The Illustrious (The Sublime Electricity Book #1)

by Pavel Kornev

  "Hurry up!" The inspector rushed us along.

  I placed my palm on my forehead, noticed a wisp of smoke crawling slowly in our direction and increased my pace, rushing after the others.

  With our heels clacking on the paving stones of the embankment, we paraded to the train station past the fence and the ticket booths. Fortunately, we didn’t have to wait in their never-ending lines. Once on the platform, it was too crowded to even push our way through the workers from the surrounding factories. Thankfully, the grubby proles gave a wide berth to our well-armed division, no prodding necessary.

  A powerful whistle blew, and a gargantuan train rolled in under the awning, enshrouded in clouds of white steam. The room suddenly filled with the smoke pouring from its stacks. With a metallic clang, the brakes screeched to a halt. The train stopped, and its passengers gushed out onto the platform, pushing against the working rabble on their way home after the night shift.

  The inspector was in no mind to knock elbows with commoners, and took a decisive step into a first class train-car; we all followed behind our boss. At the entrance, Robert White used his cane to shoo the conductor, who was taken aback at his lack of manners, then took a seat next to the window, looking collected. There weren't enough places for the rest of us to sit but, that didn’t stop the Metro attendant from practically having a fit while the distinguished public looked askance at us with barely restrained indignation.

  Two short horn-blows rang out. The train shook, and columns and dejected fences began flittering by out the window, gradually increasing their speed. Soon, the tracks dove into a tunnel, and the train bolted beneath the earth, leaving the hustle and bustle of the streets with all their speed-demon cabbies and day-dreaming pedestrians somewhere far, far above us. Now, the train was flying along at full steam, shaking us around mercilessly. We had to latch firmly onto the handrail and clench the back of the nearest seat just to remain standing.

  A few minutes later, the steam train slowed its pace and, with a deafening blast of its horn, rolled out of the tunnel onto the platform of an underground station lit only by the uneven flame of gas jets. Some got out, some came in, and the train rolled onward.

  The Metro was great! Nothing could compare with it. Not steam trams, and not the new-fangled self-propelled carriages. It did make a lot of smoke, though – it was impossible to breathe...

  Three stations later, we got off the train and walked up onto the street. The colossal Newton-Markt was towering over us on the opposite side of the square. The inspector could only stand to look peevishly at the marble columns of its portico before walking off in the opposite direction.

  "I need to wet my whistle," he grumbled, having gotten wind of our inquisitive looks with his back.

  No one objected.

  And what was there to object to? After such a major fiasco, returning to the Box, as everyone called police headquarters, was something none of us wanted. And me least of all.

  WE USUALLY GOT DRINKS at Archimedes' Screw, a small public house, known for its huge selection of Flemish beers and primarily law-enforcement clientele.

  "Morning edition here!" burst out from the hoarse throat of a boy holding a thick packet of newspapers near the door. "Tensions rising in the Sea of Judea! More troop movements in Alexandria! Get yours here! Only in the Saturday edition! Split in the ranks of the Sublime Electricity! Tesla versus Edison! Full-page article!"

  Robert White threw the lad a ten-centime coin, grabbed an edition of the Atlantic Telegraph and walked into the bar.

  "Hello, Almer!" He said, greeting the bar’s corpulent owner, and taking a seat at his regular place by the window. "The usual."

  The fat Fleming took out a small decanter of red port and placed it in front of the inspector. After that, he poured a glass of white for Jimmy and Billy, who retired to a far-away corner with their drinks, a plate of bread, and a few slices of spicy pork terrine.

  When Ramon Miro walked away with a glass of white wine, which he drank fairly diluted with soda water, I took a seat on a high stool and leaned against the bar on my elbows.

  "Lemonade?" sighed the barkeep.

  "Lemonade," I confirmed, looking with no particular interest over the array of beer bottles, each bearing a technicolor label tied around its neck with thick twine and a wax-sealed cap.

  "I can't stand this new trend!" Almer shook his head. "Soon, people will be drinking beer mixed with lemonade!"

  "Ugh! No thank you," I chuckled in reply.

