The Grand Dark

by Richard Kadrey

  The lift reached the bottom floor and Largo started out, practically floating—

  Straight into Pietr’s path. The man’s arms were crossed and he held the large wrench against his chest.

  He said, “Everywhere I go, you turn up. What are you doing here?”

  Largo’s good mood vanished, making him hate the man even more. He said, “I’m doing the same thing I was doing when I met you last time. Making a delivery. It’s what I do. Are you capable of grasping that? I brought ink to you and a box to the Baron.”

  Pietr looked at him. “What kind of box?”

  “I don’t know. A box sort of box.”

  “Did you look inside it?”

  “Of course not,” said Largo “That’s against regulations.”

  Pietr spit on the ground. “Naturally. A good boy like you would never bend the rules.”

  Largo felt the knife against his chest. He looked at Pietr’s wrench. “I don’t have time for this. Either hit me with that thing or get out of my way.”

  Pietr seemed to consider the possibility, but he finally stood aside and let Largo pass. “I don’t want to see you here again.”

  Largo spun around. As nervous as Pietr made him, he couldn’t be permitted to get between Largo and the Baron. He said, “I have duties to get back to. Why don’t you go back to yours and leave me to mine?”

  “This is mine.” Pietr glanced up. “Things sometimes fall from up there, you know. Squash people flat.”

  “I’m going now,” said Largo, knowing what it could mean to turn his back to Pietr.

  Sure enough, the moment he turned around he felt a hand on his neck. He found himself lifted off the ground an inch or two and shoved toward the lift. Largo squirmed from Pietr’s grasp and landed on his feet. When the big man tried to grab him again, Largo pulled the knife.

  Pietr looked genuinely surprised. He stepped back, let the arm with the wrench drop to his side, and stepped back. “Don’t come back here again,” he said.

  “You and your seditionist friends can’t stop me.”

  “I bet we can,” said Pietr as he disappeared around a corner.

  Largo waited a moment before turning his back on the door. When he was certain that Pietr wasn’t going to rush him from behind, he got on his bicycle and pedaled away from building 3.

  Trucks, cars, and juggernauts rolled down the long driveway into and out of Schöne Maschinen. The gate was fifty yards ahead. A line of six Black Widows followed one of the trucks, crates and loads of steel on their backs. As before, Largo rode along the shoulder of the road to avoid the larger vehicles. His head pounded and he was sweating from the adrenaline rush of the encounter.

  He was halfway to the open gate when he heard a loud bang and turned around to see what had happened. One of the trucks behind him had spun halfway around and crashed into the side of an automobile. Largo stopped, wondering if anyone was hurt. He was starting back toward the accident when he saw what caused it. Two Black Widows had dumped their loads and were making their way around the damaged vehicles.

  Largo pulled his bicycle farther off the road to let the Widows pass, but as he moved, they moved with him. Puzzled, he rode slowly to the other side of the road. The Widows followed. Then he moved to the center of the road. The moment a Widow moved in the same direction, Largo had seen enough. He turned his bicycle and pedaled away as fast as he could.

  Ahead, the factory gate was slowly closing. Largo rode even faster. He didn’t need to look back to know that the Widows were gaining on him. As strong a rider as he was, there was no way he could match their speed. Still, there was nothing he could do but pump his legs and stop for nothing.

  He made it through the gate as it was dangerously close to slamming shut. A tram full of people glided by as he sped into the street. Largo had to cut Margit’s bicycle hard to the right to keep from slamming into the rear of the car. It was a slow and clumsy maneuver, one that would have been easy on his own bicycle.

  The sky was clear, but it had rained recently and his back wheel slipped in a shallow puddle, almost sending him face-first onto the pavement. He regained his balance just in time to hear a loud crunch of metal from behind him. Largo glanced back and saw that the second Widow never made it out of the factory and had instead crashed into the gates. However, the first Widow was luckier. It had escaped and was quickly closing in on Largo.

