The Sunken City Trilogy

by Phil Williams

  “I don’t –” Pax began, but a shout from the lido cut her off.

  “It’s him – the Chair of Information! What’s left of him!”

  Pax cringed, looking to the wall, no sign of the shouter. “I can expl –”

  “Good a place as any?” the first gunman said. The second scanned the playing field. The only overlooking building was a desolate office block, windows darkly empty. Trees loomed over them in other directions, and the road was a distant, empty dream. She’d fall in the long grass, not be spotted for days. Even then she might be ignored, dismissed as a passed-out junkie. The fairy nodded, and the pair raised their guns. Pax looked down the tiny barrels, and tried one more time. “You’ve got –”

  Something whipped past Pax’s ear. The first fairy was struck out of the air. He spun down as the second fairy aimed over her shoulder. Pax flinched at another whizzing bullet and the second fairy was propelled back like a rag doll. He spun into the grass with barely a sound.

  Pax didn’t move, staring at the empty space that had, seconds earlier, contained her death. Lightgate? That chaotic little shit . . . She turned back towards the lido, and heard the shout of her third pursuer: “Regroup, there’s –”

  “Have it you bastard!” a new voice shouted. The war cry of a hooligan, followed by a series of roared attacks. Pax stared at the wall, no sign of what was happening, just the huffs of two men brawling with the impacts too quiet to hear. It was over in seconds, before another yell, “Any more? Bring it on!”

  She recognised him. Even furiously engaged as he was. One of the men who’d chased her from the Bartons’ house. The fairies who’d tried to kill her before. Fuck. Pax took a deep breath and ran for the fence. She crossed the field in seconds and slammed into the chains, vaulting up and over. She ran the second her feet hit the ground, up the road, back towards her moped. Before she got close she saw the wheels – sunk as though melted, punctured beyond repair. Shit. She kept going, sprinting towards a bus stop, out across the road without looking, no cars here anyway. No people. The shelter ahead had three walls of Perspex, solid from adverts and torn events posters; she grabbed the edge and used her momentum to swing into the cover of the corner, where she slid to the ground.

  Hidden from the outside world, at least partially, Pax shakily took out her phone and raised Ward’s number. It pinged, engaged, through to voicemail. Pressing herself better into hiding, Pax hissed at the beep, “I need some fucking help right now. Fae on me.” She hung up. She dug into another pocket for the faeometer the MEE had given her and switched it on. It’d send an alert back to their base. As if anyone could get here in time.

  When she flipped the switch it beeped. Then again.

  Again, and again, getting faster. Faster. Pax stood, eyes wide, as the device panicked: Fae almost on top of her. She looked up the road. Barely a couple of parked cars for cover, and why the hell wasn’t Sam Ward here already? The faeometer beeped so rapidly it reached a whine.

  “Trying to give yourself away?” yet another male voice said. A higher pitch than the last one. He’d been there, too, on the Bartons’ street. Shooting at her.

  Pax flipped the faeometer switch, silencing it, as the fairy floated down from above the bus stop. Sharply dressed in trousers and a white shirt, with suspenders and a tie. His wings beat gently, and he held a rifle across his waist that had to be taller than him. Like this tiny man had taken a gun from a toy of a different scale. Was that the weapon that had knocked those two soldiers out of the sky?

  “You let her fuck your bike?” the fairy asked sharply, as if it were Pax’s fault a fairy slashed her tyres.

  She replied with a question of her own, “You’re not with Lightgate?”

  He looked back down the road, still deciding. His face twitched uncomfortably, and when his eyes rested on Pax he only seemed more troubled. “She’s probably watching.”

  “Got her, Fresko?” the other man asked, the thug, appearing alongside him. He was broader than the others, all denims and leather belts, square head and white hair. Face darkened by something – blood? “What now?”

  “We’re gonna have a dozen more Stabilisers on the way,” the white shirt, Fresko, said. “Twenty minutes at best, out of the FTC, but likely already closer than that. See where Lightgate went?”

  The thug laughed with elated bravado from his fight. “If I had, I would’ve done for her, too!”

  Fresko scowled. “Hang around, you’ll get your wish.”

