Atomic Underworld: Part One Read online

  Soon they came into the great cistern chamber of Muscud, and Tavlin couldn’t help but breathe a sigh of relief at the sight of the so-called city sprawled across the lake, thousands of lights twinkling eerily through the fog, like rheumy yellow eyes. It was early morning, and the city was just beginning to rouse for the day. He saw cranes loading and unloading things from larger boats along the docks, saw fisherpeople casting nets over the sides of their small boats out in the harbor, fog still coiling around their hulls. Few paid Tavlin and Sophia much attention, and he was glad they weren’t close enough to see any details.

  The two docked and paid a marina official too much to put the boat up for the day. It was necessary. Tavlin was drenched in crusted blood from head to foot. Even in Muscud keeping that quiet cost a little extra. Sophia went ahead and found a bathhouse that advertised “safe” water, and Tavlin crept his way toward it, keeping out of sight as much as possible. Two feral bagriths, a species of batkin, fighting over what looked like a human thigh bone growled at him as he passed a certain alley, and he didn’t linger.

  The bathhouse had three wings, one for men, one for women, and one for both. Sophia vanished into the women’s side, and Tavlin, reluctantly, chose the men’s. He was in no mood or condition to fool around in the common area. The bath was the best thing he’d ever felt in his life, steaming hot water pouring over his tired, aching, filthy body, washing away the grime, the despair, the horror. Steam surrounded him, and all he could hear was the slap of water and the echoing laughter of other men. In the dressing room one of them let him bum a hand-rolled cigarette, and he smoked it down to his fingers, relishing every inhalation. He did miss his pipe, though.

  The bathhouse employees did what they could for his clothes, but they were ruined and he knew he needed something new to put on. He found Sophia lounging in the courtyard that comprised the middle of the building, in the midst of spreading fronds and cobbled walkways. Incense burned from a golden lion’s head, and she drank something out of a coffee mug—coffee, maybe, but likely with something a little stronger in it, too. She looked refreshed and healthy. Pink bloomed in her cheeks, and her lips were very red. Her eyes seemed tired, but calm, and they sparkled just a bit as he emerged, dressed in his ruined, stained clothes. A grin twisted her full lips. She was dressed in a white bathrobe, and her wet red hair hung down past her shoulders.

  Glancing him up and down, she said, “I think we need to go shopping.”

  They set out from the bathhouse, both dressed in their soiled attire, and toured the nearest cosmopolitan district on Aimes Street, where hunched brick buildings with large warped-glass displays and patios piled with chipped flowerpots and stolen sculptures did a brisk business, even this early in the day, and the two eagerly whittled away what money Tavlin still had on him. Just the same, he felt much better when, an hour later, he and Sophia took breakfast at a café overlooking the Ulong Canal, which cut through the heart of Muscud, both wearing their new clothes. The Ulong was a busy commercial artery, and Tavlin enjoyed the sight of small barges and motorboats plying its thick dark waters.

  “I miss the nurse’s uniform,” Tavlin said, of Sophia’s new knit top and jeans.

  She pursed her lips but said nothing. Perhaps she was trying to figure out if he was flirting or not, and how she should take it if he were. As for himself, he too wondered where they stood with each other. Maybe if he said nothing they could pretend like the harsh words of yesterday had never happened.

  “I’m bushed,” she said. “The coffee’s worn off, and, I can’t believe I’m saying this, but so has the fear.”

  “Yeah. It’s past time for me to crash, too. I have a room at the Skirt.”

  She visibly tried to repress a certain pain. “You are a good customer.”

  “Not like that. I was hiding out. We’re been very visible this morning. We need to go there, lay low, and not come out for awhile. I’m hoping the Octunggen won’t be looking for us here, but they will, sooner or later. Probably sooner.”

  “I don’t know how I feel about staying at the Skirt ...” She rubbed her upper arm nervously, for a moment looking very young. She gulped down a deep breath. “But hell, I guess I spent ten years there. One more night won’t kill—” She stopped. “Well, we’ll see.”

  They navigated back roads into the Jasmine Quarter, where the Twirling Skirt stood sandwiched between two other buildings. There was already a john waiting in the parlor smoking a cigar on a chaise lounge, while a couple of yawning young women in negligees kept him company. He presumably waited for some girl in particular.

