“Are you threatening me?” His hands twitched toward his pocket.
Snorting, I resumed my march across to the exit. Over my shoulder I emphasized, “And I never issue idle threats.”
The doors opened, and I was treated to the stunning view of Chomp-de-Marsh. As one of the most prestigious cultural centers Perish had to offer, the swamplands had been specially manicured to attract tourists from across the many-layered circles of the underworld. From my vantage point atop the tower, I could see its crazy-paving network of walkways and footbridges stretching off to the southeast. What’s more, even from this height, the gentle drone of the park’s mutant, flesh-eating insects provided a relaxing counterpoint to the urgent thrum emanating from the city itself.
Al managed to restrain his ire — just — and directed me toward an old style elevator at the very center of the upper deck. The place was crawling with thugs armed to the teeth with Hellishnikovs and M666s. At first, I thought my trigger-happy friend was still overreacting to my presence, but then I realized I was walking across the transparent polycarbonate roof of the nightclub itself. The muscle was obviously here to dissuade any antisocial behavior. No easy task, for Infernos attracted only the vilest and most affluent of patrons.
Talk about a volatile mix of perversion and privilege.
I tapped the resin with the toe of my boot.
But how thick is this stuff? I’m right on top of the DJ’s position, and can’t hear or feel a thing. Impressive. I’ll have to see about getting some for one or two of the special interrogation rooms back at the Den.
I never had a chance to ask, for moments later I was ushered into the cage. The doors clanged shut and my host depressed a red button at the bottom of the control panel. Al must have been eager for me to leave, for he kept hitting the thing so hard and so often it sounded as if he was tapping out an emergency SOS signal.
At last, the lift began to descend, albeit at a snail’s pace.
With a look of relief, he said, “Stay on the shuttle until you reach Gyre-Monpar le-Massacre. It’s a main station. You’ll know you’re getting close when you’ve passed Sèvered Limbe. Once at the Massacre, cross over the thirteenth track and head for the Pitched-Fork line. It runs north until Châttered Let, on the far bank of the Inseine.”
“Change at Gyre-Monpar le-Massacre. North to Châttered Let,” I repeated, “got it.” Then I remembered something important. “Hey, hang on . . . where does François actually live? All I know is that it’s somewhere in the Hotel-de-E’ville Horrondissement.”
“That’s where you’ll be getting off,” Al shouted back. “When you emerge at street level, just walk east onto Rue de l’Hôtel de E’ville. François’ place, Bistro Noir, is on the third street corner you’ll come to.”
Bistro Noir? I had to smile. Do they choose these names to deliberately reflect the nature of their undertakings?
As the car departed the top tier, its momentum picked up considerably. Its pace continued to increase, accelerating until its rate of descent bordered on terminal velocity.
Sneaky bastard! Is he trying to get one over on me again, like he did with the gun? Once this is all over and I’ve replenished myself in the Bãlefire, I’m definitely going to serve him up a huge helping of attitude adjustment.
Overhead cables screamed through the pulley system. Taking a deep breath, I summoned the power to phase, and held it at the threshold until I judged the time was right. The black and gray jigsaw of the surrounding city was looming larger at alarming speed. My gaze remained fixed on one focal point in particular; as it drew ever closer, I flexed my knees in anticipation.
Sparks flew as the hydraulic brake bit into the line. A tooth-jarring squeal split the air. The carriage abruptly decelerated so that I was catapulted to the floor. Regardless, the ground still rushed up to embrace me.
Too little, too late.
In an instant, my molecules were streaming through the ether toward my goal. I coalesced opposite a groundside ticket booth, just in time to see the cart flash through the safety lattice and disappear below ground.
A muffled boom and accompanying vibration signaled the moment my carriage smashed into the floor of the tunnel below. Armed goons sprinted from an adjoining building and down the stairs, only to run into a billowing cloud of choking dust and acrid fumes. Coughing, cursing and sneezing rang out amid the ensuing hullabaloo.
“Oh yes, very clever,” I mumbled aloud, “I can imagine his reaction if I were to confront him about this unfortunate accident. ‘Oh, sorry, Reaper. The brakes, line, emergency stop — whatever — must have failed’. As if.”
Denizens tend to forget I am a lot older than I look, and have been around the block a few thousand times. And yeah, I do talk to myself at times — an occupational hazard for those who can trust no one. But I also understood the rudiments of this style elevator enough to know that the disaster I had just witnessed was nigh on impossible. Even if the cable had snapped completely, special ratchetlike devices on either side of the car should have clamped the carriage in place.
Should have.
“Oh, I’ll be back for you, little king. I’ll be back.”
A quick assessment of the situation revealed that my would-be assassin had, in fact, done me a huge favor. The central control column was housed in a building adjacent to the main metro entrance. Because of his botched attempt to kill me, all of Al’s monkeys were now tied up, swinging from debris-coated tires in the basement. Judging from the hoots and hollers currently echoing up from below, they’d be there for a good few minutes yet, as it would take quite a while to dig through the rubble to confirm the presence of my poor shattered body.
In the meantime . . .