  "They will, though. Mark my words!" the proprietor announced confidently and set off for the ice-cellar. Soon, he was back with a condensation-covered pitcher of lemonade. He set it before me and pieces of ice started jingling around joyfully in it.

  I filled my tall glass, took a few sips and nodded:

  "Great!"

  Almer took the praise as a matter of course and set about drying one of the beer mugs with a towel.

  "I can never recall you ever having ordered a real drink," he said, not stopping what he was doing.

  "That's right. I've never touched the stuff," I confirmed.

  "Surprising."

  "Why's that? I would've thought it commonplace."

  "For a moral-crazed reductionist, sure," the Fleming said with a smirk, "but you’d have an easier time finding a churchgoing hooker than a constable that doesn't drink."

  "Alcohol gives me sleeping problems," I explained my refusal, not especially bending the truth.

  The owner of the establishment burst out in booming laughter:

  "Do you think many of your colleagues are concerned with such trifles?"

  I just shrugged my shoulders, not planning on disputing his assertion. To be perfectly honest, I personally knew people, who could only be stopped from drinking by a shot to the head, preferably from a high-caliber rifle.

  Talking with my drunk colleagues sober didn't make me feel any less close to them, though. After all, people are usually pretty open and honest after a few drinks.

  Alcohol allows people to forget about their fears, at least for a time. Who was I to judge?

  I took the pitcher of lemonade and slid off the chair, intending to join Ramon, but I was suddenly called over by the inspector, who was leafing through the newspaper.

  "Leopold!" He said, not tearing himself from his reading. "Won't you join me?"

  Curses! That was the last thing I needed!

  I swore mentally and, in no particular hurry, walked up to the table, taking a seat opposite my boss. After I'd filled my glass with lemonade, Robert White twirled his fingers before his face and asked:

  "Would you please remove your glasses?"

  After completing his request, I breathed out onto the round black lenses, wiped them with a linen cloth and placed them on the edge of the table. After that, I finished the lemonade and shifted my gaze to a blueprint for an Archimedes' screw that was pinned to the wall, one of many.

  "You don’t ever look people in the eyes, do you Leo?" the inspector asked unexpectedly. "Is that right?"

  "As a rule, I do not," I confirmed, turning my gaze back from the yellowing drawing to my superior officer. I evaluated the cut of his made-to-order suit, his ideally cropped hair, and the fanciful pattern on his silken handkerchief.

  I did not look him in the eyes, though.

  Between the inspector's eyes, there was a deep wrinkle. He finished his fortified red wine, wiped his thin pale lips with a napkin and, only after completing the procedure, said:

  "I know of your illustrious talent. I'm sure it isn't easy looking in peoples’ eyes, if all you see is fear."

  "There's little to enjoy in it," I answered. "Looking into someone's eyes is still climbing into someone's soul, after all. I prefer... to keep my distance."

  "That won’t work on me."

  "Keeping my distance?" I joked.

  "Climbing into the soul," Robert White answered, totally serious. He then wiped his chin and remarked in contemplation: "It was supposed that your talent would be a bit
more useful around here..."

  More useful? His words gave me a nasty impression.

  Sure, my talent could have been of more use at work, but I simply couldn't bear digging around in others' fears, allowing them into my own head and bringing them to life. Though I could do it without any particular strain, actually using my talent left me feeling like I'd just had a wallow in a mud puddle.

  Then again, this conversation wasn’t about my delicate psyche...

  "Inspector!" I shuddered. "With the succubus..."

  "Listen to me, Leopold!" Robert drummed his fingers on the edge of the table, calling for silence. "This isn't about the succubus! You just aren't getting it! You aren't settling into the job! You cannot work with people and you don't want to. In our line of work, that is half the battle. What made you want to become a policeman in the first place? You could've been a librarian!"

  "I need to pay the bills somehow," I made away with a half-truth, as usual.

  If the inspector noticed my understatement, he didn’t make it known.

  "Well, alright, people!" He frowned, getting to the main point. "This city is so packed with thieves, they’re like sardines in a can. Arresting burglars, robbers and murderers has been business as usual for a long time. Separatists and Anarcho-Christians? That whole restless brotherhood is of little interest to anyone. And the inspector general wouldn't even give you a hand-shake for catching an Egyptian agent. Infernal creatures, though – that's serious business! That’s how you get on the front page of newspapers. We'd been tracking that succubus for two weeks, Leo. For two weeks, we’ve been ignoring all other assignments! And now, that's all down the drain. All because of you."