  Krahe Vale, the street on which Schöne Maschinen was located, was a straight, wide boulevard with nowhere to hide. When Largo reached the avenue that led to the Great Triumphal Square, he sped onto it—and still the Widow followed. As soon as the machine turned, Largo cut down a narrow side street. The heavy Widow wasn’t able to turn as quickly and when it tried, it slipped on the wet pavement and slid into a stall selling yellowsheets.

  After racing along two narrow blocks, Largo went down a long alley that ran by a row of squalid tenements housing foreign dockworkers. He had to dodge passersby and a horse-drawn wagon piled high with trash.

  At the far end of the alley, where it opened onto the main riverfront road, he stopped. Sweating and out of breath, he gulped in lungfuls of river air that smelled of wet, rotten wood and the day’s catch from the fishmonger shops.

  What’s happening? he wondered. He’d never seen a Widow malfunction before. If it was a malfunction.

  Pietr. He had to have something to do with it.

  Largo’s hands trembled slightly, but he wasn’t sure whether it was adrenaline or the fact he’d taken only a little morphia in the morning, hoping to see Remy at lunch. He was wondering briefly if he’d be able to stop long enough to take a drop when he heard screams behind him.

  The Widow was at the far end of the tenement alley, racing toward him. Terrified parents grabbed children from the street, throwing themselves out of the way of the speeding machine. It sent street carts flying and smashed through the wagon, knocking the horse onto the sidewalk. Largo forgot about the morphia and rode as fast as he could onto the riverfront road.

  He sped along the docks as weathered men in heavy coats hauled crates off ships to where they were loaded onto trucks by rusting Maras. Largo had to weave his way through the crowds of workers, piles of boxes, and cargo nets. The Widow, he knew, wouldn’t be so careful. He heard shouts from behind him, screeching tires, and splintering wood as the charging machine ran straight through the busy dock.

  Largo was getting tired. He knew he couldn’t keep going at full speed for much longer. However, there were no side streets for him to veer into, just rows of warehouses on his right and moored ships on the left. His hands trembled and even though he was hot with perspiration, Largo felt an inner chill. If only there had been a few more seconds to get the morphia, he thought.

  Judging from the sounds behind him, the Widow was trailing him by just a few yards. He looked to his right, hoping for a route that would get him off the dock, but the line of warehouses stretched into the distance. Ahead, a flatbed truck heavy with cargo pulled out of a warehouse. The dock was narrow at this point and the truck was large. It blocked the road as it maneuvered around piles of goods and machinery. Largo knew he couldn’t stop or the Widow would be on him, and he couldn’t ride around the truck without falling into the river or crashing into the warehouse. Still, he veered left toward the water.

  At the very edge of the dock, he jerked the bicycle in a clumsy, violent arc away from the river. Largo hit his brakes but slammed into the driver’s side door hard enough to knock him to the ground. He struck his head and when he tried to stand, he slid down onto his back. Largo had tricked the Widow before by turning sharply and he’d hoped it would work again, but no such luck—it ran straight at him.

  The truck began rolling backward toward the warehouse. Largo grabbed the running board and the bicycle and held on, letting himself be dragged over the dock’s rutted planks. The Widow reached out a spidery leg to grab him, but it was going too fast. With the truck out of the way, there was nothing between it and the water. It slid sideways
off the dock—its legs ripping into the old wood as it tried to hold on—and flipped end over end. The heavy Widow vanished in a second, leaving a trail of bubbles while its legs continued to kick as it slid to the river bottom.

  The driver stepped out of the truck and pulled Largo to his feet, yelling in a language he’d never heard before. He shook his head, as much to clear away the dizziness as to tell the driver he couldn’t understand him. But the trucker was no longer interested in him. He grabbed Largo’s shoulder and yelled, “Police!” Largo turned and saw a small group of uniformed officers running toward him.

  He pushed the driver off and jumped on the bicycle. He pedaled around the truck and took off down the dock, heading for what looked like a passageway to offices a few warehouses down. The police yelled and blew their whistles. Largo hoped that they hadn’t been close enough to recognize him. After the encounter with Tanz and the Sergeant back in the butchers’ square, he’d had enough of bullocks for three lifetimes.