A group of bewildered sightseers stumbled past. Adjusting my hood, I blended in amongst them, and together we made our unhurried way into the station foyer. Once there, I joined the queue at the ticket gate, paid my due, and descended onto the waiting area.
The platform environment was a tribute to photonegative chic. Sterile white bricks and a brightly paved platform conflicted sharply with the coal-black gravel that had somehow leached into the iron-workings. Everything on the track — rods, rails, cross-ties — had been stained a brittle cobalt color.
CCTV cameras sprouted from all the walls and every overhead joist, so I employed the extra precaution of a glamour to alter my appearance. Thus protected, I settled back to await the next train. I didn’t have to wait long. Less than a minute later I stepped aboard a pristine shuttle, and sped on my way to my next rendezvous.
The journey in itself offered a surprise; understandable really, as I was used to the Olde London Underground, where travel was a dismal affair. There, soot-lined passageways ran along endless tunnels that resembled yawning black holes. On many occasions, they literally swallowed passengers whole. Where such travelers went, nobody knew, but those denizens were never seen again, not even on the Undertaker’s slab.
Here, however, the route was a monument to disparity.
One moment we’d be clattering through echoing stations, their cathedrallike environs creating a backdrop of mystery and shadow. The next we’d emerge into the baleful glory of the Perishian cityscape, resplendent with baroque architecture and rickety but quaint iron bridges that appeared far too flimsy to support our weight.
The sight was mesmerizing.
My change at Gyre-Monpar le-Massacre made me realize how well Al Catraz governed his territory. He obviously liked things clean and efficient. Sanitized. Bespeaking his clinical approach to leadership. Elsewhere, standards were obviously different.
The subway car serving the Pitched-Fork line was a mortuary on wheels. Headless corpses and disembodied entrails lolled and sloshed indolently within the carriage as it negotiated its sniper’s-alley gauntlet along the line. Those seats still upholstered were stained a morbid claret and brown, testimony to the skill of gunmen lining the roofs. Wire-mesh windows — mostly smashed, or decorated by bullet holes — gave little cover from
ubiquitous cross-hairs and telescopic laser sights.
Conditions weren’t any better outside.
Burnt-out vehicles and sizzling body parts lined the track. The closer we got to Notre Damned, the worse it got. Street gangs engaged in running battles, using the carriages themselves for cover or escape routes. Every so often the shuttle would rock from an explosion too close for comfort.
Now this is what hell is all about. Beelzebub, but I love it here!
My growing delight was tempered by a familiar ringtone: “You’re just like poison —”
So my friends at the Fiendish Bureau of Investigation had something for me. Ducking down, I tucked myself between two seats, removed my phone, and confirmed a call from either Bella or Donna Nightshade. Although they were way over on the other side of hell, I opened my mind to their astral signatures. Hopefully, I’d be strong enough to receive some cogent mental impression behind their words.
I wish I had a Denizen Guileless like that bastard upstart. It’d make this so much easier. Perhaps I’ll just take his when I’m finished with him.
“Hi girls, find anything useful regarding Cream?”
“It’s what we didn’t find that’s more interesting,” Bella replied.
“In what way?”
“Our initial enquiries showed the usual flitting about that all normal denizens engage in. Especially those hoping to ingratiate themselves among the highflyers and other notables in the employ of our Despicable Master. You know the type: Shakespeare, Marlow, Sulla, Attila, Frankenstein, and so forth.”
“Yes, he likes to suck up in an effort to glorify his own position. I know this already. So what’s new?”
“What’s new is the fact that three months ago his usual pattern of activity stopped, almost as if he dropped off the face of the netherworld. Now, we know he didn’t, because of the monumental fuck-up involving Victor’s vaccine.”
“You know about that?” A cold chill thrilled along my spine.
“Only what we need to know. Compartmentalization is our middle name. After all, we’ve been doing this long enough to prove that too much digging in the wrong area can induce a severe case of mind-wiped early retirement. Something we are keen to avoid.”
I breathed a huge sigh of relief.
“So, what do you know?”
“Either that Cream developed a sudden desire to stay in one place — highly unlikely — or, he reverted to other means of travel.”
I was momentarily confused. Then I recalled the information Bertran de Born had provided regarding the mysterious buyer, and that party’s interest in Tesla’s latest discovery.
“Go on . . .”
Donna took over the conversation: “Well . . . my investigation has revealed the other means we discussed remain fraught with danger. I’m still gathering all the details and will update you when I have specifics, but I’m starting to think that Cream may not only have illegal access to His Infernal Majesty’s bureaucratic network, but also to alternate channels which are strictly prohibited.”
“Are you referring to Tesla’s new acoustic work?”
A pregnant pause followed before Donna replied, “Yes, I am. How the bloody hell did you find out?”
“Hey, I’m Satan’s bounty hunter. I wouldn’t be much use if I didn’t have ways of uncovering secrets. And before you ask, yes, my source is reliable. For the time being, he or she will remain anonymous.”
Another silence ensued before Donna stressed, “I take it we can trust in your discretion? Such information cannot be bandied about willy-nilly.”
“Girls, please! Me, blab? Perish the thought. No, part of my assignment actually involves hunting down and silencing those who may have access to such knowledge; and since I’ve arrived here, the list is growing by the second.”
