Vin of Venus (2 page)

Vin thought he certainly looked the part.

Dr. Krol had phoned to say he would be staying in England a few days longer, but Vin didn't mind. He had his routine now. After struggling out of the shower, he would dress in the endless supply of black sweat-suits Krol had left him and go sit on the balcony. Pani Maria would bring hot coffee. Between sips, Vin watched the neighbors come and go. Where possible, he would glean whatever apartment gossip he could from Pani Maria, using the dictionary to help.

The fifth day, his routine was shattered.

He had just been about to wheel himself into the dining room for a late dinner when he heard the scream. He looked down over the balcony and saw an old man in a blood-spattered suit, staggering from the security guard's hut. Within seconds, the fat security guard and a tall blonde woman—the same one he'd seen going into the "Spider Bar" days before—ran out of the hut and dragged the man inside.

The bracelet on his wrist throbbed like a living thing, pulsing with heat. Out of breath, he wheeled himself back into the dining room.

Vin said nothing to Pani Maria. He doubted he could accurately translate his fears into Polish, anyway. But for the next few days he kept vigil over the Spider Bar and the security guard's hut. The gold bracelet continued to tingle with an invigorating warmth, making sleep difficult.

By the time Dr. Krol returned he felt he had enough information to confirm his suspicions.

"This is ... disturbing," Krol said, pinching the bridge of his nose as he read Vin's notes. He spread the papers over the dining room table. "I don't want to seem overly-sceptical. But you've been through a terrible trauma, and spent the last week cooped up in this place ..."

"You don't believe me?"

"It's not that—"

"Look, if I met an amnesiac who'd claimed to be from Venus I'd have some doubts, too." He gestured toward the papers. "But all this
happened
. I've still got two eyes."

Krol steepled his fingers, appraising him. "And you said the bracelet ... burns?"

"Whenever something's happening, yes. It doesn't hurt. Sometimes it feels good."

"Interesting." Krol stood and walked over to the window. He gazed out at the car park for several minutes.

"Okay," he said abruptly, turning and clapping his hands. "Perhaps my daughter can stay for a few days. I'm sure she will find your investigation intriguing."

Marta Krol felt tired, even though the flight from Gatwick to Frederic Chopin airport had only taken a couple hours. Still, she was glad to be back in Warsaw and excited about meeting this new patient of her father's. Two years of social work among London's Down and Outs had left her jaded, but the prospect of meeting a delusional double-amputee wasn't something that happened every day.

She flagged a taxi and dragged her suitcase inside, the beetroot-faced driver making no attempt to help. The cab jolted through early morning traffic, pulling into the Praga district a scant fifteen minutes later.

Marta pushed open the gate and walked into the snow-smothered courtyard.

Her breathing stopped. A large black van was parked at a hurried angle across two spaces, its engine purring. What looked like a trail of blood snaked from the back of the van to the security guard's hut, though in the wan light it was hard to be sure.

"Marta," echoed an unfamiliar voice from above.

She looked up to see a bald, one-armed man waving from her father's balcony. His eyes were wide with fear.

"Dobranoc," said another voice. This one much closer.

She whirled. A fat man in a security guard uniform came loping around the other side of the van. Sweat dripped from his grinning face. He held a dirty cloth in one hand.

Instinct took over. She dropped her suitcase and raced for the apartment building's entrance. Warm air from the hallway embraced her as she slipped inside. But despite his bulk, the guard was close behind. He slammed open the doors and tried to grab her before she could reach the stairwell. His other hand shoved the rag toward her face. A strong smell, like chloroform, permeated the fabric.

Marta kicked out as hard as she could, scraping her instep against the guard's shin. He grunted and dropped the rag. But he wasn't down. She'd taken self-defense courses in London, and could hear her Pakistani instructor yelling at her to kick him in the groin, take out his knees, gouge his eyes. It all seemed a lot more plausible when you were striking at a dummy.

The lift next to her let out a
ding
. The doors rolled back.

