Geist, p.8
Geist, page 8
“Way better than most of my regulars,” Jerry said. “Listen, kid. You’re too soft. I know you mean well, but not everyone does.” He looked Victor dead in the eye. “I say this because I care. Be careful about who you fight. It’s a miracle you weren’t ripped apart.”
“What can I say?” Victor managed. “Saul does his job.”
Jerry walked off to the storeroom. “Surprised you remember him.”
Left alone, Victor’s eyes wandered about the labels and riveted bottles of brandy. He pulled out his notebook, daring to see if he’d been productive last night; nothing but unreadable melodies. Then, Victor caught the sweet scent of lit cloves.
“Heh.” Beatrice sat and killed a shot of whiskey. Just that smell made Victor want to vomit again—he could almost see her smirking, even with his eyes closed. “Damn, you look horrible. Quite the performance, from what we’ve heard. Taken to the abuse of absinthe?” She leaned in closer, chin under a leather knuckle. “Real talk. You holding up okay?”
Victor’s mouth was still dry. “Did Yuko come home, at least?”
Beatrice rolled her eyes. “You need to lay off her for two seconds. Haven’t seen Yuko, but she’s a big girl. She can hold her own. Anyway, Charles is still passed out. Thought we’d do something today. Just us. You know, get out of Yoshiwara for once.”
“Huh?” Victor’s heart skipped a beat. “W…what are you saying? Aren’t you—?”
“For fuck’s sake,” Beatrice sighed. “Can’t we hang without one-sided sexual tension? I’m getting your drunk ass out of the house. Besides, there’s something I want to show you. A little project I’ve been working on. Think it’ll come in handy.”
“Do tell,” he said.
Beatrice smiled. “Follow me. It’ll be cool.”
#
Cannery Row was little more than a cluster of shantytowns. Supported by sunken pillars elevated over the River Noir, its shops reeked of gutted fish. Past the groggy sailors and barrels of entrails, Victor trailed after Beatrice, who led the way to the wharfs.
“So,” Victor called. “What’s this ‘project’ of yours?”
“I had to pull a few strings,” Beatrice said. “But I worked something out with the Powder Kegs. We didn’t leave on too bad of terms, after all.”
“W…why the rebels?” Victor asked.
“It’s not like that,” Beatrice said. “I just bought something special off Ludwig. You’ll like it, trust me.” She winked. “It’ll bring back some memories.”
Victor felt the boards creak under his boots. Beatrice shoved a hand deep in her pocket as if searching for a box of cigarettes. She paused before a ramshackle auto-shop with a chimney jutting from its shingles, more of a dumpster than any smithy. A windchime of sprockets hung over the door, and its metallic sign read JUNKER’S PARADISE
“A scrapyard?” Victor asked.
“It’s so much more,” Beatrice said. “This guy’s a genius at what he does. He could make a racer out of a Pinto and a roll of duct tape.” She pushed the door open, basking in the smell of fresh gasoline. “Hanzo? You on the clock?”
Victor was welcomed by all manner of machine parts, some fresh out his grandfather’s attic, others props from botched sci-fi dramas. He heard a clang and rusty limps as a one-legged engineer hoisted himself from under the metal counter.
“Beatrice?” He flipped up his welder’s mask, wide-eyed, leaning on an iron crutch. “Brought a friend this time, huh? Can’t say this’ll go over well with him.”
Victor stared at the bizarre merchant. Muscles rippled beneath Hanzo’s greasy tank top—he could have been a bodybuilder if not for his handicap and beer belly.
“He’s clear,” Beatrice said. “Is she ready?”
“Ready as she’ll ever be.” Hanzo scratched his balding scalp. “Still, Ludwig sent in a damn tall order. A bike with that kinda horsepower? You’d think the Inquisition commissioned it.” His eyes narrowed. “Mighty kind of him to pay for all this. Just for you.”
A bike? Like a bicycle?
“Already told you,” Beatrice said. “Ludwig owes me.”
“Uh-huh, sure. If jackboots come knocking, I’m pointing them to the Pagoda.” Hanzo tossed her a pair of keys. “She’s in the garage. All paid for and ready to go.”
