“Of course I know. I’ve known all along.”
“Then you were lying earlier. Why should I believe you now?”
The older man shrugged slightly. “Believe what you want, but if you want to know where she is all you have to do is ask me.”
He eyed Branca. Largo knew that he was being led into some kind of trap. But what else can I do but go along with it right now? “Where is she?”
Branca’s smile was wide and friendly. “She’s neither here nor there. She never was. Remy Berber never existed.”
Largo lowered the pistol a few inches. “I don’t understand what that means,” he said, not believing but frightened all the same.
Branca went to a small table by the wall and picked up his cigarettes. He lit one. “I know this will be difficult to hear, but you must listen to me, Largo. She is not and never was your paramour.”
He raised the pistol again. “Of course she was. We practically lived together.”
“But you didn’t. Do you know why?”
“Tell me, but don’t lie.”
“I don’t have to,” said Branca, smiling brightly. “The truth is too delightful.”
“Tell me.”
Branca straightened a little. “She wasn’t your paramour because she wasn’t real. Remedios Berber was a Mara created by Baron Hellswarth and Schöne Maschinen.”
Largo closed his eyes for an instant and opened them. He felt very cold inside, as if he were going through withdrawal again. “You’re lying. I told you not to lie.”
The older man held out his hands before him. “I’m not lying, Largo. She was a Mara given to you by the Baron.”
Even though he knew he was being lied to, Largo felt dizzy. “Why would he do that?”
“He used you for the same reason I used you. You were foolish enough to be useful.”
“But why make her for me?”
“He didn’t make her for you,” said Branca. “With our help, he merely sent her to you. You were the perfect test subject for integrating somewhat intelligent automata into ordinary society.”
Largo’s shoulder throbbed and his knee ached again after all the riding. Through gritted teeth he said, “No. You’re just trying to confuse me. Where is Remy?”
Branca didn’t seem to hear him. He said, “Intelligent automata are being eased into the populace all the time now. You must know this. We’ve worked with them.”
“You mean Andrzej and Weimer? They were real people.”
“I’d argue that those creatures were never real people, but never mind. They’re definitely not people anymore.”
“Why would someone even dream of doing something like that?”
Branca gestured toward the window. “Look at the world, Largo. Humans are soft, pliant organisms. They’re chaotic, easily confused, and, more often than not, violent when provoked by ideas they don’t fully understand. Like you,” he said. Branca frowned and crushed out his cigarette in an ashtray. “The changes I mentioned are a question of evolution and survival. Are we to allow arbitrary and self-destructive genetic impulses to control history or are we going to take back civilization and the future? Science has given us the tools to make a rational choice.”
What Branca was saying didn’t make sense. Nothing made sense anymore. “What’s rational about what you’re saying?”
When Branca spoke, it was if he were addressing a group of new couriers, explaining their duties in the simplest language he could use. “While the general public accepts that the Great War was a stalemate, people who truly understand these things know that, in fact, we lost. One only has to look at High Proszawa to know that. This cannot be allowed to happen again. The enemy didn’t invade, but they will not be so kind to us a second time. Make no mistake, Largo. We are on the brink of extinction as a nation and a species.”
Largo glanced at the window. He said, “These so-called soft, pliant organisms you talk about changing are human beings. Real people with real lives.”
“Of course they are,” said Branca. “Human, that is. But real lives? What does life even mean now? Endless, self-destructive decadence? The grotesque poverty of the poor too dim-witted or drunken to pull themselves out of the gutter? The whole system in which we live is teetering on the edge of collapse. The point of our work is to uplift the human condition. In its current form, it’s woefully out of date.”
“You’re a murderer.”
“No more than you. I’m sure Special Operative Tanz would agree.”
Branca waited for Largo to say something and when it didn’t happen, he continued. “Think of me as a simple greengrocer. When an apple goes soft or a head of lettuce wilts, I remove it so that it can be replaced with one that’s more palatable and nutritious for the body.”
Largo looked around the room. His face was hot and his shoulder hurt. “If you’re telling the truth, the people you bring back aren’t people. They’re machines.”
Branca spoke eagerly. Proudly, thought Largo. “These are early days. The techniques will be refined and more of the original flesh in those we’re replacing will be preserved. Defects in the system, such as Remy’s convulsions and the Drops, will disappear. Eventually we may be able to correct humanity’s self-destructive tendencies in the womb. A perfect species born to perfect lives. Until then, we work with Dandies and marginals such as Andrzej and Weimer—people who will be little missed.”
The pistol grew heavy again. Largo hurt all over and wished he had just a drop or two of morphia.
“What about Remy and Enki Helm?” he said. “A lot of people will miss them.”
Branca made a sour face. “The real Helm was a subversive. A civilized Helm was a bold experiment. If he hadn’t malfunctioned he might have changed many minds with his newly enlightened attitude.”
Largo hesitated. “And Remy?” It was hard even to say her name.
“Creating her was the decision of Baron Hellswarth and Schöne Maschinen. And a visionary one, if you ask me. But they have their own reasons and it isn’t necessary for them to explain them to those of us tasked with carrying them out.”