  On his way back to work, Largo ducked into a bricked-over doorway in the machine breakers’ quarter. Maras of all sizes, from the small delivery bread boxes to servant Maras to large earth movers, lay in pieces along the streets. Largo turned away from the machines and upended the small vial of morphia Rainer had given him. In a few seconds, his hands stopped shaking and the chill in his chest was replaced by warmth. He turned and leaned against the bricks, watching families methodically dismantling the loathsome Maras, scavenging whatever usable parts they could find to sell in the street markets. They worked quietly and steadily. Even the filthy children were serious, handling mallets and small cutting torches with ease. They ignored Largo as he let the morphia calm his system. He thought about Haxan Green and how close he’d come to being one of these children. Looking back at the docks, he half expected to see the Widow, dripping with river water, speeding toward him. But the street was empty. He thought again about what Pietr had said: “I bet we can.”

  When Largo was younger, becoming a bicycle messenger had seemed like the grandest feat he could imagine. He’d left the Green with a respectable profession and even had a flat, as cramped and dingy as it was. But it wasn’t enough anymore. He’d hoped becoming chief courier would impress Remy—and she had been excited for him—but how far could it take him? A job at Schöne Maschinen, though, that would change everything.

  I could have a real life. Be a professional, like Remy. An artist. We’d be happy and I’d never be ashamed again.

  If Pietr or one of his friends didn’t kill him, of course. Still, it was worth the risk. It was worth anything.

  He dropped the vial in the gutter and when he looked down he saw himself. His knuckles were scraped and he was filthy from where he’d fallen on the dock. Worse, Margit’s bicycle was scratched and dented from running into the truck.

  Largo got back on the bicycle wearily. He stayed to side streets as he rode back to the company. The riding was easier and there were few police. Margit was waiting for him when he arrived. She’d repaired his bicycle with two brand-new tires and smiled when she saw him. But her smile quickly faded.

  “What the hell did you do to my bike?” she said. Margit looked him up and down. “And yourself? You look like shit.”

  “I’m sorry about your bicycle,” said Largo. “It still rides perfectly. I can pay for all the repairs.”

  “That’s not what I asked. You’re too good a rider for this. What happened?”

  His earlier fear bubbled up into anger. “I’ll tell you what happened. Your fucking friend Pietr tried to kill me.”

  Margit shifted her weight uncomfortably. “What are you talking about?” she said.

  “Why didn’t you tell me that he worked at Schöne Maschinen? I could have looked out for him.”

  Margit shrugged slightly and said, “He’s just a machinist. His salary helps us buy ink and paper.”

  “I know he’s a machinist!” Largo shouted. “He threatened me with a wrench as big as you. Then he sent a couple of Black Widows after me.”

  Margit got closer to him. “Please lower your voice. The police might still be watching the company. What do you mean he sent Black Widows after you?”

  “I don’t know how he did it, but he did,” Largo whispered. “Right after I scared him away the machines attacked me. He works on the machines. It was his doing.”

  “You scared Pietr?” said Margit, concern in her voice. “How?”

  “Like this,” said Largo, and he pulled out his knife. Margit calmly laid her hand over his and pushed the knife back under his coat. He slid it into its harness.

  “I told you,” she said. “There might be police about. Don’t give them a reason to notice us. Or you.”

  Largo’s skin was still hot from anger. He said, “I’m sorry. I’m not mad at you. This is between Pietr and me.”

  “No,” said Margit. “Let me talk to him. If what you say is true, I’ll take care of it. He won’t bother you again.”

  Back on familiar ground with someone he liked, Largo felt his fury began to fade. He said, “All right. I trust you. But I’m telling you the truth. He did something to the Widows. They almost killed me and when they didn’t, the bullocks just about got me.”

  “Nothing like it will ever happen again,” said Margit. She got on her bicycle and tested the pedals. When they seemed to work, she rode around in a couple of tight circles. Satisfied, she got off and set it against the loading dock. “Considering what happened, keep your money. We have repair people in the group. They can fix the dents.”

