sight of the trapdoor to what must be 4302. He did not venture near
enough to check the address, but he verified the adjacent properties’ numbers
and they left no doubt that he had found the right one.

He
stopped rowing when the boat reached a pillar, and in the shadow of the
column—overgrown with barnacle-like encrustations about which hopped things
that might have once been frogs—he sat and waited. The temptation to light a
bowl came on him, but he kept it at bay. The light and the smell might alert his
enemies, if enemies they were, and it was hard to imagine them as anything but.
They were likely from Octung, the dreaded Lightning Crown, and they had killed
Madam Elana and five of Boss Vassas’s people, several of which Tavlin had
known. Nancy had been a close friend of Sophia.

The
trapdoor to 4302 was still. No traffic in or out. Yet he could hear sounds in
the factory above, the creaking of boards, the groan of machinery, and he knew
from his vigil earlier that this trapdoor was used frequently. He still wasn’t
sure what his plan was, if he had one. He had entertained some vague notion of
sneaking up through the trapdoor, but there was no lock on this side. Someone
would have to let him in, and he didn’t like his chances of forcing his way up
and through the factory.

He
decided he would wait to see if there was a delivery. Perhaps he would be able
to sneak up then. At least he might be able to see what was being delivered.

Impatiently,
he bided his time. The sounds coming from above grew louder, and he became
convinced that the factory was busier than usual, perhaps quite a bit busier.
Was there something major going on? It would make sense, if the Octunggen had
committed at least two sets of murders last night, had stolen at least two
jewels, where no one had heard of any such thing happening over the last few
months. Presumably they had stolen other jewels and committed other murders, as
well, last night or at least recently, but no one Tavlin had talked to seemed
to know about them, and people went missing with alarming frequency in Muscud,
so such a disappearance might not be remarked upon. At any rate, whatever
activity the Octunggen were about, it was heating up. Might tonight be a climax
of some sort?

A
dark shape drifted in out of the dark. Tavlin tensed. Fog curled around the bow
of a boat, a somewhat heavier, larger boat than the one Tavlin had rented for
the evening. Like his, it had a motor, but, unlike his, this boat’s motor was
revved and purring loudly. The fog had muted it, but as it drew close Tavlin
found the motor’s grumble and chug disorienting after so much silence.

The
boat aimed for the trapdoor, and when it was close the engine shut off and the
dark figures aboard rowed it right up under the trap. Tavlin squinted, made out
perhaps half a dozen figures aboard, two carrying flashlights, which they
played over the ancient, stained wood of the door. Someone rapped it with an
oar, three knocks, then two, then three more knocks. A heavy metallic sound
issued from above, the door buckled, then was drawn up, revealing a rectangle
of amber light that shone full upon the occupants of the boat: mutants in
ragged clothes. Various scars and tattoos marked them as the rough sort that
often worked shady jobs along the docks.

The
largest one, a hulking man whose wide shoulders sloped down to thick,
fish-scaled arms, visible because his shirtsleeves were rolled up past his
elbow, called to the people above, and the factory people called back. Tavlin
was too far away to hear exactly what was said.

Those
inside threw a ladder down, and a tall man descended into the boat. He was not
obviously infected and wore a dark, waxed overcoat that sort of glistened in a
sick, insectile manner. He wore a gas mask around his neck but had not placed
it over his mouth. The mutants seemed to defer to him. Once settled, he raised
his face to the opening and stretched out his hands as if to receive something.
People above, seen by Tavlin as only hands and arms, passed down a suitcase.
The tall man accepted it carefully, inspected it, then turned to the mutant
leader and nodded. The leader barked an order and the boat set off into the
fog, motor purring once more. The tall man stood in the center, suitcase at his
side, staring off into the mist.

Tavlin
rowed toward the trapdoor. The unseen people above slammed the door down before
he came close, though, and the sound of a bolt sliding across rusty metal
signaled the end of that plan.

“Shit,”
he muttered.

Suddenly,
he felt very alone out here. To reassure himself, he patted the revolver
snugged in its shoulder holster, a gift of Boss Vassas.
I hope it doesn’t come to that.

The
commotion in the factory above him continued, but it shifted into a new
phase—it started to
lessen
. As if
whatever the activity’s purpose was had been accomplished. Had it been to
prepare whatever was in the briefcase? If so, then now that the briefcase was
en route to its destination, wherever that was, the factory workers need only
close up shop. Tavlin frowned into the darkness where the boat was disappearing,
a dark mark surrounded by yellow-white vapor.

With
deep misgivings, he grabbed the oars and began rowing after it.

He
followed the ever-changing hole in the mist caused by the boat’s passage, and
as the mist surrounded him he couldn’t resist a shudder. Nothing but cloying, foul,
roiling fog, the gaseous secretions of the water. He spat out the bitter taste,
reminding himself to take double the amount of pollution pills later on. He
hated to be out on the open water. These channels linked to the Atomic Sea; one
fall overboard could infect him. He would die of a lingering disease or else
become mutated like so many others, forever relegated to the fringes of
society. And that was if something didn’t eat him.