Beatrice caught the keys without a glance and marched off to the garage. Victor wiped his brow—the air was sweltering. Among the derelict androids and diesel engines, the whirling of drills filled the warehouse. Mechanics wrenched at motors and hammered on anvils. Then he saw a black motorcycle, complete with leatherwork, copper pipework, and a sidecar.
“Just like the one you used to ride,” Victor said.
Beatrice nudged him. “Gas powered. No electronics or software at all. Meaning it can even function during the Devil’s Hour. Pretty badass, huh?”
“Surprisingly so,” Victor admitted.
#
Speeding down the lanes, even the cracked concrete was smooth under Beatrice’s tires. She hit the pedal and drove along the Great Gothic Railway, weaving against traffic and trollies. Victor cracked a bittersweet smile, holding her by the waist; it was a matter of trust, and he was at peace. Back in the Waking World, Beatrice was a reckless if decent driver. Although he recalled his wide-eyed terror then, Victor wasn’t troubled anymore.
It’s oddly…nice.
He leaned back, feeling the wind against his hair. After everything Victor had been through, riding a motorcycle was the least of his worries. As Beatrice increased the speed to sixty, Victor shut his eyes, tuning out the roar of the engine with the music in his own mind. Eventually, the bike slowed and curved to the sideline. For a moment, Victor was blinded by light while the unfinished railways and highroads ended at the Outer Wall upon a sheer overlook, where Beatrice braked and dismounted.
Together, they walked to the chain link fence.
Twilight crawled over the Gotland Wastes, lingering just over the Ash Mountains and Totenfells, and further west, something Victor had never seen before—a wider world.
As if there was more to his odyssey yet.
Beyond the bulwark and borderland keeps, Victor beheld a different country, flourishing in the shade of sulfurous ridges. On the edge of sight, the Mournweald sprawled in-between the skeletal peaks north and south, in the shadow of sheer cliffs. Victor remembered what the natural world was like; the softness of moss, the twisting forms of oak and cypress, the sound of little streams trickling into unseen fens, bound together in a haze of reds, browns, and royal purples. Thunderclouds rolled from the north, livid as a pyre; Victor imagined the scent of petrichor, carried by a breeze, cool against his unwashed skin.
Like the woods from my childhood….
Victor recalled such vacations in the Waking World, away from the smog of civilization, where he stared at the night sky, all but alone in a hidden realm many had forgotten. Perhaps this was an incarnation of such memories. Perhaps it was something more.
“Ludwig showed the crew this,” Beatrice broke the long silence, “when I got accepted into the Powder Kegs. He told us, ‘the world’s way bigger than our shithole under a shell.’”
“I always thought of it as that,” Victor said. “One city in a wasteland.”
“That’s how the Imperium wants you to think,” Beatrice said. “Or that it doesn’t get any better out there. Huge as the world is, the little things matter too. Perspective, man. Just because the city’s dying doesn’t mean we don’t have reasons to protect it. Whatever those are.”
Victor did not comment, fixated on the vistas. Beatrice took a swig from her flask, whiskey trickling down her lips. She sighed as if rejuvenated. “Not gonna lie. I really didn’t like you. Back in that geometry course. Thought you were such a pretentious asshole.”
“Can’t say I blame you,” Victor replied.
“Time’s change, though. You proved me wrong. You’re a good person, Victor. Weirder than Tim Burton on bath salts, but you’re…pure. And I’m glad we’re friends.”
Victor’s face reddened. Even if things didn’t turn out that way, he’d come to respect Beatrice more than a mere crush. Not all bonds needed to be sexual; they were brother and sister in arms. He felt Beatrice grip his shoulder and met her eyes.
“Have you given any thought?” she asked. “What you’re gonna do after this?”
Victor’s mind wandered, remembering Yuko’s love. Or at least, what he hoped was love. Regardless, she was an implacable anchor to Holy Gothica. For the first time since his descent, Victor wondered if he would ever see the Waking World again.
“I…I’ll figure out something,” he managed.
