The Grand Dark

by Richard Kadrey

  Rainer went on, “There are eight bullets in the magazine. I can give you a second magazine with eight more. Those are all the bullets I have, so don’t waste them.”

  Largo held the gun out. “Take it back. I don’t even know how it works.”

  “Stand up and put out your arm. Point the pistol at the window,” Rainer said. Once Largo had done it, Rainer pointed along the barrel. “This is how you aim. Sight from the V in the back to the notch in the front. See it?”

  “Yes.”

  “The safety button is on right now, so the pistol won’t fire. If you want to shoot, you push down here. See?”

  “Yes.”

  “I assume you know what a trigger is. To shoot, you use steady, even pressure. If you run out of bullets, you push this button to eject the magazine and put a new one in. Push it quickly and firmly into place.”

  “All right,” said Largo, nervous again and feeling like a child running from danger in Haxan Green. But now he wasn’t running. He said, “Is there more?”

  “Yes, but that will have to do for now. Congratulations. You’re not a soldier, but you are a killer. It’s best to take that notion seriously.”

  Largo lowered the pistol. “But I don’t want to shoot anybody.”

  “No one does until they have to,” said Rainer. “If you’re serious about bringing Remy home, you have to be prepared for any situation. That knife of yours is formidable, but it might not be enough.” He took the extra magazine from the table and gave it to Largo. “There’s one more thing,” Rainer said.

  “Please. No more. You’ve already given me too much.”

  Rainer went back to the sofa and Largo sat across from him. “There’s something I have to say, Largo.” Rainer drew in a breath. “I’m sorry that I can’t go with you. I should go. I want to. Believe me. But I—I’m afraid of losing any more of myself. Some days I feel like I’m hardly here at all. Please forgive me.”

  Largo reached across the table and took his friend’s hand. “Don’t ever say that. I’m the coward. When you went away, I should have gone with you. Please forgive me.”

  Rainer put his other hand over Largo’s and they stayed that way for a moment. Then Rainer said, “Will you be all right getting home with these things?”

  Largo piled everything on the table, with the pistol on top. “I carry things all the time. I’ll be fine.”

  “Let me get you a bag for all of that. Something unobtrusive.”

  When Rainer found one, Largo put everything inside and went to the door. “I don’t know what to say. ‘Thank you’ feels so inadequate.”

  “Just come and see me when you return. Let me know that you made it back all right.”

  “I will,” said Largo.

  Rainer opened the door and patted him on the back as he left. “Tell Remy hello for me. And shoot any rat bastard who tries to stop you.”

  On his way home, Largo went to a night market and bought whiskey, bread, and two meat pies. They were just enough to cover the contents of the bag. He rode the rest of the way home out in the open and on main streets. If someone was watching for him, let them see him. I was just out shopping, he thought. It’s not my fault if your man can’t keep up, Herr Branca. He took a bite of bread on the street, then carried everything upstairs. He was equal parts excited and terrified. His life had pivoted once before, when the Baron had invited him to Schöne Maschinen, but it had all gone bad. Largo could feel the ground shift under his feet as he neared another pivot point.

  Whatever I do from here, there’s no going back. I’m the Nachtvogel’s man forever or I’m a fugitive—and that’s assuming I live to come back. Maybe Rainer was right and I am partially using Remy as an excuse to escape my life. If that’s true, and if I find her, I think she’ll understand and I hope she will forgive me.

  He hid Rainer’s bag in a hole in the wall behind his desk.

  If Branca’s men search the flat and find it, I’m probably dead. If I go north, I’m probably dead. If Margit’s group gets fed up with me, they’ll probably kill me too.

  Largo sat down and ate one of the meat pies, thinking, I’m a better fortune-teller than Vera Baal.

  He arrived at work early enough the next day that he was alone in the office with Branca.

  The older man glanced up from his papers as he came in. “You’re here early. And looking surprisingly healthy. What’s your secret?”

  Largo went to Branca’s desk. “I just want to do my job and not feel like shit all the time.”