  Great, Pax reflected, at least three separate sets of murderous fairies fighting over her. But these ones had defended her for now, at least. They were Letty’s friends once, weren’t they? She said, “You guys want to help me, maybe I can get somewhere safer . . . ?”

  The pair stared at her like spectators at a car crash.

  “Guess she’s our responsibility,” Fresko said. “But how do you protect a thing like this from us?”

  “Same trick she pulled before?” the thug grunted. “Toss her down a manhole, back with the fucking critters.”

  Not the best start. Fleeing into the Sunken City had proved more terrifying than the Fae, last time. Pax leant out from the bus stop again, checking the road. The pair flew higher, keeping their distance.

  “There is an entrance,” Fresko said. He added harshly, “Lady, you listening?” Pax met his eyes. “About two hundred metres up the road. An underpass with a maintenance hatch, that’ll get you in. You’ll wanna move quick.”

  “Yeah,” Pax said. “I never want to move quick.”

  The pair exchanged another uncertain look, then the thug said, “You realise you should’ve fucking died back there?”

  “Yeah.” Pax moved out of cover. They darted to the sides to avoid her as she looked up the desolate street, in the direction Fresko indicated. “My day’s not about to get much better, is it?”

  “Ms Ward.” Tycho Duvalier’s smooth voice finally broke off the incessant chime of a tune that had held Sam waiting. She jumped, anxious to end this call quickly. “I understand that you’re in charge of the Ordshaw Ministry of Environmental Energy, correct?”

  “Mr Duvalier?” Sam replied pointlessly. Voice too high. “How can I help you?”

  “You can start by explaining how you came across our SURE scanners. Imagine my surprise when our inventory showed one of our own was tricked into sharing them with you.”

  “Tricked?” Sam echoed. Of course, Obrington as much as told Parris to pin it on her. And it was dumb luck they’d noticed at all. Pax’s blunder? Sam cleared her throat. It didn’t matter. Obrington had insisted she had to own it, and she’d already got in mind what to say. “There was no deceit involved, we requisitioned them for government business of the highest priority.”

  “I wasn’t aware you had such mandates,” Tycho replied. “Naturally, we’re always willing to help out our friends in the government, but that is sensitive equipment and its use indicates rather specific, perhaps unusual interests on your behalf.”

  Sam was quiet. What else had Obrington said about their research? Likely dealing with things the MEE weren’t aware of themselves. Duvalier had to suspect something extreme, and she had to avoid confirming it. She considered their typical excuses. Faulty gas mains, mobile or electrical interference . . . but another option struck her. Complete dismissal. Channelling Obrington’s arrogance, making herself Management material, she said, “You’ll have the scanners back as soon as we’re done with them. I can only apologise if it’s caused any inconvenience.”

  “No inconvenience at all. Inconvenient would be getting legal teams involved. Checking the authenticity of that mandate of yours. We’re not going there, are we?”

  Despite the pause, that threat didn’t warrant an answer.

  “You’ll meet me this afternoon,” Tycho decided. “I’ll come to your office. Shall we say 3pm?”

  “Now is not a good –”

  “We’re talking, Ms Ward, that’s all. Two organisations sharing the burden. Let’s not make it any m
ore than that, shall we?”

  Sam gritted her teeth. Would the world fall apart if she told him to piss off? She didn’t choose fast enough.

  “Very well,” he finished. “I’ll have my people call yours. Until three.”

  And he was gone. Sam closed her eyes. Hell. Forget telling him to piss off, she should go back to the office and kick Obrington in the balls. It suddenly felt like a blessing that Mathers had left her out of these sorts of entanglements. But Obrington wasn’t in the office, he was dealing with his own problem. Which, by the sounds of Tycho’s probing, was not of Duvcorp’s making. And Sam had other issues, too, missing the Fae meeting. Seeing the time on her phone, she cursed under her breath. She paced back to the tunnel entrance, drawing up a to-do list in her mind.

  Set up the Bartons, super fast.

  High-tail to Tupsom, solve Fae-human relations.

  Speed back to the MEE office, delegate Duvcorp back to Obrington.

  Finish the day without any more undue drama.

  Simple.

