Department Zero

by Paul Crilley

  I open the file that Ash prepared. “The world of Imeskal, also known as the Sundered Lands.”

  “Catchy name,” says Graves.

  “Imeskal is a Class Z world.” I pause and look at Graves. “What does that mean?”

  “Don’t cream your pants, but it means a magic-based world.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Seriously.”

  “Like . . . Conan-type magic? Priests and wizards and stuff?”

  “I don’t know. You haven’t read the briefing to me yet.”

  I go back to the file. “Religion is based around the Old Ones. The priests of the Old Ones rule over the monarchy and the government on all pedestals.” I pause and look at Graves. “Pedestals?”

  “Just read! My God!”

  “Thousands of years ago, a war between the priests of different Old Ones ripped the world apart. The crust of the world was eaten away, leaving behind pedestals of land supported on huge pillars of rocks.” I grin at Graves. “That is so cool.” I go back to reading. “The Abyssal Sea is a world-spanning ocean, and the pedestals of land—some continent-sized—rise up from these waters. Various races and cultures have sprung up over the millennia, corrupted by the magic that was loosed in the war, much like radiation would change people in a Class A reality.”

  I turn the page, but there’s nothing more. “That’s it.”

  “That’s it?” Graves opens one eye and sighs. “Not much help, is it?”

  I put the file down. Rickety shutters block the windows. I pull them open. Blinding light barges into the room. I squint and peer outside. A dry landscape. Rocky plateau. A dark blue sky with distant thunderheads building up on the horizon.

  I frown in confusion at what I’m seeing. The afternoon sun has dropped behind something in the distance. It looks like a huge land mass, a spire with a massive flat top, gold-limned and silhouetted against the sky like a thirty-mile-high letter T. I shift my gaze farther back. I can see more of these land masses—the pedestals mentioned in the briefing—in the distance, still shining in the summer sun, colossal pillars of rock supporting their own plateaus of land.

  How goddamn cool is this? A real magical world to explore. I can’t keep the grin from my face.

  “You realize if we don’t find the jewel all this—” Graves waves out the window, “—will be destroyed.”

  “I know.”

  “And our world. And all the worlds.”

  “I know.”

  “Then stop smiling.”

  “I can’t.”

  “You can’t? We’re trapped here. You understand? Cut off from help. Cut off from the Slips. Stranded on a world we know practically nothing about. We have no guide, no ICD resources, nothing. We’re on our own.”

  “Right.”

  “And you still won’t stop smiling?”

  “Nope.”

  “Wonderful,” says Graves. “I’m working with an imbecile. Right then. I suppose our first task will be to try and find out where Nyarlathotep and his hounds have gone. They came through here about . . . what? Two days ago? They might even have this jewel by now.”

  “Wouldn’t we all be dead then?”

  “Good point.”

  He crosses to the door. He pulls it open to reveal a small, filthy man standing there, his mouth a wide O of surprise as he reaches for the door handle.

  “Are you Jacob?” demands Graves.

  The little man hurriedly performs a clumsy bow.

  “Begging yer pardon, milord, but yes I am. I was tendin’ the drifters and didn’t hear ye arriving.”

  “Milord?” Graves frowns suspiciously. “How long have you been here?”

  The small man squints his jaundiced eyes. “About . . . ooh, fifteen years?”

  “Fifteen years? That’s too long.”

  “That was my thinking too,” says Jacob. “At first. Then after the first five years I just stopped wondering. You’re the first person to come through since I’ve been here. Have to say I’m a bit surprised the gate still works.”

  “Right,” says Graves. “Well it does . . . and here we are. Important ICD business. Can you take us into the closest city?”

  “Of course! Come, come.” He turns and leads the way through a narrow passage. “Misha will look after you.”

  Misha? I look at Graves, but he just shrugs and quickens his steps to catch up with the surprisingly spry Jacob.

  “Who’s Misha?” I ask.

  “Misha. She’s my special girl. Mothered all my drifters, she did. ’Course, she’s gettin’ on a bit now. Reckon one of her brood’ll have to take over soon.”

