The Grand Dark

by Richard Kadrey

  The living room was enormous, the largest Largo had ever seen. The ceiling was two stories high and the large windows overlooking Heldenblut Bay were each a single pane of flawless glass. Almost everything in the room was white, except for the sofa and chairs, which were a vivid crimson.

  The room was crowded with guests and heavy with smoke. Young couples in tuxedos and evening gowns and older men with waxed mustaches mixed easily with artists in clothes that were no better than Largo’s. However, he noted that the artists were comfortable and wore their garb stylishly. Seeing the shabby artists made Largo feel better and more determined to relax and at least appear at home in his rags.

  Remy waved to a group of about eight people across the room. She tugged Largo to an oversize chaise longue where Lucie, another performer from the Grand Dark, had fallen asleep on her side holding a full flute of champagne that, miraculously, hadn’t spilled. Remy sat down next to Lucie and pulled Largo down beside her. She reached across the sleeping woman and gently plucked the champagne from her hand. “Lucie won’t mind,” Remy said, and downed the whole glass.

  Her artist friends, reclining on the floor atop pillows and draped on the sofa, laughed. Largo recognized Enki Helm, the blind painter who worked in the absurdist Xuxu style more, Largo suspected, out of luck than talent. There was Bianca, an aspiring opera singer whom Largo liked and who—famously—was discovered while singing for pennies in the streets. Baumann was there too. Of course he’s here. He was a young up-and-coming film actor so handsome that Largo wanted to slap him. Instead, he smiled at them all and they raised glasses or nodded in response.

  “Where have you been, Remy?” said Baumann, not even acknowledging Largo sitting beside her. “The evening couldn’t properly start without you.”

  Remy said, “I could say that I was working, but really I was waiting until you were done with your boring stories about which society ladies you’re sleeping with.”

  Baumann sat up in feigned indignation. “My affairs are never boring, and my stories even less so.”

  “That depends on how many times you’ve heard them,” said Bianca. “Really, you must bed either more of these old fraus or fewer more-interesting ones.”

  “Does anyone else have love advice for me?” said Baumann. “How about you, Largo? You’ve charmed lovely Remy here. What’s your secret?”

  Largo froze. He couldn’t think of a thing to say to the bright and witty group. Luckily, before his silence became awkward, he was saved by a Mara that approached the group with more champagne. During the minute or so it took for everyone to get a glass, Largo had time to think. “I’m just the right size,” he said.

  “What does that mean?” said Enki.

  “For her to dress.”

  Remy laughed, spilling champagne onto her lap. She took a napkin lodged under Lucie’s arm and wiped herself off, saying, “It’s true. He is the absolutely perfect size. Do you like his shirt? It belongs to Blixa Konstantin, the tragic victim in our second show.”

  Bianca gave a snorting laugh and fell against Enki. Hanna, a biological artist who designed custom chimeras for Lower Proszawa’s richest families, tugged open Largo’s jacket and ran her fingers teasingly over the shirt.

  “It’s lovely material,” she said. “If you were to die tonight you’d make a gorgeous cadaver.”

  Remy took Hanna’s hand away from Largo’s chest and placed it on her own. “And what about me? Would you sneak a feel of my corpse?”

  Hanna placed another hand on Remy’s breasts. She said, “Alive or dead, you always look good enough to eat.” Remy gave her a dainty kiss on the cheek.

  “Already on to necrophilia, are we?” said Strum, the poet. “Or is it cannibalism? And barely eleven o’clock.”

  Hanna sat down on a pillow at Remy’s feet. She looped an arm around one of Remy’s legs and one around one of Largo’s. He looked at Remy and she clinked her champagne flute against his. He didn’t know what that meant, but he smiled as if he did, wishing they could sneak off together and take more cocaine.

  Lucie said, “Strum was telling us about his new epic poem. What was it called again?”

  “The Sailor’s Call. It’s all empire and blood and sacred duty. Complete garbage.”

  “Then why did you write it?” said Bianca.