  8

  The smaller criminal, Vulcher, whimpered like a beaten dog. The sort of coward that creased up at a slap against nearby brickwork. Not that Obrington stopped there, shoving the man into walls, getting in his face. Obrington, Casaria had decided, was unhinged. He’d approached these criminals intending to provoke a conflict, and was now throwing his considerable weight into someone half his size, who was already ready to talk.

  When they’d caught up to Vulcher, he was down, hands cuffed behind his back, Landon watching him with a pistol drawn. That piece of human beige explained he’d checked the nearby tunnels, too; found a crate of powdered narcotics in a nook. Landon lacked the imagination or experience to say if it were cocaine, heroin or aspirin.

  Obrington hauled Vulcher up by his overalls and tossed him across the room. The slight man skittered into the wall, not quick enough to get his hands up to protect himself. He went down, near tears. Landon looked displeased. Had he ever handled a suspect like this?

  Casaria had, of course. But only when necessary. Some of them drove you to it. This one hadn’t. Obrington was sweating, jacket off, shirtsleeves up, flat mouth letting out occasional wheezes as he relieved the tension left from his brawl with Bees.

  That was it, wasn’t it? The man could’ve died. He was processing that. Though Casaria sensed some of this was also for his benefit. He’d told Obrington he only knew the deceased man from Pax’s flat, and it hadn’t satisfied him.

  The oaf thumped over to Vulcher with fists clenched, and finally stopped. “What do you lads think? The boy’s ready to talk?”

  Landon held his tongue, but Casaria was less shy: “He was ready to talk before we got here.”

  “That’s what you think?” Obrington replied blandly.

  “Yes!” Vulcher gasped. “I’ll tell you everything – whatever you want! We were hoping to store some things down here, that’s all! Just me and Bees, happened upon the place by chance and –”

  There was a crack as his head snapped sideways, jaw taking the brunt of Obrington’s shoe. Vulcher fell to his knees crying curses through blood. Landon cringed.

  “See,” Obrington said. “Still needed some tenderising after all.” He grabbed Vulcher’s chin, drawing his tear-drenched face up. “Who are you working for and how in hell did you disable our sensors?”

  “He’ll kill me,” Vulcher uttered.

  That earned a back-handed cuff. Obrington kept hold of him with his other hand and drew him back to his face. “Name.”

  “M – Monroe,” Vulcher spluttered. “Stacey Monroe.”

  Obrington raised an eyebrow to Casaria, who nodded. Yes, it was familiar.

  “And the sensors?” Obrington demanded.

  “Anonymous tip,” Vulcher said, trying to speak faster, arms up. “I swear – it’s what they called me along for and I told them I wasn’t handling that shit. Obviously government or high-end security, those sensors – no one with any sense would’ve –”

  “So you got blessed by a guardian angel,” Obrington said, giving Casaria a look.

  “Boss got a note,” Vulcher said. “Someone who knew how to get in. Didn’t ask for nothing, just gave us instructions – scrambled the signal. I don’t know who, it was Monroe’s business.”

  “Anonymous notes.” Obrington walked the short distance to Landon, addressing him now. “Lot of disruptive writing going around, huh?”

  “When did you get these messages?” Casaria asked.

  “Yesterday,” Vulcher answered hurriedly. “Morning, I think.”

  “After your grugulochs died,” Obrington said. He put his hands in his pockets and hummed. “Could be a Ministry agent upset at his job, farming out his knowledge?”

  Casaria shifted. “I didn’t tell them a damn thing.”

  Obrington turned square to him. “Come again?”

  “Yes, these were the bastards that jumped me. Who hurt me. On account of our run-in at Pax’s. But I got free, exactly as I reported, and I never said a word to them. I don’t even know what the hell they’d want with these tunnels.”

  Obrington stared silently. Landon, behind him, looked deeply uncomfortable. Obrington said, “You didn’t think it might be worth us following up on people who abducted a Ministry agent?”

  “We had big enough problems outside Ordshaw’s answer to the mafia, yeah,” Casaria said. Like hell he was going to apologise. “Management were screwing us on behalf of a monster, so I handled these people on my own. There was nothing to follow up.”