  Trying to justify myself would have been at the very least stupid, which is why I fixed my gaze on my glass and jingled around the pieces of ice that remained.

  "I thought it was a coincidence!" the inspector continued his excoriation. "A simple coincidence! But I read the papers and I realized: no, it is no coincidence. Point blank, Leo, you've been nothing but trouble."

  "What do you mean?" I grew confused, thrown off by the unexpected turn.

  Robert White slid the morning edition of the Atlantic Telegraph to me and hinted:

  "The society page."

  I took a look at the headline he was pointing at and winced dolefully but, all the same, read the article in its entirety, only sighing afterward:

  "What a pest..."

  Robert White took the newspaper, shuddered, sitting up straight, and read aloud:

  "The famous New-Babylon poet Albert Brandt, in conversation with our correspondent, alluded to the fact that he has recently written a poem for his good friend, the Viscount Cruce, dedicated to his beloved, the Illustrious Elizabeth-Maria N." The inspector pressed the newspaper to the table with his palm and burned me with his hateful gaze. "Well, Viscount Cruce, what do you think the Illustrious Elizabeth-Maria N.'s father will do to you after reading that little tidbit?"

  "Hold up!" I jumped in. "You aren’t understanding this right at all!"

  "Is that so?" the inspector screwed up his face skeptically. "You don't have to have the wisdom of Solomon to guess what it’s talking about. A blue-eyed, red-headed girl by the name 'Elizabeth-Maria N.!' Do you know many people, who fit that description? I know only one! And that is the daughter of Inspector General von Nalz! Curses! That geezer caught many of the fallen himself! Rumor has it that he smeared himself with their blood from head to toe! And now, he is striving with every bone in his body to get his dear little daughter married off to the nephew of the Minister of Justice. If this whole thing goes belly-up over one little article..."

  "You've got it all wrong..."

  "No, I don’t!" Robert White frowned. "If this goes badly, the old man will challenge you to a duel, and he will kill you. It wouldn't be the first time for him. And, Leo, whether you know it or not, he would have every right to do so." The inspector finished his port and threw himself back into his chair. "I personally would like to just wash my hands of this, and would do so with the greatest of pleasure. The problem is that the incident will reflect deplorably on my career."

  "It’s just a coincidence," I repeated obstinately. "They aren’t connected..."

  "Come off it!" Snapped my boss. "Your excuses won't change a thing. By midday, even the floor-polishers in headquarters will know about your affair with the inspector general's daughter. The old man won't even be listening!"

  "I could..."

  "There’s nothing you can do," the inspector cut me off, but immediately snapped his fingers. "Actually, there is! Disappear for a week. Two would be better. Hand in your weapons, don't come in to work. After that, we can decide how to proceed."

  I was categorically not in favor of whatever he meant by "proceed," but any attempt to convince my boss to try another way was sure to fail. He'd already made up his mind. An unpleasant sour sensation appeared in my mouth. My eyes began to sting from the injustice of being.

  Albert! What a bastard you are! Well, who was it that got your tongue wagging?

  "Now make yourself scarce," the inspector ordered, putting up his newspaper to block me out.

  I made no effort to carry out that order quickly. I felt like a beaten dog, which was very unpleasant. In a pitiful attempt to retain my last shred of dignity, I first finished my lemonade, only standing from the table after I was done. I then took my rubberized cloak down from the hook and turned to the bartender:

  "Almer, put it on my tab."

  "So soon?" confirmed the quirky Fleming, who knew our employees’ payment schedules at least as well as our actual accountant.

  I waved farewell to everyone, went out onto the street, and looked up at the sky. In it, there were scant clouds mixed in with wisps of smoke from factory smokestacks. I started shouting curse words helplessly. Next, I snapped my dark glasses to my nose in a habitual motion and started off toward the Newton-Markt.

  I'll hand in my weapons and change clothes at the same time.