#
The ride back to Yoshiwara was uneventful, albeit exciting. When Victor disembarked the purring motorcycle, he coughed a lungful of exhaust, welcomed back by familiar street signs and the arrival of happy hour. As Beatrice locked her bike, Victor lingered at the Pagoda’s doorstep, where the bouncers gathered for their pre-shift smokes.
“Was he at it again?” one asked.
“Yeah,” said a second. “Tried to pick another fight. Still, douche has power.”
“Doesn’t matter,” Saul said. “I’ll have Edgar knocked out and eighty-sixed next time. Just ‘cause he ‘made’ a few of our girls doesn’t give him the right to pull this.”
Although comforted, Victor wasn’t in the mood for such gossip. This was his day off, for all intents and purposes. Down in the billiard room, Victor remembered how slow the Pagoda could be early in the week. Sure enough, no one tended the bar. Not that he minded.
I could probably help myself at this rate….
“I’ll say this much,” Beatrice called, joining him. “It’s funny how the regulars talk about ‘picking up chicks.’ No wonder they pay for action.” She turned to today’s chalkboard menu. “Heard they got a new draft on tap.”
“Anything stout-ish?” Victor asked. “I’m getting sick of cheap pills.”
“Doubt it. Settle for something monkish.” Beatrice’s eyes were still glued to the menu as if she was pondering whether to speak up. “You really need a wingman, Victor.”
“We aren’t pilots, though,” he said. “I doubt the Imperium is big on civilian aircraft yet.” His eyes widened, beginning to understand. “Oh! Well, I have Charles.”
“How’s that working out?” Beatrice smirked. “He’s been single since ‘95. And before you bring it up, I’m pretty sure Leng only gets laid at the Pagoda. Let’s be real. I’ve eaten more pussy than those two combined. You’ve got the whole ‘pre-nervous breakdown artist’ thing going, sure, but that’s not enough to make things last.”
“Well, y…you’re not wrong,” Victor managed.
“I’ll help you out,” Beatrice said. “First, we need—”
“Good timing.” Jerry emerged from the cellar. “Something just came in the mail.” He glared at Victor and handed him a beige letter, with the word, LUXURIA, typed on the worn envelope. “For you, specifically.”
Victor’s stomach sank; he recognized the pattern at this point.
“No stamps or return address,” Jerry said. “Made any sketchy friends I should know about? Like, a tad worse than my usual clientele?”
Victor picked open the letter and read its crimson type carefully.
Dear Victor,
I’ll make this laconic, as that seems to be your preferred approach. You’re getting way closer than I’d like. What with your breaking and entering. So, clear communication might help me make a point: the next one will bear an uncanny resemblance to a certain dead whore. You’re a smart boy. Put two and two together.
Tread lightly,
You should know who this is by now
“Fuck.” Beatrice scanned over his shoulder. “The Doll—he’s upping his game.”
“I’m not an idiot,” Jerry grunted. “You should’ve told me sooner, Victor. Figures why you hang out with formerly missing people, creepy jackboots, and the occasional call girl. You’re either socially inept or onto something.” He reached for another mug to polish. “Judging by your face, you’ve proved me right in both ways.”
“W…what do you mean?” Victor choked. “I
“I ain’t telling you to do shit,” Jerry said. “You’ve come this far, though. Looking for Charles, Beatrice, and now, who’s behind the whole damn thing. Can’t say I wouldn’t turn a blind eye if something happened to the Dollmaker.” He stifled a grin. “Anyway, next round’s on me. Consider it a good faith payment.” He let those words sink in. “I believe in you.”
Victor tried to calm down, but fear swallowed him whole.
“Bottom line, Yuko’s in danger,” Beatrice said. “Where is she?”
Jerry glanced at the clock. “She’s getting ready at Xanadu. Show starts at eight-thirty tonight. Yuko’s the lead in Shogun, remember?” He turned back to the stairs. “Oh, and if you catch that bastard, don’t track any blood on my floor. Stormtroopers, you know?”
Victor slumped onto a barstool. What happiness he’d salvaged was shattered, as the shadow of “reality” crept into the foreground of his waking nightmare; a reminder of—
“Dude.” Beatrice snapped her fingers in his face. “We gotta hurry. Now.”