  “Just let them cut off your toe and be done with it?”

  “I gave as good as I got.”

  “He escalated things at the girl’s apartment,” Landon clarified. “They were there for her things. It’s not unreasonable to think it got personal.”

  “Uh-huh.” Obrington gave Vulcher another look, rocking on his heels. “No. You’re a liability and a lunatic, Casaria, but I don’t think you’re a traitor. At least, you’re not the first person I’d suspect, not when we’ve got a girl no one knows from Adam, secretly best mates with gangsters, asking me to keep our people away.”

  “Pax?” Casaria exclaimed. This lot were Pax’s friends, true. She’d talked them down from killing him. But she’d been trying to keep clear of them, hadn’t she?

  “We’ll bring her in,” Obrington said. “And get Support to double-check all the sensors in a mile radius. With luck, these mugs are responsible for all our complications.” He moved past Landon, who stepped aside.

  “And him?” Casaria indicated Vulcher. Obrington looked back like he’d forgotten their captive existed.

  “How do you usually dispose of them round here? Feed the beasts? Tree-grinder?”

  “What?” Vulcher’s panic doubled. “You can’t –”

  “We encourage them to leave town,” Landon said warily. Obrington snatched the pistol from his holster and aimed it at the small criminal, whose hands shot up.

  “How many more people know?” Obrington demanded loudly, as if talking to someone who couldn’t quite hear.

  “No one!” Vulcher sobbed. “It was me and him, bringing –”

  “You and him’s no one, with Mr Stacey Monroe pulling no one’s strings?”

  The criminal reconsidered, squeezing his eyes closed, shaking with fear. “Don’t shoot me, please don’t shoot me.”

  Obrington fired, the sound filling the room. The wall cracked over Vulcher’s shoulder. “Next one’s between your eyes.”

  “Monroe, yes! Me, Bees – Jones too. Maybe a few other boys in the warehouse, I don’t know – it was a big find, but everyone’s been busy with the poker game. Monroe didn’t want the distraction, not with all that money on the table. So Bees came here alone, seeing how far the tunnels went, and he found that thing, but we didn’t believe it – I came this morning, to check – Jones would’ve joined us later –”

  “Blow me, what a mess,” Obrington huffed. Aiming again towards Vulcher’s forehead, he turned a glance back to
Casaria, as though asking for approval. Casaria made an effort not to move, to show no trace of feeling at the threat. Landon was less stoic, grunting to say this was wrong. Obrington lowered the gun. “We’ll need to make other arrangements; the cancer’s already spread too far to disappear with one or two bodies.”

  Pax reached the underpass out of breath again, after her short dash down a road empy besides occasional old cars. Scanning the sky for anything birdlike coming to shoot her. Mind racing: not just at the disaster of being marked for assassination again, but hell, plunging back into the labyrinth? It had shaken off the Fae last time, but she’d barely survived. And the trip down with Ward hadn’t made her feel better about it, knowing even the empty rooms were disturbing. Every new thing she encountered in the Sunken City made life worse.

  A grim set of steps led to a maintenance panel, exactly as the little shirted man promised, with big screws at each corner, rusted in place. After making sure she was alone, not even the two gunmen for company, Pax reached towards the first screw.

  Her phone rang.

  Pax prayed for Sam Ward’s name – but Unknown Number glowed big and bold. Letty? She answered hopefully, “Yeah?”

  “It’s me,” Casaria said. She winced. Of all the lifelines. “Are you alone?”

  “I am,” Pax said. “And kind of mixed up in something.”

  “Whatever it is, this is more important.”

  “I doubt that.”

  “Your gangster friends found a way into the Sunken City. Someone helped them get past our sensors. The new bastard in charge at the Ministry wants you for it.”

  “Fuck – hell – whatever. If you can get the bloody Fae off my back, I’ll come. Casaria, I’m about to break into the Sunken City myself, otherwise I’m toast.”

  “What? No – don’t go near an entrance. Don’t even breathe on it.”

  His tone made Pax freeze, eyes on the panel. “Three fairies came shooting at me, and more are on the way. So unless you’ve got some kind of Fae-proof shield you can wire me through the phone –”