  Branca’s lips curled downward at the ends as if he was thinking. “A commendable attitude. Did you enjoy your excursion last night?”

  “I did, thank you.”

  “Where did you go?”

  Largo tried to look relaxed and knew he was failing at it. “So I am being followed. I’ll leave a trail of bread crumbs next time.”

  “Very amusing,” said Branca. “You haven’t answered my question.”

  He thought about the lie he’d prepared, knowing that if someone had managed to follow him he’d be caught and possibly shot on the spot. Largo said, “I went out to the Green.”

  Branca frowned. “Haxan Green? Were you reminiscing?”

  “A bit, I suppose,” said Largo. “Your life must have taken some surprising turns, Herr Branca. Don’t you ever want to go back to the beginning and try to figure out how you got to where you are now?”

  Branca looked at the clock. “It’s not necessary. I know precisely how I came to be where I am. I worked to get here. Why? Because unlike you, I believe in what I’m doing. What have you ever believed in, Largo?”

  He followed Branca’s gaze to the clock. “Not a lot, I suppose. I believed in myself enough to get out of the Green. That seemed like plenty for a long time.”

  “And now?”

  He turned back to the older man. “I think I might have aspired to more than morphia and pretty girls.”

  “Never fear,” Branca said. He folded his hands on the desk. “You’ll have ample opportunity to make yourself useful to the country. Your friends might not like what you do or how you do it, but remember that what you’re doing is in their best interests.”

  “I’ll try.”

  “Do and soon you won’t need a minder lurking outside your door.”

  How many days is it until a week? Largo thought. He tried to count them, but everything since Remy blurred together.

  He said, “Why doesn’t your man just present himself instead of sneaking around? We could ride to work together.”

  “That’s not how this works.”

  “I know why. I’m in a zoo. You want to study me in my natural environment.”

  Branca laughed soundlessly to himself. “I hadn’t thought of it that way. That’s an amusing way to put it. It’s good to see your sense of humor coming back.”

  “It seems necessary right now.”

  “Soon you won’t have to think about it. Your life will be your life again. You’ll laugh at a funny song or weep at a sad film and all will be normal and ordinary.”

  What a horrible thought.

  “Just keep working and don’t overthink my every move. Is that it?”

  “And don’t try to second-guess the tasks we give you,” said Branca. “What you’re doing is subtler than you’re aware.”

  “Is there anything else?”

  “Drink less and don’t forget to eat.”

  “I bought food on the way home last night.”

  “So I understand.” Branca pressed a button on the wall that activated the Maras that would give the couriers their deliveries. “It might please you to know that you’re doing relatively well. Keep it up.”

  “I’ll do my best,” said Largo.

  “You’ll also be pleased that you’ll have an easy morning today. You’ll be delivering parcels to the larger yellowsheets.”

  “A new story you want printed?”

  Branca looked at him. “What did I just say about second-guessing?”

  “Sorry
.”

  The clock on the wall reached six as the other couriers filed in, some still eating and others with the stubs of cigarettes dangling from their lips.

  Quietly, Branca said, “That’s all for now. Take your morphia before you go out. I don’t want you shaking in front of clients or using it in some back alley and getting knifed.”

  “I’ll remember.”

  Andrzej and Weimer stood at the front of the group of couriers, looking eager and docile. Weimer nodded to Largo. He didn’t return the nod but walked to the back of the room. Parvulesco was there and he stood next to him. Branca called couriers forward as the Maras brought out their parcels.

  “You look better than last time,” said Parvulesco.

  “I have hope again.”

  Parvulesco smiled at him. “Then the danger is over?”

  Largo leaned back against the wall. “Hardly. But I’m managing it.”

  “Will you tell me about it someday?”

  “Someday. Until then it’s still best if we’re not seen together.”

  “All right. Roland says he’s sorry about Remy.”

  “Please thank him for me,” said Largo.

  Parvulesco moved to the front of the room when Branca called his name.