  Which leaves me no closer to understanding.

  Jacob arrives at a rickety door and pushes it open, letting the harsh afternoon light into the corridor. We follow him outside onto a small lip of land barely ten feet wide, leading to what looks like the edge of a cliff. I walk forward and peer over the edge. It’s disorienting, but I realize I’m standing on one of those strange pieces of land balancing on top of the thousand-foot-high spires of rock.

  I just catch a glimpse of a raging ocean far below, half-obscured by mist and clouds. I take a hasty step back, vertigo causing my head to spin. Jesus. How high up are we?

  Traveling along the edge of the pedestal is a wooden framework bolted into the rock. Small piers travel out from the framework directly into thin air, supported underneath by slanted iron pilings driven into the rock.

  But it’s the sight of what is tethered to the framework that draws my attention. One of the strangest creatures I’ve ever see. A huge . . . I don’t know what it is. A cross between a jellyfish and a tick. It bobs in the air like a balloon, a huge, bulbous thing about ten feet high, hanging from a cable that disappears out over the pedestal and into the clouds. The creature shimmers in the light, green and purple hues sparkling in a pearlescent sheen.

  “This is Misha,” says Jacob proudly, gesturing to the floating creature. “She’ll take you across. She’s the only one charged up, you see.”

  He gestures to the left where I see more of the creatures. But these ones aren’t floating. They’re about a third the size of Misha and sit in support frames, their skin thicker and less translucent.

  “Why are they so small?” I ask.

  “It’s the sun,” says Jacob eagerly. “The beasts absorb sunlight and fill with gas.” He points at something I hadn’t noticed, a man-sized slit at the back end of Misha.

  “That is a birth sac,” says Jacob. “What happens is, they reach sexual maturity and begin absorbing energy from the sun, you follow? They convert it to gas and float up.” He waves into the sky. “It’s a strange cycle. I’ve never been able to figure out what the point is. The higher they float, the more energy they convert into gas, and the higher they float. At a certain level eggs start gestating in the sac.”

  “These are Flying Polyps,” says Graves. “The Old Ones used them as hunting beasts. They can channel the wind, use it to suck their prey toward them. Or pin them against the walls.”

  “They’re not like that here,” says Jacob defensively. “They’re gentle animals.”

  “Gentle? They’re mindless killers!”

  “These ones have adapted. Come, come. I’ll show you.” Jacob steps onto the pier and then heads inside the slit on the back end of the creature. I look at Graves. He shrugs and follows.

  I hesitate. Because, come on. Entering a floating creature through its vagina was not in my job description.

  Graves pops his head out, and I can’t shake the thought that it looks like he’s being born. “Come on!” he snaps. “We don’t have all day.”

  Nothing else for it. I enter through the slit, stepping gingerly into cool darkness. I look around in surprise. It doesn’t look like the inside of a creature at all. More like a cockpit. The floor is made of the same bony material as the ridges around the slit, but there are winches and controls mounted on the walls.

  Jacob reaches past me and releases the mooring rope, talking as he does s
o.

  “After her eggs absorb enough sun, they rip this opening in the back here and pop out, drifting away to start their own lives. The mother—” he reaches out and pats the wall closest to him, “—keeps sucking up sun until—bang!” He claps his hands together with a sudden smack. “They explode.” He squeezes past us and spins a small wheel. With a light swaying motion, the drifter turns slowly on its axis.

  “People prefer to see where they’re headed instead of watching what they leave behind,” explains Jacob.

  The drifter turns full circle. I can now see blue sky through the slit. Jacob gently turns another wheel, and with a slight lurch we begin moving along the cable that disappears into the distance.

  “What we did,” says Jacob, “is steal the idea from the slyth. The slyth are this world’s version of . . . I suppose we’d call them elves.”

  I turn to look at Jacob. “Elves?”

  “Sort of. They’re thin and have pointy ears? But their skin gets translucent as they get older. So the oldest of them are see-through. You can see their hearts pumping, their lungs drawing breath . . . everything.”

  “That is so cool,” I say.

  “No it’s not,” says Graves. “And stop saying ‘cool.’”