That thought reminded me of another important facet provided by de Born. “Actually, I may have something for you . . . Can you hang on a tic?”
Without waiting for a reply, I rolled out from my position and scoured the interior of the long carriage. Only two other passengers were traveling within this particular car. One looked like some kind of spiv in a zoot suit, while the other was a stinking lawyer, tail and all.
Wrong place, wrong time, guys.
In the blink of an eye, my sickle was in my hand and pointed straight at them. The shock of what was happening barely had time to register on their faces before I depressed the second gem down from the top. Two bright bolts of blue energy flashed from the tip. An anathema to their damned condition, the dual blast of God’s Grace caught them full in their chests. Writhing in agony within a sapphire nimbus for just a second, their desperate cries abruptly cut off as their forms disintegrated.
I spun back into position and resumed my conversation. “Sorry about that, ladies. I was just removing a few unwanted distractions.”
“Obviously, what you have to say is for our ears only?” Donna breathed huskily.
“You could say that. Although so many people seem to know about it, I’m beginning to think we have a leak.”
“A leak?” Bella snapped, strident and direct.
“Yes. From what I understand, Tesla’s latest innovation is still in the experimental phase, correct?”
“That’s right, go on.”
“And yet it’s already common knowledge among many within the criminal underworld. They could only have found out about it so quickly from one of the Devil’s Children.”
“That’s a bit of a sweeping statement, Daemon,” Bella argued. “You know how resourceful some of the condemned can be. This is hell, after all, filled to the brim with psychopathic geniuses and narcissistic overachievers. They have their own means of gaining and exchanging information. It’s a form of currency down here.”
“Point noted. And I would be inclined to agree were this confined to just this one aspect, but it’s not. I find it highly suspicious that I am involved in the pursuit of a subject — or subjects, I’m still working that bit out — who not only want access to instantaneous travel throughout our entire multiverse, but who also seem intent on gaining possession of ancient relics proscribed by law.”
Such as? the twins thought simultaneously, adopting the security of mindspeech.
Artifacts from the Time of Sundering.
I sensed their alarm, even at this distance.
Daemon, Donna sent, All knowledge of those times is banned.
As is any reference to the articles involved, or their history, added Bella.
“You needn’t tell me that,” I replied, reverting to open verbalization once more. “Few are privy to such sensitive matters, and on the short list of those who are, even we are near the bottom.”
“So there are bigger fish to fry.” Donna stated. “Or in this case, roast in Hades for millennia after being mind-wiped.”
“You can see the urgency of my dilemma.”
“Actually, we may be able to help you there,” Donna offered and Bella concurred.
“Really? How?”
“Well,” Donna continued, “before we got sidetracked, I was explaining how Cream may have illegal access to the Blue Suit portal network. Now, because of the security features incorporated within the Sheolspace continuum, he’d need to employ various glamours, pseudonyms, and disguises to get away with it. Even then, continued travel would be fraught with danger.”
“I’m already aware of that, Donna. How does it help me?”
“Well . . . what you don’t know is that everyone using the grid gets chipped.”
“Chipped?”
“Yes. Our Awful Father likes to keep tabs on all his subjects’ movements, no matter who they are. So he’s added an additional secret firewall to the matrix. Anyone passing through hydraspace gets DNHA-tagged.”
DeoxyriboNewHellcleic Acid? But . . . The penny dropped.
“Because no matter what kind of portal you use, legal, illegal, or one of Tesla’s dimensional rents, you must pass through hydraspace to get from one point in the continuum to anoth
er.” Brilliant! “And it won’t matter what disguise you’re wearing: you can’t change your DNHA.”
“I thought you might like it. We’ve got tapeworms interrogating the system as we speak. It’ll take the rest of the week, but we’ll have Cream soon, one way or another.”
“I like your —” The train entered a tunnel and everything outside went dark. Inside, things looked little better, since only one of the bulbs was working. Fortunately, I didn’t need any illumination to see clearly. We began to decelerate, and a faded sign affixed to a sidewall indicated we were arriving at my destination, Châttered Let.
I’m almost there. “Look girls, I gotta dash. I’m meeting someone who can clarify some of the points we’ve been discussing.” I was struck by a sudden brainwave. “Before I go, I’ve got a quick question.”
“Shoot!” they replied in unison.
“If you do get a result, can you run a separate diagnostic to identify anyone who has recently made a journey similar to Cream’s? I was thinking, if we get two or more corresponding patterns, those might give me a big clue as who his accomplices are.”
“No problem at all,” Bella replied. “We’ve got our own Hell Data Net servers, so I’ll begin a separate cross-tandem search along the parameters you suggested. Doing so might take a few days longer, but will save time in the long run.”
“Great news. I’ll catch up with you both soon.”
The shuttle pulled to a stop and the doors swished open. I received an instant hit of ammonia, feces, and rotten vegetables. The warbling tones of a busker strangling an out of tune accordion somewhere along the platform didn’t do much to ease the welcoming ambience.
Excellent. That reminds me to give the café bars and restaurants a miss while I’m here.
Hell Bound (Heroes in Hell) Page 8