  “Because it paid more than my last two books combined,” he said in an attempt at a joking tone. “There’s art and there’s keeping a roof over one’s head. Sadly, in those moments, the roof always wins.”

  “How sad for you,” said Hanna.

  “If only you enjoyed the rain more,” said Baumann. “Then you could look at a roof as a luxury.”

  “True,” said Strum. “It’s my fault for being born a poet and not a duck.”

  A few of them laughed, but most smiled politely. Largo felt a pang of pity for the man. Seeing a respected artist forced to betray his gifts made him happy that he had no such ambitions. Before he could dwell on it, a shout cut into his thoughts.

  “It’s Frida!” Bianca said, pointing across the room to where an elegant woman in furs and a salmon-colored gown looked this way and that. “She must have married that Baron she’s been after. Frida!” yelled Bianca. The woman waved her over. Bianca and several other members of the group got up and went to her.

  The only ones left around the chaise were sleeping Lucie, Remy, Largo, Hanna, and Enki.

  “A Baron,” Enki said contemptuously. “The very class that’s ruining this country. They’ll drag us into another war before any enemy does.”

  “Please don’t start a tedious screed, Enki,” said Hanna. “Can’t you see I’m trying to seduce these young innocents? You’ll put them right to sleep.”

  “They’re already asleep,” said Enki. “So are you. So is everyone in this room. I’m telling you, we’re heading for a catastrophe.”

  Largo had never heard anyone speak with such passion about politics before. Well, he had, but only for a few seconds. He sounds like one of those cranks standing on a chair in the Triumphal Square, condemning both the upper classes and the bourgeoisie. If he hates everyone, though, who is he speaking to?

  “We must organize and resist the ruling class’s bloodlust,” said Enki. “Take up arms, if necessary.”

  “Arms?” said Remy. “I used to think your speeches were scandalous fun. But if you insist on being arrested for treason you’ll have to do that alone.”

  “I thought you were smarter than the others, Remy,” he said. “But you’re just another dullard artiste.”

  Largo stared at Enki, angry but torn, wondering if it was his place to speak up to someone so prominent in Remy’s artists’ circle. Finally, he couldn’t stand it. “Don’t talk about her like that. She’s right. You are a bore. And I’ve never liked your paintings. They’re as pretentious as your politics.”

  Remy laid a hand on Largo’s back and Hanna gave his leg a squeeze. “Good boy,” she said. Slowly, Largo settled back onto the chaise. It felt good to speak up, but it left him confused. Had he made a terrible mistake that would ruin Remy’s reputation with her friends?

  Enki said, “Largo to the rescue, so eager to attack a blind man. I wonder how brave you’ll be when the bullocks come knocking on your door?”

  “Why would they do that?” Largo said.

  “Do they need a reason?”

  What the hell does that mean? he wondered, before Branca’s comment about König came back to him. “It’s likely you won’t see him again.” Largo’s day had returned to being strange.

  As he considered that, the other members of the group came back with Frida in tow. Bianca had the elegant woman’s fur draped across her shoulders. “You might want to keep your trap shut for a while, Enki,” said Hanna. “The vile ruling class is almost upon us.”

  Frida greeted Remy and Hanna like old friends, and gave Largo a peck on each cheek when they were introduced. She and Enki studiously ignored each other.

  “How is everyone?” Frida said.

 
“Still sober,” said Hanna. “So, in a word, tragic.”

  Frida made a complex hand gesture at one of the servant Maras.

  “At once, ma’am,” it said, and left the room.

  She winked at the others. “A little secret I learned from the Baron. It’s not necessary to even talk to them,” she said. “We’ll have more drinks momentarily.”

  Largo couldn’t help noticing a chimera—a long snakelike body with a miniature wolf’s head—with its fangs buried in the Mara’s leg so that the automaton limped. More ugliness, he thought. He wondered if the chimera was one of Hanna’s creations. He’d ask her later, if he got a chance.

