by Rick Wayne
Derk spit again and wiped his wet mouth. “Imperials don’t care about the island and you know it. All they care about is collecting taxes and keeping the aminals out.”
Vernal turned to Derk. “How much am I worth?”
“You know,” Velma blubbered from under her down-turned face, “Cecil and me was gonna get cleaned up. We were gonna get back together. We were gonna be a family. Not like our family. Like a real one. He had it all figured.” She lay down on the sofa.
“What is she talking about?”
Derk had started to sidestep toward the phone on the wall. He stopped. “Cecil was gonna get a job at Grody’s. You know, the swine merchant?”
“One of his buddies set it up.” Velma sniffed and rubbed her nose. “They had a line on Old Man Grody.”
“Fuck.” Vernal rubbed his eyes. “Cecil was blackmailing a grocer?”
“Just to get a job!” Velma objected from the couch. “You know, on account of he can’t fight anymore. But it’d be okay. He’d do good work. ’Cuz if there’s one thing Cecil knew how to do, it was handle meat.”
Vernal made a face.
“We were gonna save some money, get a little house outside the city.” Velma closed her eyes.
Vernal wondered if the blackmail scheme hadn’t backfired somehow. He could see poor, dumb Cecil not knowing how to tell his junkie wife that their great plan for happiness was falling apart, that he’d fucked it up somehow. Vernal could see Cecil reaching for some liquid courage. He could see, after being dry for so long, the dam bursting.
Fucker.
Vernal lifted the extinguisher and sprayed Derk in one long stream. The scrawny dealer had been reaching for the phone and turned to swat at the foam. He tried to block it with his palms as best he could.
Vernal dropped the empty canister and cocked his wrist. Derk, dripping white suds, looked at the stinger.
“You know what this is?” Vernal asked.
Derk nodded. It jingled the metal in his ear.
“I want you to give your people a message. Understand?”
Derk nodded again.
“Tell them I’ll make an even trade for the key. They’ll hear from me tomorrow. Got it?”
Derk nodded a third time and Vernal walked to the door.
He stopped and took a deep breath through his chipped teeth. “I’m going away, Velma.”
“Okay,” she nodded, her eyes drifting open and closed.
“For good, I mean.”
Velma nodded again. It shook her hair and revealed the thinning spot on the top of her scalp. Hair loss was a side effect of Neverod abuse, along with weight gain and creeping, permanent illiteracy. And of course the burns. The drug was heat-activated but degraded fast. The best highs came by injecting the inactive form under the skin and then burning it with an electric lancet, sending the activated chemical into the blood stream. Lancets left only pinprick burns, which were easily hidden, and so they were popular with the well-to-do. Poor people defaced themselves with power tools, or stole the soldering iron from their missing daughters’ arts and crafts set.
“I’m not coming back,” Vernal clarified.
Velma didn’t say anything.
Some little gnat of a feeling, a maggot that had burrowed under the cockles of his heart, lifted its head and wanted Vernal to tell his sister what he knew, not about her family, but why he was leaving, where he was going, what was happening to her, the city, the planet, everything. Leaving her here was a death sentence. That was certain.
But how do you convince a nearly illiterate junkie of the end of the world?
Vernal knew she’d never leave, not as long as she had any hope for her daughters. But the truth wouldn’t be the last thing he left her with. Truth had never done anything but cause him trouble anyway.
Vernal swallowed the little gnat and sneered at Derk. The dealer would call his handlers the moment Vernal was out the door, and they would call Pimpernel. Vernal looked at his sister, half asleep and holding the cigarette with a two-inch ash ready to fall. At least it would be over soon. If the Traveler was right, everyone and everything had less than forty-eight hours.
And then it would all be gone.
Vernal walked into the hall and left his sister forever. As he trundled down the stairs, he could hear the clicks of the phone.
(NINE) A Fate Worse Than Death
There is a fate worse than death.
