Anno Dracula 1999

by Kim Newman

  ‘Hello, I’m Richard,’ he said, taking her bird-thin hand. She wore fingerless black lace gloves. She squeezed his hand in a nervous spasm.

  ‘I’m Chesse Beru,’ she said.

  She was frightened. She’d not expected that. After turning, she thought she’d be beyond fear. He escaped her grip, but patted her hand. She needed reassurance but not a comforting lie.

  ‘Cosy, are we?’ said Radu.

  Infuriatingly, Richard’s knees complained. He’d given up yoga because of his joints, and now couldn’t lotus without a wince. He tried not to let the pain show.

  ‘Best not break up the set,’ said Radu. ‘Murdleigh, have Mrs Van Epp join us.’

  Syrie wanted to insist she hadn’t come with Richard, that they’d only shared the lift up from the Plaza, but knew that would seem small and mean – a ploy to haggle her way out of a bind.

  She sat without tearing her gown.

  She gave Chesse a what-do-you-look-like? withering glance. He had an urge to remind her of the brain-turban she’d worn earlier.

  That made him notice something missing.

  He pointed to his own forehead. Syrie’s hands went to her tiara. The eye jewel was gone.

  ‘Anthony Peak,’ she snarled.

  The thief wasn’t in sight. Richard had known he’d be the one to find a way out.

  He thought the larceny amusing and was surprised at Syrie’s white-lipped fury. She didn’t care for jewels except as tokens. She had buckets full of bright pebbles. Seldom wore the same gew-gaw twice.

  ‘The eye-piece is important,’ she said. ‘I must have it before midnight.’

  Richard knew she meant what she said. Why was the gem significant?

  Radu ignored their exchange. This game of ring-a-rosy was running down.

  The executioners were ready with guns and knives.

  The lambs were penned for slaughter.

  Murdleigh was too close. He’d get pulled down into the mêlée and torn to bits. Chesse Beru and Georgia Rae Drumgo would have his guts for chew-toys. Radu knew enough to back away for a safer view.

  A massacre might be a laugh and a half but was still unlikely to tempt Christina onto the dance floor.

  Syrie worried about her blessed jewel. Chesse scratched the floor.

  The dot.com giant had wet himself. The waiter shuffle-bottomed away from the spreading pee pool.

  Kasa-obake righted himself. His single eye gaped wider.

  Richard saw a circle of light reflected in the umbrella imp’s pupil.

  He looked up. A crown of pulsing stars formed above them.

  Surely, Christina hadn’t installed a glitter ball?

  A kaleidoscope of sparks whirled beneath the circlet. Light-threads wove into the form of a woman. Richard pulled pink-tinted pince-nez from his top pocket so he could look at the apparition without hurting his eyes.

  Christina Light was a twelve-foot-tall Disney Princess with fangs.

  She didn’t look like Veronica Lake. Or Jane Fonda, Meryl Streep or Madonna. Though they had tried to look like her. The Princess was a well-known attention vampire. Being played on film – especially by Oscar nominees and pin-ups – fed her vanity, but also her person. Like Dracula, she took substance from the versions of her sung about in songs, written about in books, and seen in the movies. Always, she was herself most of all but all the performances, all the scenes, all the posters wrapped her in layers of woven starsilk.

  Her red right eye burned like a small sun, rendering half her face translucent. A mask of beauty superimposed on a glittering skull. Her see-through cheek exposed rows of shark teeth.

  Richard didn’t know if the Princess Casamassima wore luminous clothes or spun floating angelic robes out of her own body. Either way, she was clad in light. She was much changed since the last reliable reports were turned in to the Diogenes Club.

  She had been on her way to evolving beyond the flesh.

  She might have managed it.

  The diva had made an entrance. The opera wouldn’t be finished till the blinding light lady sang.

  Now his demand was met, what would Radu do?

  Some hostages were relieved and sobbing. Mr Omochi intently conveyed disapproval of this ostentatious display, never mind the fact that the shining creature had saved his life. Kasa-obake flapped open and closed in delight. Mr dot.com jumped up, trousers dripping, and shouted, ‘In your face, sucka!’, then noticed a spreading bloodstain on his side. Cottonmouth had stabbed him through the liver without him even feeling it. He died not knowing if all that bread he’d laid out to millennium-proof his search engine had done the trick.