  “You say groovy.”

  “Groovy is a timeless word.”

  “It’s really not.”

  “It is. And before you ask, no, you cannot see these slyth creatures.”

  “Oh, come on! Why not?”

  “Because we’re not here on a sightseeing trip. We have things to do.”

  “God, you must be so much fun at parties.”

  “Hate them. Why would I want to travel to someone’s house just so I can stand around in the kitchen?”

  I open my mouth to give a witty retort, then stop. What can you say to that?

  I turn away and stare out the opening of the drifter. I can hardly believe this. I mean, I’ve seen some weird shit the past couple of days, but this. Traveling through the air of a magical world inside a . . . living taxi. I can’t help it. A huge grin splits my face again.

  The wind picks up, blowing against my face, bringing tears to my eyes. I look around to find Graves staring at me with disgust. I turn back to the view before me. Maybe he’s too jaded to enjoy this, but I’m not. Christ, I hope I never get used to this. How can you?

  After half an hour of travel we pass into a thick cloud layer, the rope disappearing some ten feet ahead of us. The only sound is the slight hissing as the wheels slip over the greased cable. Wind ruffles my hair, and after a moment I realize I can smell something. Like . . . cooking meat.

  I squint my eyes and lean eagerly forward. We must be drawing close.

  And then, like a stage magician whipping aside a white cloth to reveal the trick hidden beneath, the clouds part and I see our destination for the first time.

  “Here we are,” says Jacob happily. “The city of Sheil.”

  Late-afternoon sun beats mercilessly down, sucking up heat waves that distort the air. The city sprawls over the whole plateau, some ten miles from edge to edge. Buildings and houses push up against each other, tighter and tighter the closer to the perimeter they get, so it looks like they’re going to trickle off the edges. Everything is coated in tints of brown. Here a dark umber, there a dull sepia, here a deep ochre. Even the whitewashed walls are tinged with dust.

  Thousands of greasy food stalls release thin stalks of wavering smoke. Pulley ropes travel the pedestal’s circumference, winches and counterweights pulling massive baskets up from the base of the spire.

  “The draku send up their cheeses and wine with those,” says Jacob, noting the direction of my stare. “They live inside the spire.”

  I tear my gaze away from the sight before me. “What, inside the actual rock?”

  Jacob nods eagerly. “Little people, they are. Shorter than me, even. Live their whole lives in those spires.”

  I laugh and look at Graves. “Dwarves!”

  He points at me. “No!”

  I turn back to the city. Strange, bat-like creatures fly through the air, some disappearing under the lip of the pedestal, others fluttering about seemingly at random. A flight of red birds, flying in perfect formation, dive toward the ground for some hidden treat, a bright flash of color against the muted tones of the city.

  The buildings seem to rise higher as we approach. Three, four, sometimes five rickety floors pile one atop the other and lean precariously over tiny alleyways that seem far too small to be of any use to anyone. The shouts of street vendors as they ply their wares float up, the raised voice of good natures haggling and the shouted voices of those cheated from their money.

  Jacob pulls hard on a lever, and the drifter judders and lurches, tilting suddenly forward. I grab hold of the sides as the opening we used to enter the creature swings sickeningly beneath me.

  We dock at a wooden pier and climb out of the creature. People mill around, bumping into us, loud and sweaty.

  “Thank you, Jacob,” says Graves. “You can head back across now.”

  “Thank you, milord. Think I’ll do some shopping first. Running low on toilet paper.”

  “Do they have toilet paper here?” I ask. “I always wondered what they did in these fantasy worlds.”

  “They do, yes. It’s a bit rough, if you know what I mean, but it gets the job done.”

  “Wonderful,” says Graves. “Now that’s cleared up, can we get to work?”

  Jacob waves and moves into the crowd.

  “Right,” says Graves. “We ask around about the Jewel of Ini-taya. If it’s as powerful as the spear, people will have heard about it. But . . . make sure you’re surreptitious, yes? Like a spy.”

  “A good spy? Or a bad spy.”

  “Bad spy?”