It starts simply enough with headaches, nausea, and vomiting, but soon the skin reddens and starts to itch before erupting into open lesions. Then come hair loss, dizziness, and cognitive impairment. Cancers erupt in every major organ, and a long, painful agony ensues as the body dissolves like a carcass soaked in acid. Depending on the level of radiation exposure, this could happen over a period of weeks, or mere days.
Early in his illness, Gilbert could manage brief periods of physical contact with others without making them irreversibly sick. But now, anyone in the same room with him for more than a few minutes died in less than a week. His latest tests showed that he killed rodents and house plants in a mere twelve hours.
Gilbert watched from behind tinted glass as the scar-faced man in the back of the limo opened the door and stepped onto the busy, neon-lined sidewalk. The street was bustling, and he was greeted by a small crowd of lingerie-clad mechanoids on the front steps of Kosi Nova’s Social Club. For the entire drive from the airport, where he had arrived in his own zeppelin, the scarred man had sat in the back being exposed to Gilbert through the thin glass. He greeted the women with open arms as music thumped from inside the club. Spotlights waved over the city. Cars cruised up and down the go-go quarter, their drivers hunting for the best good time. Neon blinked everywhere.
The limo pulled away under sun-bright lights and Gilbert smiled at the mechanoid driver, who ignored him. The metal man was immune to radiation and spoke not a word to the silent assassin next to him. The car stopped in a crowded underground garage, and Gilbert got his suit out of the trunk.
Marcelline appeared as he finished dressing. “How did it go?” Her voice echoed off the heavy concrete.
“That man is going to be dead in a few days.” Gilbert put his hood over his head.
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Most of the time, you won’t know, and frankly it’s best not to ask, but since this is your first time, I’ll show you.” Marcelline walked toward a set of double doors. “He’s a pony boy.”
“A what?”
She didn’t stop, and Gilbert looked at the suited driver, who clicked with a mechanical tic as he shrugged. Gilbert scurried after her.
“Where are we going?”
Gilbert walked through the doors and up a vinyl-surfaced staircase. Marcelline punched a code into a keypad next to an imposing set of double doors. As they clicked open, Gilbert stared at the dressing room of Kosi’s backstage. It was filled with mirrors and racks of lingerie, sex toys, some birds and caged reptiles, a great deal of leather, drugs, alcohol, and carnival-like stage props of all kinds, some that reached to the high ceiling. Mechanoid women scurried about dressing, injecting their breasts with gel—or removing some to make them smaller—repairing imperfections in their pseudoflesh with a plasterlike paste, or changing it outright. Gilbert watched as one robotic woman stepped out of her skin like a dress and draped on another. She pulled the scalp taut over her blinking brain and became someone different. Gilbert had heard enough about skin jobs to know that each was custom made and very, very expensive. It fit perfectly. She was beautiful. Flawless.
Marcelline kept moving, and Gilbert had to scurry again. She led him up another dark staircase to an observation room. Three large parlors were visible through two-way mirrors on the right, left, and opposite walls. A circular, red velvet couch and a well-stocked valet were the only furniture. The carpet was so thick you could sleep on it. The walls were so thick that the bustle from the club abated as soon as the door closed. It was quiet.
“Have a seat, Mr. Tube
rs. No one can hear us in here.”
Gilbert looked to his right. A pink-hued palomino unicorn stood majestically in one of the lavish rooms. A glittering silk scarf hung from its ivory and lace ruffles around its hooves covered the manacles that chained it to the wall. A finely-embroidered flower-print robe was draped over its back.
Marcelline motioned to the beast. “What do you think?”
“It’s a beautiful animal. You don’t usually get to see them this close.” The unicorn was large and powerful. Its coat had a rainbow-tinted sheen. Gilbert looked at the robe. “Is that animal lingerie?”
“The man you rode with is a pony boy, a brony. He’s here to have sex with this unicorn.”
Gilbert made a face through his round visor.
Marcelline raised her eyebrow. “That’s ironic coming from a man of your habits. They’re graceful, majestic animals.”