Ana caught sight of the bald man, leaning out on a crutch. He grabbed her wrist with his one hand and pulled her into the cramped lift. Both of them collapsed backward. The guard thrust his arm between the doors before they could close, flailing around for the control panel. The bald man hauled himself up—she noticed he was missing a leg, too—and pressed a golden bracelet on his wrist against the guard's hand. Gray smoke curled from the contact. The guard howled and snatched his hand back, allowing the doors to close.

"How did ...?" she began. But her voice was drowned out by the lift's groaning, as it carried both of them to safety.

Krol poured large measures of brandy, then handed the drinks to Marta and Vin before sitting down.

"Amazing work, Vin ... and Marta. Really amazing." He raised his glass. "
Na zdrowia
."

"
Na zdrowia
," Vin said.

"
Na zdrowia
." Marta tapped the dining room window. "I still don't understand what they were doing, though."

"In a nutshell," said Krol, "The Spider Bar operated as a private bordello. It was frequented by foreign business men who wanted to, ah, have recreation with ladies of the evening."

"I know how a whorehouse operates," Marta said. "They have
do
them in London, too, you know?"

"Indeed. Well, one of the bartenders figured out he could increase his income by torturing the businessman for banking information. Our friendly security guard was an enthusiastic co-conspirator, of course.."

Marta nodded.

"And then Vin saw the security guard disposing of a body. After that he noticed it was happening regularly."

"You'd make a good detective, Vin," said Marta.

Vin felt himself blush. Marta was tall and blonde and had her father's easy good looks and manner.

"You didn't do too bad a job yourself," said Vin.

There was a loud knock at the door.

Pani Maria shuffled from the kitchen and opened the door. There were muffled voices and then Panni Maria laughed.

She walked into the living room, grinning and holding a fat brown envelope. She handed it to Dr. Krol, who chuckled when he read the note inside. "It's for you, Vin. It appears to be from a representative of the Spider Club. A 'thank you' for disposing of a problem that would have cost the business a considerable amount of money."

Vin opened the envelope. A riot of euros, pounds, and dollar notes tumbled out.

"Your first payment as a private detective," said Marta, laughing.

She chinked glasses with Vin and winked.

"Like they said in that old American film, this could be the start of a beautiful friendship," said Marta and the bracelet on Vin's wrist grew hot.

Ocher clouds crawl through leaden skies. Vin hears the woman's scream just as he enters the courtyard, sees the labyrinth of sculpted blue fungus Prince Tarqual Vaz uses to dispose of political enemies. He is close! The shriek carries again and Vin's gaze sweeps the upper walls, heart pounding, allowing himself the luxury of hope. There—along the battlements—he sees a tumble of ebon hair, stark against pale green skin. Rhadma, his beloved. Tarqual clutches her with one thin arm, while the other presses a jeweled poniard against her throat. Even at this distance, Vin can see the leer on the young prince's face.

"Rhadma," Vin calls, drawing the Sword of the Sea Clans.

But before his blade can leave its sheath, the labyrinth rumbles with a third scream. One of Tarqual's Dread Lancers hurtles over the blue fungus, mounted atop a six-legged War Strider. His battle-cry ends just as he thrusts a barbed spear at Vin's head.

Vin sidesteps, draws his sword. He sweeps it in a wide arc to bite into the lance's shaft. The keen sea-forged blade shears right through. At the same time the jeweled bracelet on his wrist tingles and throbs, scarlet stones gleaming, sending a pulse of murderous hate through his body. He swings again and his sword severs one of the Strider's legs. The beast chitters, oozing ichor. Vin vaults atop its back. He whirls and stabs the startled rider through the nape of his neck. The battlements with Tarqual and Rhadma are only scant yards above him. He hunches, powerful hate-fueled muscles preparing for maximum effort.

He leaps ...

... and fell to the cold wooden floor of his bed-sit in Kensington. The impact didn't quite knock him out. Instead, he lay prone for several long moments, his temple throbbing from where it had struck.

Another nightmare.

Well, not a nightmare really. Kind of thrilling. The nightmare part was waking up and discovering the stumps where his left leg and left arm had been. Like he was doing now.

Next to the bed sat the powered wheelchair Dr. Krol had lent him. He slithered over, got his right hand wrapped around an armrest, pushed with his right leg, and managed to flop into the padded chair after a couple tries. Getting better, at least.