  A pretty woman in her middle years approached; she wore an exotic silk robe of turquoise-and-amber cinched with a red belt, and her hair fell in ringlets down the back of her neck. Tavlin didn’t recognize her, but Sophia did.

  “Abigail!” Sophia rushed forward and they embraced, carefully, so as not to ruin Abigail’s make-up.

  “Soph, don’t tell me you’re back.”

  “What? I—”

  “I mean, your old room’s always open to you, you know that, but I heard you were a nurse now.” She seemed disappointed somehow, as if she had taken comfort in the thought of a working girl made good.

  “No, no, I’m with Two-Bit here. Well, not with him. He had a room here.”

  “Oh.” Abigail looked at Tavlin, nodded, “Yes, of course. I remember you. I didn’t make your acquaintance the other day. I’m the new madam now, by the way. The ladies voted on it.”

  “Madam,” Sophia said. “Well, congratulations.”

  “Is my room still available?” Tavlin asked.

  “You paid through the week, so yes,” Abigail said. “Now, that was a special accommodation, and it wasn’t made with me, but I’ll honor it. I can’t promise I’ll renew it, though. Some things are going to change around here.”

  “I understand.”

  One of the girls accompanied them upstairs to the room, though Tavlin remembered quite well where it was; he suspected Abigail didn’t want him patrolling the hallways unescorted, and she evidently didn’t trust Sophia to keep a tight enough rein on him.

  “Not much,” Tavlin said when he opened the door to reveal the narrow, cramped room. “But it’s home.”

  The girl that had accompanied them had left, and Sophia gave an inscrutable look first at Tavlin, then at the room. “There’s only one bed.”

  “I’ll take the floor.” He waited for her to suggest otherwise, but she didn’t. It didn’t matter. He was so exhausted he figured he could sleep anywhere.

  She made him turn around while she undressed and slipped under the covers, and he made a show of hiding his body from her view as he undressed. He thought she looked amused but couldn’t tell by the light of the single candle; she had drawn the threadbare drapes, and it was very dark, almost oil-dark, despite the day-lit lamps throughout the city. It smelled of old wood and mildew, and the air was thick with humidity. A misshapen moth flapped about the candle.

  Tavlin found an extra blanket to throw over himself and used a shoe for a pillow. The boards of the floor dug into his back, and he tossed and turned, trying to get comfortable. True, he was exhausted, but he couldn’t stop thinking about a naked Sophia just a few short feet away, all clean and pink, long and lean and ripe like the ripest melon, maybe even a little overripe. The sounds of Skirt business from an upstairs bedroom didn’t help any.

  He wondered what would happen if he should try to make a move on her. Maybe he should. Maybe she would make a move on him. Why not? She was an independent woman. They could forget the past, let bygones be whatever the hell bygones were.

  Or maybe she would welcome his attentions. Yes, almost certainly. She was probably waiting for him right now. He need only turn around and arch his eyebrows suggestively, and she would draw back the sheet, revealing a long, naked leg, then let the sheet fall away from a naked shoulder, then pull it lower, revealing the top of a large firm breast ... then she would pull it a little lower, and a sharp, red nipple would
just out, slightly erect in the cool room ... and then ...

  He couldn’t take it anymore. He rolled over and reached out for her.

  Stopped.

  A low, groaning snore came from her recumbent shape. Then another.

  He drew back his hand. Grunted. He rolled over and tried to sleep. The sound of banging, gasping and moaning continued above. He plugged his fingers in his ears.

  *

  They ate and coffeed in the women's kitchen area downstairs. The Twirling Skirt was in full swing, and there was much music and laughter trickling in from the front rooms. All the lights blazed, and the air smelled of cooking biscuits, seafood and cayenne pepper. Tavlin couldn’t help share frequent looks with Sophia as he dined, but they didn’t talk much. For some reason, he felt very warm.

  “I wish I could visit with the girls,” Sophia said, wiping her lips. She had just finished her fish and biscuits and had inclined her head, listening to the sounds of the parlor.