“I don’t have sex with my collection.”
“Neither of them?”
“No.”
“Then what’s the point?”
Gilbert crossed his hands. “You wouldn’t understand.”
“You’re right.”
Gilbert sat down and looked at the stunning animal. “It doesn’t bother you at all?”
“Mr. Tubers,” Marcelline stepped forward. “I know someone who has killed more people than Kraxus, and who looks like a god himself doing it, and if I thought it would do any good, I’d throw myself naked at his feet in the hopes he’d take me. Nothing you say or do is going to shock me.” She looked at him with her one good eye.
Gilbert scowled as the man entered the unicorn’s parlor with his mechanoid retinue. They were drinking and carrying on. “So why kill him if he’s a paying customer?”
Marcelline turned to watch the show. “He’s rich. He’s very rich, actually. His company breeds and trains war dragons for the Empire, a good business to be in these days.”
“Do you really think there’s going to be war with the Aminal Kingdom?”
“It doesn’t matter what I believe. What matters is people think war is coming, and that’s enough to get them to open their purses. It takes years, decades, to grow and train a dragon. Rumor has it the Emperor’s personal three-headed gold cost forty-seven million.”
“I think I remember reading about that.”
“But being a dragon breeder also means that he’s very well-connected. He’s not someone you can burgle.”
“Blackmail?”
“No,” Marcelline scoffed. “If word ever got out we were blackmailing our clientele, we would be out of business. An unimpeachable reputation for discretion is our capital.”
“Then what?”
Marcelline pointed. Inside the room, the man was admiring and stroking the unicorn. “As a result of his exposure to you, he’s going to get very sick, but he won’t know why.”
Gilbert looked down. The answer was right in front of him. “He’ll think he got it from unicorn sex.”
“It’s the natural conclusion for anyone who indulges in a secret perversion. And he’ll pay good money to get his doctor’s hands on the animal.”
Gilbert nodded. “You all will keep your reputation, and he’ll be dead before they figure anything out.”
“We estimate he’ll fork over a quarter mil, not that it will do any good. His son is in his forties and eager to take over the company. Has been for years. We don’t expect much of an inquest after Mr. Radic here dies.”
Gilbert shook his head.
“Say it.”
“It’s brilliant.”
“And that’s the point.” Marcelline leaned in. “Do you know why people come to the island?”
Gilbert turned away from the raucous scene in the room. “Because they can’t do stuff like this at home.”
Chains clinked. The unicorn whinnied and stumbled forward in response to Radic’s feverish groping. “That’s right, take it easy, baby.” He stepped onto a padded stool and moved the animal’s tail out of the way.
Gilbert looked at the floor.
Marcelline watched through the mirror. “After the war, the island was something of an outpost. And since it floats around the Western Sea, it became a haven and a retreat, a place to get away or not be found. Being it’s so close to the kingdom, a great many aminals settled here. And all that made it valuable to a certain class of people.”
“Like your boss.”
Inside the room, Radic inhaled the unicorn’s perfume. The mechanoid women were laughing and praising their scar-faced benefactor.
“Our boss. You need to understand your situation, Mr. Tubers.”
Gilbert was indignant. “I didn’t argue when you told me to sit in the car with him.”
“Money is what makes this town, from Parkus to Adamour, from City Hall to Midwitch. Money is what keeps the Empire away. Money is what we’re after. Somewhere in this town is a room full of it, more than you could count in a lifetime. The person who controls that does not control it by accident. Do you understand?”
Gilbert nodded as the man entered the unicorn. It bellowed and shook its pinkish mane. The women cheered like it was someone’s birthday. “But do I have to watch this?”
The man grabbed the unicorn’s rump and slapped it as he thrust feverishly again and again. Pearls of sweat trickled down his face. He screamed of conquest.
“No. In fact, the house is yours. Madame Kosi has been instructed to fulfill your every desire. Food, clothes, girls, whatever you want.”