The cheap digital clock on the nightstand read 4:35 a.m. In less than an hour gray light would come seeping through the bed-sit's only window. Further sleep was out of the question. He considered and rejected the idea of taking a bath. Too much logistics involved. Instead, he sent the chair humming over to the dresser and turned on the electric kettle. After the water started boiling he poured a measure into his cup, along with two bags of PG tips.

Sitting next to the window, waiting for his tea to cool, a wave of futility struck him.

He was alone.

He had no real memories of who he was.

And this world, though achingly familiar at times, did not feel like "home."

Secreted in the right pocket of his chair was a pack of razor blades he'd stolen from Dr. Krol's medicine cabinet, on the pretense he might need them for self-defense.

Why was he kidding himself?

The cold sun came up and lit the rain-slicked sidewalks below.

"I'm taking you to Greenwich today, before your appointment with Dr. Muroc."

Marta had just finished winching the power chair to the back of the car. She slid into the driver's seat, alongside Vin. Rain dripped from the ends of her lank blonde hair.

"Good."

"Muroc's doing your initial fittings. Isn't that exciting?"

Vin slumped his head against the window. Across the street, tourists were queuing up for Kensington Gardens despite the weather. "I suppose so."

"Don't you think—"

"It's been a bad morning, all right?"

Marta's thin mouth curled down at the corners. She started the car and pulled into traffic, almost hitting the rear fender of a taxi. Several minutes went by before she spoke again. "I don't suppose you want to talk about it."

"Not really."

Marta Krol was an associate of Dr. Muroc. A trained social worker, she was supposed to assist with all the preliminaries of a prosthetic fitting, including lining up a physical therapist for afterward. But she also fancied herself a counselor. Which meant their many "outings" together were peppered with annoying questions.

"You're still upset about your train-ride from Warsaw, aren't you?"

"We've been over that."

"Well, if someone had assaulted and tried to rob
me
, I'd still be angry."

Vin recalled the two French girls who had helped him make his connection in Paris. Neither was over twenty. Anais and Sabine had been pleasant company during the trip, keeping the conversation light, but, at one point in the Chunnel, he'd dozed off and woken to find Anais trying to tug the ruby bracelet off his wrist. Sabine pressed a knife to his jugular and whispered she'd bleed him like the poor cripple he was, if he tried to resist. Only the intervention of a ticket officer had saved him.

He'd worn the bracelet covered with a sleeve ever since.

"I don't feel angry," Vin said, "as much as ... helpless."

Marta braked for a light. The windshield wipers
thumped
while she composed her reply. Vin felt the bracelet lurch against his skin, filling him with needles of anxiety. He glanced out the window. A young man on a motorbike had pulled alongside the car, glaring at him and Marta. Hooded eyes. His shaved scalp was nearly hairless as Vin's own.

"You recognize him?" Vin said.

Marta paled. She stomped the gas as soon as the light changed.

By noon the sun had poked through in one spot and Vin was feeling better. They'd had lunch at a curry house. Something about the mix of heat and spices brought a twinge of nostalgia.

"That an old boyfriend, then?" he said, his chair's motor whirring as they mounted a sidewalk, heading back to the car. Off to their left rolled the stately grounds of Greenwich Park, with the colonnade of the Maritime Museum in the distance.

"A former client, actually. I don't suppose that was a coincidence."

Vin enjoyed asking the personal questions for a change. "You feel like talking about it?" he said, unable to hide a smirk.

Past the museum, past a row of smoke-stacks, a huge structure loomed. His smirk vanished.

"What's the matter, Vin?"

He gestured toward the gentle curve of white, impaled with massive steel beams.

"That's the Dome," Marta said. "They're still making jokes about the damn thing."

"It's—"

Vin digs both knees into his mount's furred back, leans forward. The creature plunges through a low-lying cloud. For a moment, all is mist and whipping wind. Then, the Venusian landscape reveals itself below. Sparkling sea bordering jungle-studded coast. The domed fortress of Warlord Gann Lorci rises from the foliage like a sinister egg, muted sunlight gleaming off crenellations of green and black stone.