  Christina coalesced. Her face turned opaque, covering up the dental anomalies. She radiated beauty. Her blue eye pulsed like the Light Channel. All the time people had been watching it, she had been watching them.

  She smiled down on her party as if nothing were wrong.

  ‘Princess Casamassima,’ said Radu, looking up, face blistering as if he’d walked into Italian sunshine without a hat. ‘I bring you New Year greetings and a message – from my brother, Count—’

  ‘Dra… cu… la,’ came a thunderous female whisper.

  The voice of the phantasm echoed around the Dragon’s Mouth. Richard’s much-abused fillings vibrated again. Chesse noticed his pain and squeaked a sympathetic ouch.

  ‘Yes,’ said Radu. ‘Him.’

  Christina’s lips twitched into a smile of amused contempt.

  Either she was live or a very sophisticated transmission.

  Their hostess was not afraid – which, Richard realised – ought to terrify everyone.

  DETECTIVE AZUMA

  Ota pressed shells into a pump shotgun.

  ‘Load up, load up with si-i-ilver bullets,’ crooned Sarge.

  The one-man riot squad bared fangs.

  ‘We avenge our own in the Bund,’ he told Azuma.

  The Sakis were popular officers. Inugami’s watch had a grudge to pay off. Nakajima had been going with Saki-G. Same precinct relationships were frowned on, but a fact of cop life. The apprentice was out for more than blood. He wanted payback.

  The Chief ordered Mitsuru Fujiwara to get the Bund back online.

  ‘I can,’ he said. ‘Only thing is it’ll take time.’

  ‘Hurry. Something’s happening to a schedule. What’s the betting we’ve only got till midnight? An hour and a half.’

  Fujiwara stabbed keys. Columns of numbers and symbols scrolled.

  Sarge, posted by the doors, raised an alert.

  ‘Someone’s coming up the steps.’

  ‘EarthGuard?’ asked Inugami.

  ‘No. Big guy in a peaked cap. Vampire.’

  Azuma knew who that was. The hearse driver. Iron Mouth.

  ‘Send him away,’ said Inugami.

  Sarge stepped outside.

  ‘He’ll be complaining because some gang kid’s scratched his car,’ said Brenten. ‘The tengu and the kappa, scoring points in competitive vandalism. We need to crack more beaks and head-plates.’

  Azuma pulled his gun.

  Sarge barrelled back into the reception area with a length of wood jutting from his chest. Speared through the heart. Truly dead. His legs hadn’t got the message yet.

  Iron Mouth was silhouetted in the doorway. He stood close to the glass.

  Ota fired his shotgun and the doors exploded into a million shards. Ota pumped a round and fired again. The chauffeur took the blast full in the gut.

  Iron Mouth should have been cut in half.

  Lurching back a step, he kept his balance then walked forward. He dipped his head and pushed the remains of the doors off their hinges.

  The belly of his uniform tunic was shredded by silver shrapnel. Fabric and skin were torn away. Steel shone in his wound, dented but not breached.

  Azuma shot the driver’s face, tearing away a swatch of skin. A curved steel cheekbone glistened under raw muscle. Iron Mouth smiled, showing rusty fangs. He had sub-dermal armour plate.

  An inve
ntion Japan could be proud of. In the 1980s, the sculptor Tsukamoto – inspired by a Yōkai Town fetishist – realised that because vampires heal fast, they can be cut open and have ironmongery stuck in their cavities. The scrap metal was held in place when skin and flesh grew back. Tsukamoto performed operations on living artworks in nightclubs during industrial music events. Then, criminals got in on the act. Full metal yakuza became as common as scuzzbos with tattoos. Gangsters deformed by internal armour, bristling with spikes and hooks and chains. They were a fucking nuisance.

  Iron Mouth might be more metal than man. The Tsukamoto work done on him wasn’t crude. The rust on his teeth was deliberate. You’d worry about lockjaw if he bit you.

  Ota shot the chauffeur again and again, each time scoring killing hits. He gave out babyish mewling grunts every time his target didn’t die.

  Iron Mouth took no notice.