  “While we wait for our champagne . . . ,” said Frida. She reached into her purse and took out what Largo thought at first was a tube of lipstick. Frida unscrewed the top with great care, tapped out some powder onto her hand, and sniffed it up. Then she held out the tube to the others. “Does anyone care to join me?”

  The cocaine made its way quickly around the group. No one tried to hide what they were doing because many other partiers were doing the same thing. Even Enki took some of the powder. Largo wondered if he was trying to fit in or was simply a hypocrite. With luck, I won’t spend enough time with him to ever know.

  On the end of the chaise, Lucie sat up and looked around sleepily. “What happened to my champagne?” she said. Everyone in the group laughed. No one replied because Frida handed her the tube and Lucie squealed with delight. She snorted a copious amount of the powder and looked at Remy in surprise. “When did you get here?” she said.

  Remy put an arm around her and pulled her close, saying, “You’re a goose.”

  In a few minutes, Baumann presented the group with hashish cigarettes, which they also passed around. Riding the blissful high of the cocaine and hashish, Largo disliked the too-handsome actor a little less.

  The cigarettes made their way around the group once, then twice. The third time Remy puffed one she doubled over in a coughing fit. Lucie and Baumann laughed together. Largo patted Remy’s back, hoping it would help clear her lungs. It didn’t.

  “My god, she’s turning blue,” said Bianca. Hanna spun around and looked up at Remy’s face. She pushed Lucie and Largo off the chaise and laid Remy on her back. She was limp.

  “We have to get her breathing properly,” Hanna said. She tilted Remy’s head back and breathed into her mouth.

  Frida touched Baumann’s shoulder. “Do you know Dr. Venohr?”

  “Of course.”

  “Bring him here. Quickly.”

  Baumann jumped up and disappeared into the crowd, which remained oblivious to Remy’s situation. Largo held Remy’s hand as Hanna kept forcing air into her lungs. When, in a few minutes, she began to breathe on her own again, everyone relaxed. But it didn’t last long. Remy began to shake. Her arms bent up to her chest and her fingers twisted into claws. She grimaced and Largo had to hold her legs to keep her from kicking herself off the chaise.

  Hanna looked at him. “Has this ever happened before?”

  “Once or twice,” he said, “but never this badly.”

  “Was she taking drugs those other times?”

  Largo shook his head. “No. We were perfectly sober.”

  “Does she take medication for it?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  After subsiding for a few seconds, Remy’s convulsions came back stronger than ever. “Oh my god,” Bianca whispered over and over like she was praying.

  A moment later, Baumann returned in the company of a bald, bearded man in a tuxedo. Dr. Venohr gently pushed Hanna away from Remy so that he could look into her eyes. “How long have the convulsions been going on?” he said.

  “A few minutes,” said Largo. “They’ve never been this bad before.”

  “I’m afraid they have, but she didn’t want you to know about them,” said Dr. Venohr.

  Largo stared at the man. “You’ve treated her?”

  “I’ve known Remy her whole life. I’m an old friend of the family.”

  Largo wondered what else Remy hadn’t told him. But all he could think about right now was whether she was truly ill.

  What if she’s dying?

  “Can you help her?”

  Dr. Venohr opened a small black leather bag he had with him. “I believe so,” he said, and filled a syringe with a clear liquid from a small bottle. Tilting Remy’s head to the side, he injected the fluid directly into her jugular vein. Bianca continued repeating “Oh my god.” It was annoying, but no one bothered to stop her.

  With the shot, it took only a few seconds for Remy’s convulsions to subside. Her arms and hands relaxed. Her legs stopped shaking. The grimace faded from her face. It looked almost as if she were asleep.

  Largo said, “Is that it? Is she all right now?”

  “For the moment,” said Dr. Venohr.

  “Should we take her to a hospital?”

  “That shouldn’t be necessary. But we should get her home. And she mustn’t be alone tonight. I assume you can stay and watch her?”

  “Of course. For as long as it takes.”

  “Good,” said Dr. Venohr. He packed the bottle and syringe in his bag. “I’ll call for my car. Can someone help you bring her to the door?”

  Hanna and Baumann both volunteered.