He
rowed carefully.

The
sound of the motor began to fade ahead, and he realized he would have to use
his own engine—dangerous, but he saw no choice. He revved the outboard with a
jerk of his arm, grabbed the steering rod and aimed the boat after his quarry.
The other boat’s motor was larger and more powerful. He could hear it, just
faintly, over the roar of his own. Hopefully that meant they couldn’t hear him.

The
larger boat, containing the man with the briefcase—could he be Octunggen, as
Boss Vassas had surmised?—set off over the open water between Muscud and the
walls of the cistern chamber, then vanished into a high passage, with flails
sucking on the walls.

Tavlin
followed. The sound of the larger boat’s motor echoed loudly off the tight
stone walls. The boat wound through the dark, empty passageways, traveling down
one canal, then another, and Tavlin pursued. Soon he wasn’t sure in which
direction he had come from, or how to find his way back. They seemed far from
Muscud now, and he remembered how large the network of sewer tunnels really
was. Occasionally he stopped his motor and pricked his ears to decipher where
to go next.

Where
could the man with the briefcase be journeying to, anyway? Was he simply a
courier, delivering the contents of the case?

Tavlin
came across them sooner than he had expected.

The
boat with the Octunggen man (if that’s what he was) had rounded a bend and
slowed to a stop, its motor cut off. Tavlin, lagging behind, just saw it vanish
around the corner, and as soon as he heard the chug of the motor winding down
he quickly shut off his own engine.

The
engine rattled to silence several seconds after his quarry’s. His whole body
tensed, and he felt his skin prickle along his arms. His scrotum contracted. If
the occupants of the boat had heard his engine ...

He
waited. Teeth clenched, he waited. Slowly, he removed his gun and held it
before him, aiming at the passage the boat had vanished into. Mist, fainter
here in the small canals, drifted slowly over the water.

The
boat did not emerge. Sounds did, however. He heard the swish of oars in water,
the voices of mutants speaking softly to each other, as if in fear or respect.

Tavlin
placed his pistol on the bench before him, took hold of the oars and eased the
boat forward. Carefully, he moved beyond the lip of the corner and stared down
the passageway. He readied himself to lunge for the gun, but the occupants of
the boat were not lying in wait for him but rowing ahead, down the canal, as
mist swirled about their hull, and dark, mound-like shapes protruded from the
surface of the water all around them.

Tavlin
blinked, then swore silently. The mounds broke the surface of the water like
disgusting, over-large human brains, gray and slick with slime, and he knew
that thick, rubbery tentacles tangled below them, filled with venom. These were
slugmines, the slug equivalent of jellyfish, and they made boat passage through
the sewers more dangerous than it was already. When startled, they could emit a
black cloud of poisonous gas that could make a person suffocate until he died,
and then they would jet off into the labyrinth, squid-like. Suddenly Tavlin
realized why the man with the briefcase had brought a gas-mask.

Indeed,
Tavlin thought the man had donned it, though it was hard to tell with the
fellow twenty yards ahead and facing the other way. Tavlin thought he saw
straps around the back of his head.

With
great care, the mutants rowed the boat through the water between slugmines, not
even speaking unless they needed to for fear of rousing the creatures.

Gathering
his courage, Tavlin rowed into the passageway. He neared the first of the
slugmines, saw the great eye in its side, filmy and covered by a mucus-y
membrane, and veered wide around it. The membrane did not open, the eye did not
see him. Tavlin breathed shallow.

Forward,
slowly now, around the next slugmine, then the next. Oh, shit, there was one
coming up on his left, its tip just breaching the surface. He had almost missed
seeing it. No, he told himself, don’t use the oar to shove it away, just brake
with the flat of the blade, turn with the other ... yes, like that ... now
forward ... slowly, very slowly ... hope the bastards in the boat ahead don’t
look back ...

The
mist was thin here, though it still clung to the corners and edges of the canal
and swirled gently over the waters, helping mask the dangerous mounds, and it
would be quite easy for the occupants of the boat to see Tavlin if they were to
glance back. Surely they would, he thought. Any second ...

The
boat ahead, wider than his own, made its way through the minefield more slowly
than his. Thus, without quite realizing it until it happened, so focused was he
on evading the slugmines, he approached his quarry sooner than he had prepared
for.

One
of his oars must have made too loud a gurgle, for suddenly the tall man in his
waxy, glistening overcoat spun around.

Saw
him.

The
man’s face was covered in the black gas mask with its jutting air purifier,
making him look even more like some alien, insectile thing, but Tavlin still
saw his eyes, dark and glaring, through the plastic sheen of the mask.

The
man called out, a short, sharp bark.