  “I know,” he said. “I’d like to take a crack at the piano. It’s out of tune, but I could make do.” He loved musical instruments, especially the trombone and the piano. Many a night back in his old life, he had played with the band, either here or at the Wide-Mouth. He remembered when he had first started courting Sophia, he would play the trombone for her while she circled through the gathering, ostensibly to find a john for the hour but really to keep her eyes and ears on him. He remembered how their eyes would lock through the smoky gloom, softened by all the gleams of light on brass and aged wood, and the music would pour out of him into the trombone, and into the air, into her ...

  Then, inevitably, she would steal off with a john after Madam Saraja gave her a sharp look, and Tavlin would feel that same old bitter pain. He would start drinking more heavily, and he would move to the piano. In later days he would simply start buying Sophia for an entire evening, and still he would serenade her; it might cost him several days’ pay, but he was a man in love. And she would sit on the sofa watching him all evening, ignoring every john that came close.

  He sighed now and shook his head. “There’s too many people out there, and the Octunggen are bound to be looking for us in Muscud by now. We can’t show ourselves.”

  “But we can’t just stay holed up.”

  “You stay here. I’ll have one of the girls bring you some books to read.”

  “You’re going out?”

  “I have to meet with Boss Vassas,” he said. “Don’t worry, I’ll stay hidden.”

  “You get to go out and I don’t?”

  “This isn’t a game.”

  She groaned. “Fine. But be careful.”

  He escorted her back to their apartment. The other rooms in the Skirt were thumping and pounding, groaning and gasping. It was like walking through a zoo. Tavlin could even feel the rocking beds through the floorboards. He could smell the sex, all around him.

  When they reached the room, he stopped her at the doorway by taking her hand. Surprised, she turned back to him.

  He started to say something, couldn’t figure out the words, and closed his mouth. Embarrassed, he glanced away.

  He opened his mouth to start over again, but she placed a finger to his lips and he shut up.

  “Don’t say anything,” she told him. She sounded sad, as if the words pained her. “I ... think I know what you want to say.”

  “You do?”

  She nodded. “And you can never say it. It ...” She sighed. “It’s over, Two-Bit.” Her voice sort of cracked as she said it, and he felt something brittle inside him begin to break. “We had it once, but it’s gone.”

  “We ...” He swallowed. “We could try to get it back.”

  She shook her head. “Some things that are broken just can’t be fixed.”

  “Maybe. But …”

  “Yes?”

  “Maybe this isn’t one of those things.”

  Very slowly, she shut the door in his face.

  Chapter 9

  With a lowered head, he made his way back downstairs, where he asked Abigail’s permission (through an intermediary, as she was in the parlor) to root through the lost-and-found. Johns were always leaving clothes behind. He found a suitably ragged trench coat and hat and donned them. He also found a cane with a dented brass handle and decided to take it along, just in case he had need of a blunt object.

  Draped in his trench coat, with his hat pulled low over his face, he left the Twirling Skirt through the rear entrance and picked his way down the alley. This alley connected with another one, and this to another. He navigated through the back ways of Muscud with all senses cocked. Dark figures eyed him, but his shabby coat and dented cane did not entice them. One asked him if he had any gunsai on him, but he replied that he was dry.

  Inwardly, he sneered. Gunsai. One of the many alchemical drugs popular in Ghenisa at the moment. It was a sad thing that drug use was so prevalent among the mutant population, but Tavlin supposed it was understandable. He hadn’t had nearly as good an excuse back in his druggie days.

  He shambled down streets and across rooftops, making for the Wide-Mouth by the least visible route. As he drew closer to Boss Vassas’s territory, he noticed a certain stillness, an unnatural calm. Few people were out and about, and those that were kept to the shadows and stared out with watchful, grim expressions. People hid in their homes, in their shops. Many kept their hands on bulges in their pockets. Tavlin found one passed-out drunk with a newspaper over his face—the Muscud Statesman—and plucked it off. A quick scan showed that the entire front page was devoted to the mob war between Boss Vassas and Boss Grund. Apparently there had been several shootings, and two confirmed bombings, since Tavlin had been away. The death tally was over twenty now, and a handful of these were regular civilians caught in the crossfire.

  Tavlin approached the Wide-Mouth via rooftop. Just as he was passing a water tower, someone grabbed him from behind. The assailant’s arms pinned Tavlin’s own arms against his side and squeezed the air from his lungs before he could shout.