CHAPTER NINE
Xanadu was closing for the night, save for its Grand Electrified Theater, tucked away from the darkened arcades. Alone in his main office, Edgar sat at a blackthorn desk, surrounded by trinkets and opulent decor. Recounting the stacks of coins gathered from the midway, he skimmed today’s receipts and reports. The upper lounge was comfortable and well-heated, if a little sterile, though Edgar preferred it this way.
It was a far cry from the salacious dens below.
Listening to a piano impromptu over the radio, Edgar flipped through his ledgers and punched a few digits into a tin calculator, rounding down, of course. It helped him seem “modest” and kept the tithe-collectors off his burdened back. With a sigh, Edgar reached for the half-empty bottle and poured another shot of brandy.
Profit was profit and always good for the next investment.
Brushing aside a pile of finished forms, Edgar noticed a liquor-stained letter, no doubt misplaced half a year ago. Despite his blurring vision, he lifted the crinkled paper, recognizing the cursive and signature as a former business partner’s.
My dear Mr. Munchausen,
I write to thank you for your promised contribution to Lovett’s Halfway House. We have commissioned the voluntary templates in advance, as you have requested. As I’ve previously stated, all samples provided are of sound mind and legal age by current Imperial standards. Therefore, I expect you to return them to my place of business, safe and sound, after you take measurements for your Valentine models. Attached are several blank checks for payment, as previous attempts to follow-up have failed. I assure you, the templates will make wonderful additions to your product line.
Sincerely,
Ms. Meredith Lovett
The radio buzzed with static, its music warped by interference. Edgar folded the letter into a paper dart and launched it into the crackling fireplace. His nose twitched at the stench of burning ink. The Halfway House had been shut down last month for “unlicensed whoremongering.” No amount of charity could change that, let alone further his profits.
C’est la vie, as they say—
Edgar caught himself. Although guiltless, evil whispers crept into his skull again, thoughts of avarice and pride. Things he tried to keep sealed away. He reached into his pocket and withdrew a glass bottle of pills. Mood stabilizers, as prescribed by his psychiatrist. He was running low but needed to repress the “hunger” while he still could.
“I can’t indulge you,” Edgar muttered. “Not now, at any rate.”
Chasing a few chalky tablets with brandy, his thoughts began to clear. The static ended, though the music faded to silence. Edgar didn’t need a diagnosis to know he was off-kilter. The doctors at Alchemilla called his condition “dementia praecox,” making it sound overly dangerous. Nothing a stiff drink couldn’t soothe. With that, the grandfather clock chimed eight; the premier was nearing. Edgar donned his favorite hat, ignoring a distant whisper.
We still have work to do before play.
#
Yuko thought it odd how her eyes glimmered in the vanity mirror. Depending on how the lamplight hit them, her irises shifted from green to blue. Beneath all the blush and powder, she was a blank tablet, stone to be sculpted into another’s image.
The role’s fitting.
In the dressing room, Yuko’s “makeup artists” wheeled about her, circling like baroque vultures, curling her red locks of hair. She tried to ignore their static smiles, the microphones jutting from their throats, and the cameras grafted onto their faces.
“Lift up your arm, darling,” they said in unison.
Yuko obeyed without a word as if pulled by unseen strings. No doubt the dressers were still recording. Her costume was her own flesh, painted as a porcelain statue of antiquity. A thin brush whisked her breasts, adding fine cracks and flakes to complete her persona as an ivory muse. However, her thoughts wandered to other places, far from the stage’s demands.
All the other girls started somewhere. They knew something before coming to Yoshiwara. I never had that. I’m literally a year old. My “birth” was an accident. Fresh off the assembly line. Sure, I can “feel,” but….it doesn’t mean anything. There’s—
“Ten thousand yesterday,” Edgar’s words were muffled behind the wall. “More than enough to fund next quarter and sustain costs of living. Capital. Yes, most capital.”
Yuko rolled her eyes and sat on a leather stool. The backstage labori shifted to the side as the door unlocked. Edgar strode into the room, flask in hand, beaming over delusions of success. Yuko was used to these manic flights of fantasy. His world of candies and baubles was a far cry from the reality of Yoshiwara, away from the grit and pain she knew.