  Even though, as a detective constable I was not required to come to work in police uniform like most rank-and-file, I usually did not abuse that privilege. They didn't give me a stipend to clean or mend my own clothes, and the Viscount Cruce hadn't had much money lying around as of late.

  A stiff wind roared up from the Viscount Cruce's pockets, as a matter of fact. My home had been remortgaged three times, and the only thing allowing me to look on the future with even cautious optimism was the fund I had been willed by my grandfather on my mother's side.

  Why cautious, though? Because the current executor of the fund, my uncle the Count Kósice, was not exactly burning with desire to part with the twenty thousand francs of yearly income it provided him and was drawing out the procedure in various ways, keeping me from me from my rightful inheritance as long as he could. I had turned twenty-one a month ago, but the fiduciaries hadn't even yet managed to compose the asset register, which was to say nothing of material transfers. And it was totally unclear just how long it would be before that confusing procedure was completed. I doubted that my uncle would take it to the point of legal battles, but I was sure I wouldn't be able to avoid the remaining "charms" of splitting up the estate.

  On the other hand, what did I need the money for now? I was lucky not to have just lost my head...

  2

  I ENTERED THE NEWTON-MARKT, the whole-block police headquarters building, through the back service entrance. I let an armored car pass by as it left the garage to the measured claps of a gunpowder engine before it rolled unhurriedly down the alley. I took a look around and ran up the stairs. I flung the door open confidently, nodding to the sleepy sentry on my way and walking through the empty halls into the armory.

  There, I handed a sergeant my stun baton and took an electric jar from my pocket, still wrapped in this morning’s edition of the Atlantic Telegraph. I threw the crumpled newspaper into the trash can. The item collector handed my things to the arsenal warden.

  "Stun baton, one," and made
a corresponding note in the registry. "Edison electric jar, one..." And immediately shuddered: "And where is the second one? The Des Prez?"

  "Put it down under irrecoverable losses."

  "And why on earth would I do that?"

  "Any questions should be directed to Inspector White."

  "Alright, we'll figure it out," the sergeant frowned, dipping his iron quill back into the inkwell.

  I walked away to the table in the far corner and set two loaded cartridge clips on it, then took my Roth-Steyr from its holster, and removed the bolt all the way from the head, which was affixed with a titanium barrel extension. With its side stock open, I pressed the round eject button, collected the ammunition that flew out onto the table in an empty clip and turned to the sergeant.

  "Semi-automatic Roth-Steyr pistol, model eighteen-seventy-four, one," the man grumbled. "Eight millimeter bullets, thirty. Is that all?"

  "That's all," I answered and walked to the changing room. There wasn't a single living soul to be found there.

  And that was to be expected. It was the dead middle of a shift right now. Our boys would still be out pounding pavement 'til nightfall.

  I opened my locker with a certain amount of relief and kicked off my cloak, uniform and boots. I changed into a light-colored linen suit and a pair of lightweight half-boots, tied my neckerchief, and smoothed my hair before a mirror. Lastly, I took a cantankerous look at my reflection and donned my dark glasses.

  Damn it! Damn all this inner turmoil! I need to live in the present.

  After transferring a kerosene lighter and titanium-bladed jackknife from my uniform to my new clothes, I hesitated briefly, but still clipped my Cerberus holster to my belt. It was a thin and compact pistol. I slipped a backup clip with three ten-millimeter bullets into the pocket of my jacket.

  This gun was an invention of the weapons genius Tesla. He had decided that the barrels should be a detachable cluster of cylinders, like a pepper-box. For that reason, the Cerberus wasn't, to put it lightly, known for its accuracy. That said, in close-range firefights, it was simply indispensable. Its firing mechanism used an electric igniter on a gunpowder round, which launched an aluminum-plated bullet. All those bells and whistles were to make sure this weapon would work against both malefics and hell-spawn, alike. Common weapons, due to peculiarities in their design, were of little use against them: over many centuries, evil spirits had managed to develop an invulnerability to iron, copper and even lead, while experienced conjurers had learned to put out the spark of a punched primer and hamper the complex trigger mechanisms in semi-automatic weapons with a single wave of the finger. For revolvers, shooting blanks at such monsters was also anything but a rarity.