The Grand Dark

by Richard Kadrey

  Smoke from the coal towers blanketed the district in perpetual darkness. A thick crust of carbonous dust covered everything. Around the active buildings, workers left black footprints in their wake. By the warehouses where trains offloaded their cargo, there were great ebony dunes that turned to thick mud in the rain. Machtviertel had a hellish reputation in the city, partly for the environment, but also for its inhabitants. People lived in the older, disused power stations and warehouses. There was a saying in Lower Proszawa: “Those who live in Machtviertel are insane. But those who seek them out are madmen.”

  Chapter Six

  IT TOOK LARGO ALMOST AN HOUR TO BICYCLE THERE. HE STOPPED BESIDE the largest of the abandoned power plants, commonly known as the Black Palace. When it had been built, the dynamos’ home was a showcase for Lower Proszawa’s strength and ingenuity. The smokestacks rose one hundred feet into the air and the stonework on the front of the plant had been carved into old mythological scenes. At the top, giants pulled iron from the ground and molded it with volcanic fire. Lower and at street level, smaller spirits and artisans molded the iron into metal towers and wires, spreading light and power to a darkened land. Now, however, the Black Palace was a crumbling ebony hulk of sooty stone and rusted beams in a bleak field of coarse weeds.

  Largo chained his bicycle to the base of a collapsed light tower. A murder of crows huddled a few yards away. They lifted off at the sound of his chain on the steel, cawing and circling overhead, black bird-shaped holes against an obsidian sky. He looked up at the building, sure that if Herr Branca wasn’t trying to get his throat slit, then the delivery was his supervisor’s way of telling Largo that he’d been demoted to the point that he’d spend the rest of his days delivering God knew what to Lower Proszawa’s most desolate wastelands.

  Maybe I’ll be lucky enough to visit High Proszawa’s plague pits. Perhaps I’ll even get hazard pay. Then I’ll be able to afford a new flat and Remy can visit me there as I die of every foul disease known to man.

  The address on Largo’s parcel was for an office on the Black Palace’s fifth floor. He squeezed through a junk-filled gap where the towering front doors had once stood. The building was absolutely silent and as he climbed the stairs Largo began to wonder if the delivery was some kind of sick joke—the company sending him far into the outlands on a pointless trip to remind him that he was lucky to have a job at all. At each landing he became less scared, instead finding himself growing angrier at the idea that the trip might be for nothing. Maybe his fellow couriers were above him in the building, waiting for him to knock so they could all laugh in his face.

  Andrzej would love that.

  On the fifth floor, Largo found the office under a cracked skylight so caked with coal dust that the dim light that made it through a few open areas came down in gray shafts. He held the package under one of the light patches and read the address one last time. Yes, he was at the right door. But the building remained utterly silent. It was strange. In the worst hovels in Haxan Green, there were always sounds of life, even if it was just rats in the walls. The silence of the Black Palace was what Largo imagined being walled up in a tomb must be like.

  He went to the office and raised his hand to knock, but instead pressed his ear to the door. No—there was a sound. Low and rhythmic. Not the sound of voices or people, but the steady sound of a machine. Now Largo’s nervousness returned and he missed having the knife under his coat. His options were limited, and a quick look around showed nothing he might use to defend himself. He either had to turn tail and run, losing his job—and almost certainly Remy—or he could knock. In the end, he had no choice.

  He knocked.

  Nothing happened for a moment. But when he listened again, the sound of the machine had stopped. Before he could lean back from the door it swung open suddenly. Largo jumped back in surprise. The man in the doorway was as tall as Andrzej, but much larger. He wore a filthy sleeveless undershirt that revealed bulging arms and a barrel chest. His black beard was going gray and his greasy hair was combed straight back from his forehead. But as massive as everything about him was, it was his eyes that caught Largo’s attention. They were yellow, as was his skin. Jaundice, he thought, and quickly tried to remember if he’d ever heard about yellowed skin having anything to do with the Drops. He didn’t get to think very long before the man spoke.