  Dr. Venohr got up and went to call his car. Largo pulled Remy up from the chaise. Hanna got on the other side and together they lifted Remy to her feet. Baumann went ahead of them, making an opening in the crowd. When they reached the door, Largo said, “Could someone find her coat? I don’t want her to get cold.” Frida, who had followed them, gestured to a Mara. It bowed and moved off. When Dr. Venohr’s car pulled up outside, they bundled Remy into her coat and laid her down in the back seat. Largo got in with her. Dr. Venohr got in the back on the other side and checked her pulse.

  “Don’t worry,” said Frida through the open door. “She’ll be fine now that the doctor is here.”

  Hanna said, “I’ll call tomorrow to see how she is.”

  “Go,” Dr. Venohr told his driver, and they sped away.

  They rode in silence for what felt like a long time. Largo kept an eye on Remy while Dr. Venohr periodically checked her pulse. Finally, he nodded. “She’s stable. I’ll give you some pills for her. With the injection, she should sleep through the night, but you aren’t to leave her side for any reason.”

  “I won’t,” said Largo. Then, “I—I don’t have any money to pay you.”

  Dr. Venohr waved a dismissive hand. “Don’t be foolish. As I said, I’m an old friend.”

  “Thank you.” But he did feel foolish, and embarrassed. He felt like he needed to say something more, but he wasn’t sure what. “I notice you have a human driver. I thought someone in your position would have a Mara.”

  Dr. Venohr frowned. “I practically live with Maras all day and night at the laboratory. I don’t need them bothering me at home too.”

  “You don’t have any Maras at home?”

  “None. Don’t misunderstand me. Maras are lovely devices and invaluable to my work, but there are times when I prefer the company of humans or to be left alone.”

  “I understand. I’m not all that fond of them either,” said Largo, thinking of the dancing Black Widow. He wished he could tell Remy about it. He knew it would make her laugh.

  They fell silent again until Dr. Venohr said, “I hesitated to bring this up earlier with Remy’s friends present, and I don’t want to alarm you, but I’ll need to take some of Remy’s blood before I leave tonight.”

  “Why?”

  Dr. Venohr sighed. “Have you ever heard of what laypeople call the Drops?”

  Largo stiffened. People talked about the Drops all the time in Little Shambles, though he’d never seen a case himself. Supposedly, perfectly healthy people could be walking along the street, fall into a seizure, and be dead in an instant. Largo had never believed the stories, but now they made him afraid. “Yes, I have,” he said.

  “There’
s a slight chance—and I must emphasize that it is slight—that Remy’s convulsions are brought on by the virus that causes the Drops.” Dr. Venohr looked at Largo. “Tell me, does Remy buy goods on the black market? It doesn’t have to be anything large. It could be as small as a piece of jewelry.”

  “I don’t think so,” said Largo. “I’m sure she would have mentioned it.”

  “Excellent. Many black market goods are brought here from the ruins of High Proszawa. These goods can be contaminated with traces of the plague bombs dropped by the enemy during the Great War. The petty scavengers who loot the ruins are putting us all at risk.”

  “Oh,” said Largo. “I had no idea.” He could barely understand what was happening tonight. He looked at Remy. The possibility of her dying was absurd. Impossible. Still, he gripped her hand tighter. “She had a shot recently. She said it was vitamins. Could that be the problem?”

  Dr. Venohr said, “I’m aware of the injection. An associate of mine gave it to her. It has nothing to do with her current condition, I assure you.”

  “That’s a relief,” said Largo, feeling as lost as ever.

  The doctor checked Remy’s pulse again and said, “As I was saying before, even in the face of plague, life plays its jokes and presents us with little ironies.”

  “What do you mean?”

  The doctor looked at him. “Have long have you been addicted to morphia?”

  “I don’t . . . I mean, I wouldn’t . . .”

  “Come now. I’m not a police officer or your mother. I’m merely asking as a physician.”

  “Perhaps a year,” said Largo quietly. “Though I’m not really addicted. I just, Remy and I, we just like it.”