  Once the others were gone, Branca gave Largo five identical envelopes. After he went to the bathroom to take morphia, Largo checked the addresses. As Branca had said, they were going to all of the major yellowsheets in Lower Proszawa. Thank you, he thought when he found one for Ihre Skandale. He put it on the bottom of the pile to deliver last.

  Ernst put down the receiver of his Trefle when Largo walked in. “We haven’t seen you for a while,” he said. “I thought you’d forgotten about us. Or did someone else offer you better money for your stories?”

  “Hardly,” said Largo. He handed Ernst the envelope and receipt book. “In fact, I’m not supposed to talk to you at all.”

  “And you’re the kind of gentleman who always follows the rules.”

  “Only when they make sense.”

  Ernst said, “That’s the right attitude,” and handed him back the book.

  Largo put it in his shoulder bag and said, “I’m going somewhere and when I get back I’m going to have a story for you.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “I can’t say, but I’ll have something special for you soon.”

  Ernst looked at him eagerly. “We pay special money for special stories,” he said.

  “You’ll pay a lot for this one.”

  “Now I’m really intrigued. Give me a hint and maybe I’ll give you an advance.”

  Good, Largo thought. That’s exactly what he’d hoped to hear. Without knowing how much the smuggler would charge for passage, he knew he needed all the money he could get. “North,” he said.

  “North?” said Ernst. He looked at Largo and frowned. “You don’t mean High Proszawa?”

  “I can’t say.”

  The editor grinned. There was a small piece of tobacco on his front teeth. “You bring me back something good from there and I’ll paper your home in cash. Here’s a couple of Valdas to get you on your way.”

  Ernst took some coins from a desk drawer and Largo said, “Don’t pass them to me.”

  “Is someone watching us?” Ernst said.

  “Probably.”

  “This gets better and better. Just remember one thing for me.”

  “What’s that?”

  “I’m about to put a lot of money in your hand.” Ernst grinned. “Don’t die without bringing me a story.”

  Largo was nervous, but he didn’t want to let it out enough for his minder to see, so he controlled his breathing. “Tell me off as I leave. Grab me and put the money in my pocket on the way out,” he said.

  Ernst came around the desk and took Largo’s arm. He didn’t let go until he’d shoved Largo out into the street. “Piss off, you useless mongrel. I don’t want to see you here again.”

  Largo got back on his bicycle. “Of course, sir. I’m very sorry to have disturbed you. Have a good day.”

  Ernst spit in the gutter. “Fuck you, Your Highness.”

  Largo rode back to the company at a leisurely pace, taking main streets all the way so that his minder wouldn’t lose him. Patriotic banners and posters were going up all over the city. The cafés and bars were quieter than he’d ever seen. As disturbing as the hints of war were, with new Valdas in his pocket and the meeting with Rainer still fresh in his mind, Largo felt better than he had in days.

  His good mood faded in the evening when he didn’t hear anything from Rainer. There was nothing the next day either. On the third evening, Largo came home grim with a bottle of good whiskey, fully intending to finish it all and damn Branca’s praise about “doing well.”

  He flipped on the piss-yellow lights and turned on the wireless. Thankfully, what came out was music and not a speech. On the chair in the corner of the room was a dirty shirt. Largo tossed it onto the table, sat down, and opened the whiskey.

  There was a square of paper lying on the floor by the door. He went to it. Unfolding the paper, Largo recognized Rainer’s precise handwriting. The note read Körpermarkt in the Midden. 10 p.m.

  At eight thirty, he moved the desk away from the wall and removed everything that Rainer had given him. Before putting on the coat, Largo strapped on the knife. He hid the bills and Valdas in one of the coat’s inside pockets and put it on. The knife pressed into his side uncomfortably, but there was nothing he could do about it. He put the pistol and the extra magazine in the right coat pocket and Rainer’s mask in the left. Before he headed out, he tried eating some of the bread he’d brought home three days earlier, but it was stale. Instead, he took two drops of morphia and put the whiskey and some matches in a pocket of his coat. Just before nine, he opened the door of his flat and scanned the hall. No one was there. He put on Rainer’s mask as he went out and threw all three locks on his door.