“I see.” Gilbert thought for a moment as the moaning from the room increased. “What if I want to go home?”
Marcelline opened to the door and the noise returned. “This is your home, Mr. Tubers. There’s nothing left for you at your apartment. You’re part of our family now. I’ll be back for you in four hours. I suggest you eat, screw, and get some rest. You’ll need it.”
“Why?”
“You’re going to kill Pugs Roth tonight.”
Gilbert opened his mouth to speak, but Marcelline was already out the door. As it swung shut, the silence returned. He watched for a moment as the mechanoid women chanted in unison. Radic didn’t know it, but that would be the last happy moment of his life. He climaxed with a bellow and to raving applause. Then he stumbled back and clutched his head. The headaches were already starting.
(TEN) The Automatic Killer
Jack heard the hammer lock into place as the barrel pressed to the back of his head. He could tell from the cold feel and the baritone sound that the gun was massive. The hallway was silent except for the faint shrill of children laughing and the ensuing rumble of scolding parents.
There must be a field trip at the aquarium, he thought. “Where’d you get the cannon, Zee?”
“A girl can’t be too careful these days. Get on your knees, Jack.”
Zeek had waited until they were away from the others. After the elevator ride from Erasmus’s subterranean headquarters, she had motioned for Jack to follow her around the corner to a service entrance that opened to the back of the carnival. It would be risky to shoot him there, but there wasn’t another opportunity. Once outside the door, it was busy streets all the way to Pugs’.
“That thing must weight fifteen, twenty pounds, I’m guessing.”
Zeek pressed the barrel harder into the back of Jack’s head. “I’m not fucking around, Jack. Not with you. Jeez, not you. Get down.”
“That’s a lot of weight to hold up high like that.”
“Jack . . .”
“Doesn’t take long for the arms to get tired, start shaking. Unless you work out.”
“Jack . . .”
“You don’t look like you been working out, Zee.”
Jack felt the barrel quiver as if strength used for steadying had been switched to the trigger. He heard Zeek draw breath.
The service door swung open, flooding the hall with light and laughter. A small boy stepped in and lost his smile. He stared at the pair.
“Oh, dear.” Zeek stuffed the monster rev
olver into her purse as the boy’s mother came apologizing to collect him. She gave the pair a nervous glance as she herded the stiff child back into the crowd.
Jack followed as the door swung closed. He stood amid the laughing kids and looked up at the sun. It had been raining for days, and the few remaining storm clouds floated in a sea of gray.
Zeek walked through the door, straightened her wig, and stood next to Jack. The gunslinger wandered toward the lip of the massive pool in front of him. Children dragged their parents around it in bursts, trying to catch a glimpse of the giant squid in the deep water below. Jack leaned against the wall and peered into the blue. There was a dark and looming shape huddled at the bottom, but it was the future—deep and featureless.
A little girl in a spring dress, no more than nine years old, leaned over the lip next to Jack. She stared into the water. “What’s his name?”
“Archie.”
The girl turned her curls to the gunslinger. “Really?”
Jack nodded. “Yup.”
“What do they feed him?”
People, Jack thought. Anyone who needed to disappear. It was the perfect way to dispose of a body. “Vegetables.”
“Vegetables?” The girl made a face.
“Broccoli mostly.”
The girl stuck out her tongue and ran back to her parents.
Jack watched her go as Zeek walked up to him, her hand perched on the straps of her purse.
“We need to talk, Jack.”
“Who’s feeding Archie these days?” The job was dangerous and always fell to whoever had fucked up last.
“I don’t get it.”
“It’s a simple question.”
“Why come back?”
Jack shrugged. “Versus what?”
“I thought . . . after that night . . .”
“That I was done?”
“Are you really just going to be Erasmus’s homicidal puppet forever?”
“Don’t have much of a choice.”
Zeek looked into the tank with Jack. “What if you did?”
“What do you mean?”
Zeek shook her head. “You’re not here to kill me?”