  Another shape appeared before him. A knife pressed against his throat—he could feel the touch of steel—before a short, squat figure shoved a gun against his belly.

  “It—it’s me!” Tavlin gasped.

  There was a pause, then a flashlight blinded him. A chuckle came, and another. The knife retreated.

  “Get that damned thing off me,” Tavlin said, shoving the flashlight to the side. Blinking, he glared at Frankie, who was replacing the gun in its shoulder holster.

  Frankie, a dim, toad-like form with spots dancing all about him, said, “Sorry about that, Two-Bit. We’ve got all avenues covered. Nobody’s gettin’ to the Mouth without our leave.”

  Tavlin brushed himself off. “This war’s really gotten going, then.”

  “Yeah. Boss thought Grund would back down if we showed some force, so we bombed one of his storehouses and mowed down some of his men. The prick’s just pissed off now, and the fuck of it is he’s stronger than we thought he was. We don't know where he's getting his gear—his guns, his motorcycles. Could be a real problem.” The spots started to fade, and Frankie swam into focus. “Well, you’re back. Where the hell you been?”

  “Never mind. I need to talk to the Boss.”

  “You’ll need to hurry. He’s just leavin’.”

  “Leaving?”

  “You’ll see. Sam, show Two-Bit through. Don’t want him getting waylaid again.” He laughed. “Shoulda seen the look on your face!”

  Following Sam, Tavlin made his way down a crumbling fire escape, up a final alley and then onto Ilusthane Avenue. The Wide-Mouth stood there, proud and tall, made of stone, its batwing doors aglow with light. Windows blazed above, shining through the unnaturally foggy night, and here and there lamps glowed in the murk, spreading a creeping sort of illumination, making the vapor phosphorescent. Moths battered the lamps, a thousand soft furry thuds in the stillness. Tavlin half-expected tall dark shapes to emerge from the fog at any moment, teeth gleaming, eyes
alight. Or maybe shrimp-like antennae.

  He sensed forms on the rooftops: snipers. Even now crosshairs would be centering on his back. He felt himself hunch his shoulders and tried to stop it, with limited success.

  Sam pushed before him into the Wide-Mouth, which was as dead as Tavlin had ever seen it, only a few desultory drinkers at the bar, a few gamblers tossing dice or staring at each other over their cards. As soon as Sam and Tavlin entered, all eyes swiveled to them, and everyone tensed. They relaxed when they saw who it was, but not altogether. Sam led Tavlin through into the back rooms, where Tavlin expected to find Boss Vassas beating the shit out of another of Grund’s goons. Instead he found Vassas’s own goons strapping on shoulder holsters, shoving ammunition into shotguns and even a few submachine guns. Most smoked cigarettes anxiously.

  Boss Vassas himself smoked a foul-smelling cigar and called out to someone through the trapdoor below, apparently to a boat. “Closer, you idiot! And tie that thing up!” He turned to the first group of men. “It’s ready, boys. Let’s get in and get crackin’.”

  Led by Galesh, Vassas’s lieutenant, the group descended through the trapdoor and out of sight.

  When Vassas noticed Tavlin, his eyebrows climbed his forehead. “Well, look who decided to show up. Good timing.”

  “Yeah,” Tavlin said. “Glad I caught you before you—”

  “Grab a gun.” Vassas directed the next group down into a waiting boat.

  “What, no, I just came to report in—”

  “Shoot first, report later.”

  “No, really, I—”

  Someone shoved a shotgun into Tavlin’s hands, and another propelled him toward the trapdoor. Despite Tavlin’s protestations, when the next group went down the hole, Tavlin was carried with them. Half cajoled, half forced, he found himself crouching in a boat on the water beneath the Wide-Mouth, with several other boats around him—there was more than he’d thought, maybe five, no, an even half dozen. Above, Vassas stood framed in the slow amber light, directing the last teams into their boats. The Boss himself dropped into the final boat, still smoking his foul-smelling cigar, and the other vessels gathered around him. When the trapdoor slammed shut, Vassas’s cigar was the only light in darkness, a glowing red ember that made his black eyes glimmer. All that could be heard was the slap of water on rotting hulls, and the fast breathing of the men.