  “Yeah,” I say. “Like, James Bond. You heard of him?”

  “No.”

  “He’s a spy, but everywhere he goes, he’s like, ‘The name’s Bond. James Bond.’ And they all know exactly who he is.”

  “And this Jimmy Bond is still alive?”

  “Well . . . he’s not real, but yeah, he’s alive. In the movies.”

  “That’s ludicrous. I refuse to believe the viewing public would continue to watch something so stupid. I think you’re lying to me. Now come.”

  Graves strides off into the crowd. I follow, trying to keep him in sight as we make our way through the afternoon streets. I stare around in awe. The warm wind flaps the multicolored awnings and shade cloths of a thousand barrows and stalls, the billowing snaps sounding like the crack of a whip. Hawkers try to entice me to buy cooked lizards on a stick, or greasy pastries that drip oil over the sellers’ hands. One stall sells only metal cogs and gears, some rusted, some shiny and silver as if brand new. Another one is selling intricately carved dolls’ heads, the detail in the features making them seem alive. I risk a brief stop by a barrow selling ancient-looking books and brittle scrolls. I study their faded leather covers, the elegant curling writing that adorns the spines.

  “Pre-sundering, astah,” says the deeply tanned owner of the barrow. “Only three hundred sterini.”

  I shake my head and get moving again. I turn a corner and almost collide with a rickety cage pulled by a three-legged creature with all the fur shaved from its body. I stare as it passes, then jump back as a hand tries to grab my hair. I bat it away and see an arm grasping from inside the cage. I peer through the bars and see that it is full of filthy humans. The one who had grabbed me is a young man with frightened eyes and a week’s growth of beard.

  “Help me, astah,” he croaks. “I did nothing.”

  “Harry!” yells Graves.

  I hurry to catch up with Graves. “Where are we going?”

  “The place where the talk flows freely.”

  “A pub?” I ask hopefully. “I could do with a drink.”

  “No. Not a pub. Pubs are distractions. I’m talking about the docks. In this case, the air docks.”

  “Didn’t we just leave
there?”

  “Not those. I’m talking about where food and cargo is brought into the city. I’m looking for workers, my boy. Workers who like to chat.”

  It takes us about half an hour to get to where Graves wants to go. The houses and shops are gradually replaced by warehouses and offices. We walk past alleyways stinking of rotting fish and filled with discarded bones. Packs of hungry dogs fight their way through the detritus, their ribs showing through mangy fur. The crowds slowly thin out, and for the first time since we stepped off the drifter I find myself able to take a breath without inhaling somebody else’s sweat.

  We eventually reach the lip of the pedestal. The warehouses stop suddenly in a neat line, and beyond them is about twenty feet of flat ground where men grunt and curse as they shift crates from pulleys and lifts, shoving them along the ground.

  “These guys don’t look like the talkative type,” I say.

  “Nonsense. Don’t be classist, Priest. It’s unbecoming. You go right and I’ll go left. We’ll meet up back here in one hour.”

  Before I can say anything, Graves strides off to talk to the workers. I sigh, then approach the nearest man who looks as if he knows what is going on. He’s smaller than the others, and has a gaping hole where his eye should be.

  “Uh. Hi there,” I say, furiously concentrating on the man’s good eye. “New in town. Me, not you. Obviously.” I laugh, but it sounds forced and serial killer-ish. I wince. “Sorry. Look, I’m actually searching for information on a . . . piece of art or something. It’s called the Jewel of Ini-taya. Don’t suppose you’ve heard of it?”

  The man stares at me for a moment, then turns and walks rapidly away. Rude. I approach another worker but get the same result, except this time accompanied by a quick flash of fear.

  I ask again and again, but I get no answers, only variations on the themes of fear, insults, and anger. No one knows anything about the jewel. Or if they do, they sure as hell aren’t telling me.

  I make my way dejectedly back to the meeting point. I hope Graves had more luck. As I pass the dusty wall of a warehouse, I hear a voice.

  “Hey. Hey, you.”

  I stop walking. The voice came from a little alley between two warehouses. I peer into the shaded pathway. “Yeah?”