  “Who are you?” he said in a deep, rasping voice. “I haven’t seen you in the Palace before.” The big man wiped sweat from his face with a green bandanna that hung loosely around his neck. His shirt was soaked through and there were large patches of glistening red on the front. To Largo he looked like a thief preparing stolen meat to sell on the black market. But who would run a butcher shop this far out, even if it is a crooked one?

  Largo stood up straighter and held out the parcel. “I have a delivery for this address,” he said. The room behind the jaundiced man looked empty except for the angular shadow of something distinctly machinelike on the back wall.

  The man’s eyes narrowed. “I’m not expecting anything,” he said. Turning, he shouted into the room, “Is anyone expecting a package?”

  To Largo’s surprise, several voices answered at once, men and women. A woman’s voice said, “Who’s it from?”

  The big man gestured at him. “Who’s it from?”

  Largo said, “I’m sorry, but there’s no return address.”

  Footsteps echoed as someone else came to the door. A woman said, “Let me see,” and pushed the big man out of the way.

  Largo leaned forward when he saw her, surprised.

  “Margit?” he said.

  She froze and stared at him. Her voice was angry. “What the hell are you doing here? I told you I’d see you at lunch.”

  “I know, I know. I’m here because of the parcel.” He held it up, as if it were all the explanation needed.

  “You know this whelp?” said the jaundiced man.

  Margit patted him on the arm. “It’s all right, Pietr. Largo is a friend from work.”

  “One of your customers, I suppose? An addict?”

  “No—shut up. Look at him. He just uses for fun, like a lot of people. Isn’t that right, Largo?”

  “Yes,” he said quickly. “Just for fun.” But he was already feeling a chill from the lack of morphia.

  “What’s he doing here?” said Pietr, menace creeping into his voice.

  Margit took the parcel from Largo’s hands and looked it over. “This is the right address. Someone must have sent for it.”

  “That’s madness,” said a man Largo couldn’t see. “No one would do that.”

  “You can’t speak for everyone. They’re not all here,” Margit said.

  “To hell with this,” Pietr said. He snatched the parcel from Margit, pulled out a stiletto, and cut open the wrappings. There were six large jars inside, each one a different color. The big man pulled one out and showed it to Margit. “Ink,” he said.

  “Yes. I can see,” said Margit. “It has to be one of the others. We do need more ink.”

  “I don’t like it,” growled the jaundiced man. “Maybe we should keep him here until everyone arrives.”

  “I’m telling you, Pietr, Largo is no one to worry about,” said Margit. She turned to Largo. “You should go now. Please don’t tell Branca you saw me.”

  “Of course not,” said Largo. “I take it you’re not here making a delivery, are you?”

  Margit gave him a thin smile. “Hardly,” she said. She reached into a pocket of her coat and pressed a bottle into Largo’s hand. “Forget what you’ve seen here. All right?”

  “But I have to tell Herr Branca something. And someone needs to sign for the package.”

  Pietr and some of the other unseen people laughed. The big man took Largo’s receipt book, scrawled something in it, and shoved it back into Largo’s hands. Margit said, “That should be enough for the old bear.”

  Largo looked at the signature. It was an indecipherable scrawl of loops and slashes. “It l
ooks fine,” he said. “But what are you doing here?”

  “None of your business,” a voice yelled from the back, while at the same time the jaundiced man said, “Trying to educate fools like you.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  Pietr disappeared for a moment and—after what seemed like a whispered argument with whoever else was inside—came back with a piece of paper. He thrust it into Largo’s hand. The ink was still tacky and some smeared on Largo’s fingers. There was a small target symbol in the bottom right corner. “Here,” said the big man. “Now the audience is over.” He started to close the door, but Margit caught it.

  “I’ll talk to you later,” she said. “By the gate. After work.”

  “I’ll see you there,” Largo said, still confused by the scene.

  For the first time Pietr smiled. His teeth were dark and stained. “Be careful that the crows don’t peck your eyes out, pup,” he said, and slammed the door shut. Largo pressed his ear against it and heard shouting voices on the other side.