  Brenten launched himself, striking karate blows with the hardened flat of his hand. He aimed at the chauffeur’s neck, over and over, ignoring his own pain. Iron Mouth gave him six or seven free shies, then gripped his forehead with splayed fingers and squeezed. A crack like a coconut splitting set Azuma’s fangs on edge. Mush squirted between metal finger armatures and he dropped Brenten, then trampled on what was left of the tough cop’s noodle, treading brains into linoleum.

  White mice converged to nibble the splatter. This wasn’t how their New Year’s Eve was supposed to go. They took the chance to eat vampire for a change.

  Asato hefted an obsolete electric typewriter off the desk and flung it at the chauffeur’s head. Flex trailing, the heavy machine sailed across the room and knocked Iron Mouth off balance.

  Seeing the opening, Nakajima sliced with a curved silver sword.

  A deep score opened across Iron Mouth’s chestplate, parting metal and showing purple organs beneath. Nakajima pulled back and angled the sword for a heart-thrust, then froze in place.

  Mitsuru Fujiwara was behind him, effecting a neck-pinch with a gadget like an electric scorpion. An arc crackled between claws, paralysing the young officer. Then, a snake-tongue – complete with lizardy head and dorsal spines – lashed out of Fujiwara’s open cakehole and stung Nakajima on the forehead. Black rot spread instantly from the wound.

  Azuma wheeled to get a shot at Fujiwara, but the traitor held Nakajima up as a shield.

  Knowing the cop was dead, Azuma shot anyway – aiming for soft tissue, trusting his rounds to punch straight through and into Fujiwara.

  The Wolfman vaulted over the desk, bounding on all fours, and slammed into Iron Mouth.

  Asato fired a gun and knocked herself over.

  Despite the hair in front of her eyes, she scored a direct hit on Iron Mouth’s exposed heart. She dropped him before Inugami could break teeth and claws on his metal plates.

  She wheeled around, but Fujiwara was out of the kōban.

  Azuma should have known Golgotha would have inside men. All these blood trails led towards the Big Dragon Building. Fujiwara worked there. He wasn’t a cop.

  Smoke grenades rolled in through the broken doors. Inugami’s ears pricked as red dots danced on his fur. He rolled across the floor, sticking himself with dozens of jagged bits of glass. He took multiple bullet hits. Silenced rifle-fire from across the street. Silver slugs flattened on his tough hide, but he was wounded. Silver poisoning wouldn’t kill as quickly as Fujiwara venom, but the old watchdog was put down.

  ‘You’re all we’ve got left,’ he told Asato and Azuma. ‘You are the Bund PD now. Do not let this end here.’

  Iron Mouth turned to dust and scrap metal.

  The bombs popped off. Bright green, yellow and red smoke swirled and mingled – easy to mistake for party effects. Fires took and spread. The television displayed the white pulse of the Light Channel for a few seconds, then its tube exploded.

  ‘There’s a way out downstairs,’ said Asato. ‘An escape route from when this was a fangbang parlour. The hatch is behind the hanging skin of the old manager.’

  Through colourful smoke, Azuma saw riflemen – Hunter and Killer? – advancing across the street. Happy New Year!

  The computer screen was still live. The code resolved into blocky numbers. A countdown from ten. Fujiwara must have rigged it.

  Asato had Azuma downstairs by the time the counter reached zero.

  The dungeon shook as the kōban was destroyed by an explosion.

  HAROLD TAKAHAMA

  Lefty projected diagrams and plotted routes out of the building. None of the best escape runs started from where they were.

  The elevator stood open.

  Nezumi had zig-zagged down flights of service stairs from the Ruff, and gained access – drawn by the ruckus Hal made – to Floor 93 via a cupboard door that was now suspiciously locked. The pneumatique hatch was also sealed, barely showing a crack in the metal wall. Even if they could break into the system, a cylinder would be a snug-to-impossible fit for the pair of them plus Lefty and Good Night Kiss. Also, he didn’t trust the rocket tubes. He remembered being shot up when he wanted to go down.

  Still, they were reluctant to try the obvious exit.

  The party crashers would have people in control rooms, tracking rogue elements and overriding controls, despatching killers to clear out pockets of likely resistance. Jun Zero – the bastard! – had probably written the code used in the takeover. The Shiki pest was still in play and Nezumi reported more murderers on the premises. Lousy company grown-up Hal had been keeping. Dad would be disappointed again.