  For the first time, the smell of cooking fat and rotting vegetables that permeated the building didn’t bother him. It was strangely comforting simply because it was familiar, and because he knew he would probably never smell it or see Little Shambles again.

  Largo went up the stairs to the fourth floor until he was at a door that opened onto the roof. Nearby was an overflowing trash can and he dragged it outside with him.

  The sky was clouded over and a thin mist fell. He carried the trash can to the far side of the roof. There, he poured some of the whiskey into the can and, leaning over to protect it from the rain, he lit a match and dropped it in after the liquor. The garbage burst into flame. When it was burning thoroughly, Largo threw the can off the roof. It crashed into the street and exploded, sending burning trash in every direction. The sound of the can’s landing reverberated off the walls of the nearby buildings. He waited a few seconds, then ran.

  In the dark, it was hard to see through the metal mask, but there was enough yellow light from the street that he made it across his roof and onto the roof of the building next door. A fire escape came down around the corner from Largo’s building. He went to the edge of the roof and checked the street. Sure enough, if a minder had been watching the building, he’d run off to investigate the crash. Largo stepped over the edge and began the four-story climb to the street.

  The rain made the rungs of the ladder leading down to the first landing slippery and cold. Largo’s hands went numb quickly. He crept down the stairs of the next three floors as quietly and carefully as he could. The ancient fire escape shifted queasily under his weight, leaning away from the building a few inches and moving gently from side to side. Largo tried not to think about it. It wasn’t hard. The rain and his fear quickly transformed into a numbness that enclosed his body and mind. The world collapsed to a single point: his careful movement down the steel stairs. One foot in front of the other.

  He slipped when he reached the second-floor platform and came down hard on his side. Afraid that the residents of the flat might have heard h
im, Largo stepped onto the ladder that would finally take him down to the street. It was designed to lower under a person’s weight, but it jammed halfway down. He looked at the street and saw that it was still empty. The jump down wasn’t long, but he was directly above piles of trash that had been thrown from the building into the gutter. Instead of jumping, Largo leaned his weight on the ladder and bounced gently. There were two metallic pops, and one side of the ladder swung free of the fire escape, throwing him to the ground.

  The fall knocked the breath out of him, but he rolled quickly off the trash and into the wet street, afraid the ladder might come down on top of him. It took him a moment to get back on his feet. The moment he put his full weight on his legs, he almost collapsed on his wrenched right knee. His trouser leg was torn and rain or blood or some combination of the two ran down over his ankle. Largo hid in a cellar doorway for a moment to see if his minder had heard the fall and would come to investigate. The climb had taken longer than he’d planned and the fall had slowed him down even more. He’d barely begun and he was already behind schedule. The numbness that had taken him over earlier was giving way to gnawing fear. If they caught him now, he was certain his minder or perhaps Branca himself would shoot him on sight. There was nothing left to do but move.

  He limped away from Little Shambles to a nearby tram line on Shorehof. Along the way, he had to stop once to take another drop of morphia to dull the pain in his leg.

  Largo started to pay for a tram ticket, then remembered that Dandies rode for free. I have to be careful of small mistakes like that.

  The car was full, but people gave him a wide berth. Why not? he thought. He was filthy from wallowing in garbage and the wet street. His trousers were torn and his leg was bleeding. And there was the Dandy mask. While under normal circumstances, his look and smell might get him dirty looks and a few jeers from the other passengers, now they simply wanted to get as far away from him as possible. Even half-blind under the mask, Largo saw how resolutely the other riders looked away from him. He was more than a simple pariah. He was a reminder that coming war wouldn’t be all banners and glory. It would be rent flesh and human horrors. Largo had always felt sympathy for Rainer, but now he felt a stab of the enduring loneliness that all the Dandies must experience. How they must hate us, he thought. And how we deserve it.