  Largo didn’t linger to hear what they were arguing about. He shoved the paper Pitr had given him into his pocket and ran down the stairs.

  He composed himself as he got to the ground floor, however, knowing that like the Green, Machtviertel wasn’t a place to show fear. He’d missed his chance with the people upstairs, but he could at least appear unconcerned to anyone outside.

  But then Largo remembered the bottle Margit had put in his hand.

  He took it from his pocket. It was morphia. A bottle of it as big as the one Dr. Venohr had given him at Remy’s. He stood in a shadow by the stairs and stared at it happily. He quickly unstoppered it and put two drops under his tongue. Almost immediately, the chills left him and a gentle warmth moved through his muscles and bones. Pure morphia, he thought. Not watered down. Magical.

  Feeling much better, he put the receipt book into his shoulder bag and made his way out of the Black Palace to his bicycle. As he unchained it, the crows shuffled and cawed at him, utterly unafraid. But with the morphia in his system, so was Largo. He rode swiftly back toward the courier depot.

  On his way out of Machtviertel, however, Largo had a coughing fit so violent that he had to stop on the side of the road. When he blew his nose with a handkerchief, what came out was as black as soot. As good as the morphia made him feel, he was still relieved to put Machtviertel behind him.

  It was a long ride back to the office.

  Chapter Seven

  HERR BRANCA SET DOWN HIS PEN AND APPLAUDED MIRTHLESSLY WHEN Largo arrived. “The prodigal son returns, and in one piece. Did you receive a warm welcome in Machtviertel?”

  “I was greeted with open arms. At least by the crows.”

  “And the people?”

  “They were more reluctant, but I successfully delivered the parcel.”

  “Merely reluctant?” said Branca. “I hadn’t heard that shyness was common among the denizens of the district.”

  “Maybe ‘shyness’ isn’t the right word. They certainly weren’t used to receiving deliveries.”

  Branca leaned on his desk. “What were they like, your reluctant customers?”

  Largo thought carefully about his answer. He’d formulated a story on the ride back, but the morphia let his mind drift and now he couldn’t remember much of it. “There was a man and woman. An old couple. They didn’t want to come to the door at first, but I talked to them until they were reassured that it was safe to accept the package.”

  “That was very professional of you. It was just the two of them then?”

  “As far as I could see.”

  Branca put out his hand. “Do you have your receipt book?” Largo handed it to him and he looked it over. “That’s quite a signature. Is it the man’s or woman’s?”

  Even light-headed from the morphia, Largo remembered the most basic rule of lying: stay as close to the truth as possible. “The man’s. It is a bit of a mess, isn’t it? His hand shook a bit as he signed it.”

  “That explains it, then. I take it there was nothing else interesting or notable at the Black Palace?”

  Largo looked at his supervisor. “You’ve been there?”

  Branca placed the receipt book in a desk drawer. “Many times,” he said. “I wasn’t born behind this desk, you know. I made my share of deliveries when I was your age.”

  Largo tried to picture a young Branca riding a bicycle through traffic, cutting around pedestrians, cabs, and speeding military juggernauts. It was like something from a dream of flying—very strange and extremely hard to believe.

  “I’m sure it’s changed since you were there, but it was my first trip so I’m not sure what qualifies as unusual. Perhaps if I go back sometime—”

  He immediately regretted saying it. What if the bastard takes it as an invitation to make me the company’s representative to the hinterlands? I’ll have cancer in a year and no tips to show for it.

  Herr Branca turned his head and looked at Largo from an odd angle. “Did you hurt yourself on the way back?” he said.

  Largo looked down at himself. “I don’t think so.”

  “Your hand is bleeding.”

  Damn, he thought. He wiped his fingers on his coat. “I’m fine, sir. It’s just a little ink.”

  “Ink from what?”

  Damn again. Why didn’t I wash my hands on the way in? he thought. It was the morphia, of course. He promised himself to be more careful in the future.