  Largo nodded. Now that he was calmer, another thought came to him. “I’m curious. Why did you call Baron Hellswarth ‘the Beast’? It was his secretary who wanted to push me into a furnace. The Baron was smart. And friendly. And . . .” He almost mentioned the apprenticeship but caught himself at the last second.

  Margit leaned against the dock and put on her round dark glasses. “You’re a nice guy, Largo, but you have to learn to protect yourself.”

  “What does that mean?”

  She got on her bicycle and said, “Of course the Baron was friendly and smart. The most dangerous monsters are always the most charming. That way you won’t notice as they slip you down their gullet.”

  Before Largo could ask her what she meant, Margit said, “I’m late with my deliveries. I’ll see you later.”

  Largo had a dozen more questions, but she was through the gates and gone before he could get out a word. He dusted himself off and went into the office.

  Servants and Warriors

  From the supplemental section at the end of a Mara owner’s manual

  Now that you have your new Hellswarth Mara maid up and running, we thought you might enjoy some fascinating facts about the history of your new home companion.

  Like many great ideas, these essential servants and warriors began as something quite different. Maras were originally small clockwork novelties prized by royalty and the wealthiest Proszawan families. These early Maras could each perform a single simple task, such as serving tea, dealing cards, or imitating songbirds.

  Later, larger and more complex steam-powered Maras found their way into the workforce, mainly on farms and in factories. They could use their brute strength to move heavy loads or work in areas too dangerous for human beings, such as the great furnaces at the Schöne Maschinen factory. (Since their introduction, injuries have plummeted by 84%!) More recently, with the introduction of plazma-driven electrics and more complex control systems, Maras have moved from simple labor and into the streets—as delivery vehicles—and our homes—as helpful servants and guardians.

  Another area where Maras have become essential partners is security. Maras work tirelessly with our brave police departments and the military, and they were decisive in aiding our victory in the Great War.

  A strong military has always been a proud part of Proszawan history and the developments in martial Maras will soon be seen in our homes and city streets. New discoveries in “mechanistic intelligence” mea
n that Maras can be trained for more and more complicated tasks. Be on the lookout for self-driving Mara juggernauts and airships—and, soon, independent battlefield Maras. Schöne Maschinen is even investigating ways of combining Maras and chimeras into new intelligent systems that could one day replace soldiers on the battlefield and factory workers, leading to a safer and more leisure-filled world.

  Thank you from everyone at Schöne Maschinen for your purchase. We’re sure it will make your life more fulfilling now and for years to come. And who knows what wonders tomorrow will bring? We’ll see you in the future!

  Chapter Ten

  HERR BRANCA WAS AT HIS USUAL PLACE BEHIND HIS DESK. HOWEVER, INSTEAD of ignoring Largo as he filled out paperwork, he put down his pen the moment he walked in the door. “You’re back,” he said.

  “That I am,” said Largo. He took the receipt book from his bag and set it on Branca’s desk and wiped some sweat from his eyes. The older man ignored the book and stared at him.

  “Did the Baron challenge you to a duel?”

  “Excuse me?” said Largo.

  “You’re a bit disheveled. I thought that perhaps Baron Hellswarth had invited you to wrestle.”

  Largo was exhausted and high enough from the morphia that he wasn’t sure whether Branca was joking. He decided he didn’t care and said, “It wasn’t the Baron. He was quite fine. But on the way back a truck cut me off. I barely got out of the way in time.”

  Branca looked at him seriously. “Are you hurt? Did you talk to the police?”

  “No,” he said. “There weren’t any around.”

  Branca opened the receipt book. “There seldom are when we most need them. How damaged are you? Can you go on your afternoon deliveries?”

  Largo rubbed his shoulder where it had hit the truck. “I’m fine, sir. I can finish my rounds.”

  “Very good,” said Branca, setting the receipt book into a desk drawer. “I don’t believe that is the Baron’s signature in your book. Whose is it?”