Richard Kadrey - The Grand Dark

Beyond the edges of the plaza, prostitutes flirted with men in strange masks made of steel and leather—Iron Dandies, they were called, but never where they could hear it. They were war veterans considered too disfigured to be glimpsed by the city’s ordinary citizens—Largo among them. He’d heard that if you stared too long at a Dandy he’d rip his mask off, giving you a good look at his mutilated face. Seeing a Dandy that way was considered bad luck.

Bad luck or no, the truth was that Largo didn’t want to see what was under the masks or think about how the wounds, or the war itself, had happened. He just put his head down, pedaled harder, and arrived panting at the courier service as the plaza clock rang six.

Dropping his bicycle next to those of the other couriers, Largo ran up the stairs to the office and made it inside before the head dispatcher, Herr Branca, noticed his tardiness. He lingered at the back behind the other messengers so that his supervisor wouldn’t see him sweating.

Herr Branca was a burly man, one of the strange sort who seemed to have been born old. None of the couriers knew his age, but depending on the season and whether he’d shaved or not, they guessed it to be anywhere from thirty to sixty. He wore the same thing every day: pinstriped pants, matching vest, and a white shirt with an old-fashioned starched collar that he left open except when visiting their superiors. The bottom button on his vest was always missing. This could mean only one of two things: that Herr Branca was an eccentric who cut the bottom button off all of his vests, or that a second vest was beyond his means. No one at the service took Branca for an eccentric, so that had to mean their supervisor was so poorly paid that his choice in clothes was no better than the couriers’. This possibility always depressed Largo. He liked being a courier, but if Herr Branca was his future, perhaps it was time to make other plans.

But what?

Different futures weren’t easy to come by in Lower Proszawa.

As he did every morning, Branca leaned heavily on a standing desk, shouting names and the addresses where couriers were to go while old, battered Maras handed them whatever documents or parcels they were to deliver.

When Branca had called most of the morning’s deliveries and the room was nearly empty, Parvulesco, Largo’s closest friend at the service, gave him a worried look as he carried a parcel out the door. Largo shrugged. Maybe Branca had seen him come in late and was keeping him back for a good talking-to. There was nothing to do but wait and endure whatever was coming. Parvulesco mouthed, Good luck , before heading out.

Soon, everyone else had been given an assignment and it was just Largo and Herr Branca. The supervisor didn’t look up for two or three minutes as he took his time filling out a small pile of paperwork. As the seconds ticked by, Largo imagined all sorts of scenarios. A simple dressing-down. Having his pay docked. Maybe he’d even be fired. He stood still, hoping to not draw attention to himself, but after a couple more minutes passed he couldn’t stand it anymore. He cleared his throat.

“Do you have a cold, Largo?” said Herr Branca. “If so, kindly keep your distance, as it would be inconvenient for me to be ill at this time.” He spoke quietly. Branca always spoke quietly, no matter the topic or circumstances. The couriers joked that if he were an executioner, you’d never know he was there until your head was on the ground.

“No, sir. It’s nothing like that. I was just wondering if …”

“If I noticed you come in late, then hide in the back like a cockroach from the light?”

“Yes,” Largo said. “Something like that.”

Herr Branca looked up wearily. “Rest easy, Largo. While you were tardy and more than a bit insectile in your earlier behavior, you’re not going to be fired.

“In fact, you’re being promoted.”

Largo frowned, afraid he’d misheard his supervisor. “Promoted?”

Branca set down his pen and sighed. “You’re aware of the word, aren’t you? It’s a verb meaning ‘to advance in rank.’ ‘To ascend to a higher position.’ Must I explain it further?”

“No, sir. It’s just that … it’s a bit unexpected.”

“Quite, especially considering your less-than-cordial relationship with the clock,” said Branca. “That’s going to have to stop. Do you understand me? This promotion brings new responsibilities, and promptness is one of them. Can you handle that?”

“Yes, sir. I can.”

“Very good. Now stop cowering at the back of the room and come up here so I can explain the lofty position to which you have ascended without having to shout.”

Largo was still wary as he approached Herr Branca’s desk, waiting to find out that the promotion was a mistake or a cruel joke and his supervisor was going to fire him after all. Branca was looking over more papers when he reached the desk and once more Largo couldn’t help himself.

“Why?”

“Why the promotion or why you?” said Branca without looking up. “Both, I guess.”

“Did you happen to notice König was not with us this morning?”

König was the company’s chief courier, a tall, handsome man just a few years older than Largo. “No, sir. I didn’t,” he said.

Branca tugged at his collar. “I didn’t expect so. But it’s true nevertheless—he wasn’t with us. And it’s likely you won’t see him again here … or anywhere else,” Branca said. “He’s been arrested by the Nachtvogel.”

Largo didn’t say anything for a moment, still not sure whether Branca was playing him for a fool. König was a nobody, as were all the other couriers at the company. Why would the secret police take away a nobody?

“You saw it happen? I mean, they arrested him here?”

Branca nodded. “Right where you’re standing now.”

Largo looked at the floor, not sure what he was expecting to see. Then, feeling foolish, he looked back at Branca. “I don’t understand. What would the Nachtvogel want with König?”

“I have no idea because I didn’t ask, an attitude I advise you to emulate should you ever find yourself face-to-face with them.”

Largo took a step closer to his supervisor and said very quietly, “What were they like?”

Branca cocked his head for a moment as if looking for the precise words. “Men. They looked like men. Very serious men.”

“That’s it?”

“Except for the horns and hooves. And their long, forked tongues, of course,” said Branca. He made a face at Largo. “Don’t ask silly questions, boy. They were citizens like you or me. And before you ask one more idiotic thing and I’m forced to reconsider your promotion, I’ll tell you this. I heard one significant word as they were putting König in irons: anarchist . Personally, I never took the man for a political extremist, but there you are.”

Largo shook his head. “I wouldn’t have guessed. I mean, he never talked about politics. It was always about money, his girlfriend, and work. The same things we all talk about.”

“Would you expect an anarchist to shout slogans from the loading dock at lunchtime?” Branca said. “And as for his talk about money, well there you are. More than one good man has been turned to crime by dreams of easy cash. Don’t let that happen to you. You’ve been given a rare opportunity. Use it wisely.”

Largo nodded, his earlier fear giving way to feelings of guilt at his good fortune. Good fortune that came on the back of—no, not a friend, but someone like him, at least, someone he knew and moreover had nothing against. He felt a little queasy, but then he straightened. Branca was right. This was an opportunity, and a promotion would mean more money in his pocket. With luck, there would be enough that he wouldn’t ever feel hungry again at the sight of a crushed sandwich in the middle of the street. He thought of Remy and his mood lightened slightly. He couldn’t wait to tell her about it after work.