  “Just something I found on the street on the way out of Machtviertel. To tell you the truth, I didn’t even read it.”

  “Do you still have it?”

  Largo felt stuck like a butterfly with a pin through its middle. If he said he didn’t have it Branca would ask why he didn’t say that in the first place. And what if Branca searched him and found the paper and the morphia? That would be the end of all his dreams. Besides, he didn’t really owe them anything—although thinking about Margit made him feel a bit unsure. Still, he couldn’t think of any alternatives, so he gave in. Largo patted his pockets, trying to look calm and composed. He smiled when he seemed to discover the paper in one of them, and reluctantly handed it over.

  Branca opened the sheet and scanned it slowly. “Did you read this?”

  “No, sir. What does it say?”

  “Seditionist trash,” said Branca. “You say you found it on the ground?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Branca turned the paper over and looked at the back. “It’s remarkably free of dirt. And the ink was still wet when you found it? I can’t say I’m surprised. Machtviertel is swarming with radical hotheads. It’s all the dust, you see. It addles the brain.”

  Largo nodded, trying to look as if he agreed completely. “That makes sense.”

  Branca looked back at the paper. “You should be careful about what trash you pick up in the future. Your policeman friend—Tanz, I believe, is his name—was here earlier. After the incident this morning, I can’t imagine what he’d think if he found this on you.”

  Just hearing the undercover officer’s name made Largo tense. The sweet calm of the morphia all but disappeared. He thought about the Sergeant and what he’d said earlier. “An anarchist and a drug addict? At headquarters they’d feed him to the dogs.”

  “I see what you mean. I’ll be more careful in the future.”

  Branca wadded up the paper and threw it in the trash. From a desk drawer, he removed a new receipt book and handed it to Largo. “For this afternoon’s deliveries.”

  Largo was putting the book in his shoulder bag when something occurred to him. “Excuse me. This book is new, as was the one you gave me this morning. If you don’t mind me asking, will I always get new receipt books?”

  Branca held out the previous receipt book so that Largo could see the red stains along the edges. “This one is soiled. We can’t have our customers signing dirty books, can we?”

  “No, of course not.”

  “I’m glad you approve.” Branca took out a pocket watch and c
hecked it against the office clock. “You had a long ride this morning. You may take an early lunch so that you can go home and fetch your knife.”

  “Thank you,” said Largo.

  “And wash that filth off your hands before you contaminate another book.”

  “Right away, sir.”

  Branca picked up a Trefle that sat on the side of his desk and waited for the operator. He flicked his wrist, waving the back of his hand. “That’s all, Largo. You may go.”

  “I’ll be back soon.”

  “How delightful.”

  Largo went to the employee toilet near the loading dock and washed the red ink off his hand with a coarse bar of gray soap.

  With the extra time, Largo was tempted to have another drop of morphia, but he couldn’t afford to be foggy-headed again. He checked an inside pocket of his coat and found the vial of cocaine. It was just small enough that the Sergeant hadn’t found it earlier, especially after he’d been distracted by the morphia. Largo thought it over and decided to use a little powder when he was back at his flat. It would sharpen him up for his afternoon deliveries and still leave enough to share with Remy in the evening.

  With those warm thoughts, the morning was already fading away.

  When he reached Little Shambles, the traveling carnival he’d seen earlier in the butchers’ quarter was there, giving another impromptu performance. Largo hung at the back of the crowd at first, not watching the show but looking at the people, scanning the ragged mob for the police. When he didn’t see any he got closer—but stayed on his bicycle in case he had to get away quickly.

  The performers were the same ones he’d seen in the morning. Keeping with the habits of Little Shambles, the clowns didn’t juggle meat this time but bottles of beer and whiskey. The beautiful acrobats did tumbling runs in the dirty street. There were some contortionists he’d missed earlier, bending themselves in unpleasant ways that reminded Largo of the convulsing man. Not wanting to relive that moment, he went around to the far edge of the crowd, where the chimeras were performing.