  According to Nezumi, the murderer-in-chief was Count Dracula’s Knock-Off Brother, who went around introducing himself as Radu the Handsome. ‘… though he’s not that good-looking.’ If this Captain Bighead was the Big Bad here, he was presumably Jun Zero’s client, and cause of all their woes. Hal bet Dracula II Electric Boogaboo stiffed him on his fee too. That family had a lot to answer for.

  There were no ‘transporter circles’ on this floor. Nor any handy ventilation outlets, so going back into the ducts wasn’t an option. No windows to kick open so they could abseil down the hide of the dragon with a thousand metres of rope tied from scavenged sheets and curtains.

  Which brought them back to the elevator.

  They stood in the room where Christina Light had been born – the dump that set her off on an extended lifetime of social climbing which ended in her very own dragon castle – and looked at the elevator. It was well-lit and inviting. Normal, even. Innocent.

  ‘Lefty, can you override external controls?’

  ‘Seventy-three percent probability of success.’

  Nezumi gave Hal a solemn thumbs-up.

  Hal decided he could live with a twenty-seven percent probability of death.

  ‘Did you know that in an office block in Amsterdam in the 1980s, a predator vampire permanently shapeshifted into a lift?’ said Nezumi. ‘People would get on and it ate them. The leftover bones and fillings and belt-buckles got dropped to the bottom of the shaft. The Diogenes Club lent Mr Jeperson and me to the Dutch to solve the mystery. He walked into the lobby and immediately saw what was wrong. The evil lift was taken out and installed in a single-storey prison. After that, Mr Jeperson visited many hash bars but didn’t take me. I saw some lovely Vermeers. Typical Japanese tourist.’

  ‘I’m not sure this story is helping,’ said Hal.

  ‘The lift vampire was looney. It’s not likely anyone else would be looney in exactly the same way.’

  ‘No, but maniacs inspire copycat criminals.’

  Nezumi stepped into the elevator. Music came on. Chirrupy, upbeat Japanese pop. A cover of Prince’s ‘1999’.

  Funny, because it was 1999.

  Hal supposed you had to drop off in 1992 and wake up tonight to see that as a joke. Otherwise, it was just irritating.

  He joined the girl and the doors automatically closed.

  ‘That’s not ominous at all,’ he said.

  Nezumi took out a gadgety penknife – exciting a spurt of covetous envy in Hal’
s lizard brain – and unscrewed the plate of the control panel. It dropped on the floor, and a mess of wiring was exposed, which she parted to show a port Lefty’s thumb-jack fit into.

  ‘Connecting… connecting…’

  ‘That’s handy,’ said Nezumi.

  ‘Very funny… not!’

  ‘How will you ever adjust to this bewildering future, man out of time? We know the world is round. And have trod on the moon.’

  When Lefty plugged into a system, Hal felt a weird tingling.

  How complete was the mesh of machine and man? Did wires from his hand run through his body like a parallel nervous system? Could Lefty override his brain if it wanted to? He didn’t want to wind up like the Caterpillar.

  Hal no longer trusted his future self. Hacker genius Jun Zero seemed to have made boucoup poor decisions.

  If he found the right port, he could override the system. He could pilot the daikaiju. That would be an electric buzz, an exultation of power!

  ‘Control established,’ said his hand, bringing him back to the moment.

  ‘Very well done,’ said Nezumi – to him, not the machine.

  A little jealous shock reminded Hal to be humble.

  ‘Does this lift go up to Doragon no Kuchi?’ Nezumi asked.

  ‘Affirmative.’

  ‘Hold your horses, Minnie Mouse,’ said Hal. ‘Up? What about down? To the Plaza? The out door?’

  Nezumi looked at him, solemn.

  ‘I must protect my principal. Mr Jeperson is at the mercy of unscrupulous persons. Many others are at risk.’

  Hal couldn’t argue. As Jun Zero, he was as responsible for the situation as the client. He ought to want payback against this Handsome Devil, who wanted him mind-wiped and/or dead.

  But he’d still rather get away alive and – taking Lefty into consideration – more or less whole.

  ‘Direct Access to the Dragon’s Mouth is not possible in this elevator,’ said his hand.

  Hal could have kissed its shiny glass knuckles.

  He didn’t have to wimp out because there was no other choice.

  ‘Access to the lobby is not possible in this elevator either.’