“Don’t talk about her like that!” Largo yelled.
Branca sighed. “If you wish.”
Largo couldn’t speak for a moment. It was too much to take in. Why would Branca tell him such a strange and elaborate lie when it was simpler to just say “She’s dead” or “I’ll take you to her” and kill him along the way? If Branca was playing a game, it was one in which the rules weren’t clear to Largo.
“By the way,” Branca said, “Una Herzog sends her regards.”
“What do you mean?” said Largo, startled by the name.
“I never asked you about the play you mentioned earlier. The evil anarchist ripped apart by a mob. Did you enjoy it?”
“Why are you asking about that? What does it have to do with me?”
“I would think it was tailor-made for your tastes.”
Largo looked at Branca. “Una really is one of you then. A Nachtvogel.”
Branca glanced at his watch briefly as if he was growing bored. “No. But she’s a patriot who will do anything to protect the country.”
Largo thought about the play. “How did she know about a murder that hadn’t happened yet?”
Branca chuckled. “You know, in an earlier draft of the play the radical was a bicycle messenger who bore a startling resemblance to you. It was amusing, but I talked her out of it.”
“You didn’t answer my question.”
“She didn’t foresee a murder, Largo. We arranged for a killing that matched the rough outline of her play.”
“But why would you do that?”
“It was a test,” Branca said. “You see, it’s not enough to make people pliant if their brains are still as confused and corrupt as before. We need to delve deeper into the workings of their minds. Una’s play was simply an experiment in memory.”
“But how can they remember something that hasn’t happened?”
Branca raised a fi
nger in the air. “That’s the crux of the experiment. Can we make people understand that what they remember isn’t what their flawed brains tell them, but what we tell them? If we say that a certain murder occurred at such-and-such an hour and they recall something different, how many will remember what we want them to?”
“How many?” said Largo.
“Most, at this point. With refinement and diligent effort, soon it will be all.”
“Nothing you say or do makes any sense, you know that, don’t you?”
“You’re becoming desperate, Largo. Why don’t you put down the gun and we can discuss your future?”
“No. You’re going to try to confuse me,” he said. Wanting to get some control over the conversation, his mind settled on something and he said, “Why is Hellswarth digging up corpses in High Proszawa?”
Branca cocked his head. “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he said. “My interests lie with the redemption of the citizens of Lower Proszawa, not tidying up graveyards.”
“Redemption? You’re kidnapping and killing them.”
“Studying them and, where appropriate and possible, improving them.”
Largo was sweating. He shifted his weight. “When were you going to do it to me?”
“Not for some time. You were too valuable to the Nachtvogel the way you were.”
“But you would have done it.”
Branca opened his arms as if giving a benediction. “Look at yourself, Largo. You’re a curious case. You’ve lasted much longer in the wild than I expected, but let’s be honest with one another. You must know that if any creature in Lower Proszawa needs redemption, it’s you.”
He took a breath. “If Hellswarth took Remy, where is she now?”
“You’ll have to ask the Baron about that,” said Branca. “But don’t despair. I have some good news for you too.”
Largo grew wary again. “What’s that?”
“It’s two things, actually.” Branca ticked them off on his fingers. “The first is that the police have dropped all charges against you where it comes to your lady love Remy’s murder. One cannot murder a machine.”
Largo took an angry step forward. “Stop saying that.”
Branca remained calm. “Don’t you want to know the second bit of good news? I’ll tell you anyway. Since you’ve returned to us, it will no longer be necessary to use the evidence I have here to frame you as part of the gang of kidnappers.” Branca patted a small parcel wrapped in butcher paper.
“The kidnappers don’t exist,” Largo said.
“The public and the police believe they do. We’ve used the yellow- sheets quite effectively to convince them.”
“What did you mean by ‘returned to us’? Do you really expect me to go back to my old job and spy on people?”
Branca reached for his cigarettes again. “I don’t expect you to, but I was hoping I could convince you.”
The dizziness returned. Largo wanted to be out of the flat as soon as possible. He said, “Leave the cigarettes alone. Stop moving your hand.”
The older man ignored him. By the time he realized that Branca had a hidden gun in his hand, Largo had no choice. He shot Branca three times. The older man fell against the wall, leaving a blood trail behind as he slid to the floor. Largo grabbed the butcher paper parcel and put on his mask. People were just coming into the hall as he ran down the stairs.
He got on the bicycle and rode away from the building, taking the quickest route out of the central city on the road to Machtviertel. The whole way there the same words spun around in his head over and over again.
He was lying. It’s a trick. Remy is real and alive. He was lying. It’s a trick. Remy is real and alive . . .
When Largo reached Machtviertel, he changed the pistol’s magazine the way Rainer had showed him. He left his bicycle by the collapsed light tower and took off the mask. The crows were still there, but instead of being asleep like sensible birds, they squawked and pecked at his hands and scalp as he made his way to the Black Palace. He swung at them with his good arm, but they were too fast and after a few steps he ended up running for the Palace’s entrance. Before he got inside, however, he heard someone calling his name.
“Largo! What are you doing here?” It was Margit and she was running to him across blocks of broken concrete and coal dust.
“I’m looking for you,” he said. “I need your help.”
Margit’s expression was a combination of anger and confusion. “What are you talking about? Come inside before someone sees you.”
As he followed her to an abandoned train roundhouse Largo said, “You’re not in the Palace anymore?”
“The bullocks raided it. We had to move over here.”
Largo tripped on a concrete boulder. “Branca might have gotten the information from my delivery,” he said guiltily. “The raid might be my fault.”
“Yes, it might,” said Margit flatly. “So don’t mention it when we get inside.”
The exterior of the roundhouse was streaked with wet dust and the bricks were pitted with age. All the windows had been covered from the inside with tar paper. Margit led him around to a door that was secured with a padlock and loose chain. “We leave the door like this so the building still looks empty. You have to crouch to get in.”
Maneuvering through the doorway hurt, and he was gritting his teeth when he got inside. Taking a minute to catch his breath, he looked around. The interior of the roundhouse was frigid and smelled of cigarette smoke and the thick reek of coal oil from empty barrels along one wall. Largo was startled by the number of people. There must have been at least fifty. The crowd was separated into several smaller groups, some warming themselves by a small coal furnace, others gathered around tables covered in maps and blueprints, while still others worked, unloading rifles and ammunition from crates. Largo noticed the noise level in the room drop when he entered. “This is a lot more people than you had last time,” he said.
“What you saw was just our printing facility,” said Margit.
A man in an old army coat pointed at Largo. He said, “Is he the one who brought the ink? Did he sell us out?”
A tall woman with a balaclava pulled down around her neck said, “Pietr warned us about you.”
Several people started in his direction. Largo pulled out his pistol and held it down by his side. When Margit saw it, she put her hand over his and pushed the gun back into his pocket. She spoke to the others, saying, “Leave him alone. He helped us rescue our people in Pappengasse.”
“What does he want?” said the tall woman.
Margit looked at him. “Yes, Largo. What do you want?”
“The police have arrested Parvulesco and Roland. I want you to get them out of jail. I can pay you.” He took all of the money from his pocket and held it out to Margit.
“Fuck him,” said the man in the army coat.
The tall woman said, “Don’t let him go.”
Margit held up a hand and they both stopped. She looked at Largo and said, “Now that you’re back, maybe you can help us. We want to get into Schöne Maschinen, but we can’t very well go in the front door. How can we get there without being seen?”
Largo let his hand with the money drop to his side. “You can’t. All you can do is get close to it. Then you’ll have to cross open ground from a power station.”
Margit took a step closer. She spoke quickly. “All right. How do we get close?”
Largo held out the money again. “Free Parvulesco and Roland and I’ll tell you.”
She gave him an exasperated look. “We don’t want your money,” she said. “Listen, if you don’t help us a lot of people could get killed.”
Largo pocketed the cash. “Then you help me.”
Margit raised her arms in a gesture of frustration. “What’s wrong with you?”
When he spoke, Largo kept his hand on the pistol in his pocket. “I’ve been strange places the last few days. I’ve seen people picking the dead clean. I’ve seen tru
cks full of corpses. I’ve been attacked by bitva chimeras. I’ve murdered people. And I came here because someone told me that Remy isn’t real. That she was a Mara and that we were an experiment. I don’t know what or who to believe anymore. I want revenge, but I don’t even know who to go after first.”
“Who said that Remy isn’t real?” said Margit, frowning.
“Branca. The Nachtvogel.”
She peered at the group, then back to Largo. “They don’t know anything. Hellswarth tells the government what he wants and they tell the Nachtvogel. It’s true that the city is full of strange automata. But Remy isn’t one of them.”
“How do you know?” said Largo warily.
“Pietr wasn’t our only informant inside Schöne Maschinen.”
“Who’s the other?”
“I can’t tell you, but I know this much: Baron Hellswarth would never hurt Remy.”
He gripped the pistol harder. “Why?”
Margit took Largo’s arm and pulled him aside. “Because he’s in love with her.”
“You’re mad,” he said.
“The Baron has been in love with her since she was a teenager. Yes, she has admirers who give her baubles, but who do you think gives her the money for such a nice flat? All those jewels and her Trefle? Do you think she earns all that from a small theater like the Grand Dark?”
“How do you know all this?” Largo looked at her hard, suspicious. The night had already been full of lies.
“It’s our job to know people in power’s dirty little secrets. It makes them easier to blackmail.”
Nervously, he asked, “Was Remy in love with the Baron?”
“Of course not. But he’s Baron Hellswarth, and after the Chancellor, he’s one of the most powerful men in Lower Proszawa. Do you think she could simply send him away like a schoolboy with a crush?”
Largo thought back to the Golden Angel. “That night in the car,” he said. “They seemed so close.”
“People do a lot of unpleasant things out of fear, especially women,” Margit said. “But you know a lot about fear too, so you must understand.”
“Yes,” he whispered.
“Besides, according to our informant, the Baron has been doing things to Remy. Experiments.”
The Grand Dark Page 40
