But somewhat to the Droods’ surprise, many of the vehicles turned out not to have drivers, as such. Some taxis had cyborged drivers, permanently plugged into the machinery that ran the cars, while others were manned by more than usually focused poltergeists. Some vehicles had corpses tied to their steering wheels, to disguise their true nature as CARnivores, predators of the road. There was a possessed ambulance that ran on the existential despair of its passengers and was quite snooty about it, and a driverless hearse stuffed full of more bodies than it could adequately explain.
And that was when the television news crew turned up. Roving reporter Charlotte ap Owen and her cameraman Dave. They came jogging down the street, darting in and out of the parked cars, the wreckage, and the bodies, ignoring it all as they headed straight for the man in charge. Charlotte slammed to a halt in front of the Sarjeant, took a moment to get her breath back, then smiled determinedly into his blank face mask. Anyone else would have been intimidated; she just took it as a challenge. Charlotte was short, blonde, and busty, wearing a skin-tight leopard-skin bodysuit, for that all-important audience identification. She had a face so surgically perfect as to be almost characterless, and a smile so full of teeth most people couldn’t help thinking of sharks. If only because they knew a predator when they saw one.
Dave the cameraman came puffing up to join them, burdened as he was by the heavy camera perched on his shoulder. Anonymously dressed, he practised being unnoticeable so as not to distract people’s attention from Charlotte, and so they wouldn’t notice what he was doing with his camera. He did everything Charlotte told him to and made her pay through her perfect teeth for the privilege.
Charlotte pointed her microphone at the Sarjeant like a weapon. “Hi! I’m Charlotte ap Owen, reporting for Nightside Television News. Can you please identify yourself, sir, and tell our viewers what it is you’re doing here?”
The Sarjeant just nodded. He’d been hoping a television crew would turn up, so he could intimidate a greater number of people.
“I am the Drood Sarjeant-at-Arms.”
“Wonderful! This is news!” Charlotte said breathily. “And what brings the Droods to the Nightside, Sarjeant? Do the Authorities know you’re here? What about the ancient Pacts and Agreements? And now you’ve stopped all this traffic, what are you going to do with it?”
The Sarjeant looked at her. “You’re not bothered about all the bodies?”
“This is the Nightside, Sarjeant. We have a special clean-up crew who do nothing but sweep up bodies at regular intervals, to stop them mounting up.”
“The Nightside is now under Drood control,” the Sarjeant said heavily. “Drood law. We will make the long night a much safer place, for everyone. In the meantime, don’t get in our way.”
“But what gives you the right to impose your concerns on the Nightside?” Charlotte asked winningly.
“We’re Droods,” said the Sarjeant.
Charlotte turned away and made a swift throat-cutting gesture to Dave. He immediately lowered his camera so it was pointing at the ground, and Charlotte turned back to the Sarjeant. She wasn’t smiling any more, and as a result looked rather more human.
“We’re off the air now, so there’s absolutely no point in trying to intimidate me. You can speak freely. I’ll almost definitely quote you later, but I won’t name you as a source. You’ve made a hell of a mess here, Sarjeant. What’s going on? Is this something to do with the Nightside’s changing boundaries?”
The Sarjeant looked past her, at the cameraman. “She does like to ask questions, doesn’t she?”
“Like you wouldn’t believe,” said Dave. “Say something, or she’ll never shut up.”
“We’re here to make you people behave,” said the Sarjeant. “Whatever it takes. Your life as you knew it is over. If you were sane, you’d be grateful, but if you were sane, you wouldn’t be here. So you can surrender, or we can stamp every single one of you into the ground. Your choice. Where is your Headquarters? I’ll put one of my people in charge of it, for future propaganda.”
Charlotte and Dave looked at each other.
“We don’t have a Headquarters, as such,” Charlotte said carefully. “We are the Television News. Just Dave and me, and a roomful of tech.”
“We cover what goes on inside the Nightside,” said Dave. “Everything else comes in from outside stations, other countries, sometimes even other dimensions. The long night is a cosmopolitan audience.”
“People don’t come to the Nightside to watch television,” said Charlotte. “We provide local news for local people, and there aren’t many of them. Certainly not enough to justify more than just the two of us.”
“So your report isn’t going to reach that big an audience,” said the Sarjeant. “Which means . . . we’ll just have to carry on doing this the hard way. Hit the Nightside, and keep on hitting it and hurting it, till the news gets around. Or till there isn’t a soul left living in the long night to oppose us.”
He turned his back on the news crew and walked away, gathering up his Droods and leading them off into the waiting night. He didn’t care whether the traffic started up again. He’d proved he could stop it, and that was all that mattered. Charlotte and Dave watched him go until they were sure he was a safe distance away, then Charlotte turned to Dave and gestured at his camera.
“Tell me you got all of that.”
“Of course,” said the cameraman. “They never realise: just because the camera is pointing at the ground doesn’t mean the sound isn’t still recording. I got every word he said. You want me to broadcast it?”
“Not just yet,” said Charlotte. “First, we’ll see how much the Authorities will pay to hear it before everyone else.”
* * *
• • •
John Taylor was one of the locals watching when the Sarjeant made his debut on local television. He sat slumped in his chair on what he’d expected to be his time off and thought furiously.
The Nightside didn’t have suburbs, as such, just a few areas that were more secure than others. Mostly because of the kind of people who lived there. John and Suzie lived in a detached, three-up three-down two-sideways desirable residence out on the fringes of the long night in between a Time-travelling Eternal called Garth and an alien hunter from the future called Sarah Kingdom. They were good neighbours. They kept to themselves.
Suzie Shooter stood beside John’s chair. She’d kept her own name after she married because no one felt like telling her she couldn’t. She was still wearing her leathers, with the jacket hanging open to give her bump room to breathe. And so she could balance her drink on it when she was sitting down.
“So,” said John. “We are now at war with the Droods.”
“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” said Suzie. “Don’t frown like that; none of this is your fault. It’s mine.”
“No, it isn’t,” said John.
“I killed the Drood in Strangefellows,” said Suzie. “I don’t regret it. He should never have tried to kill you. But that’s why his family is here.” She looked at John thoughtfully. “You could always hand me over to them. As a peace-offering.”
“No, I couldn’t,” said John. “Maybe if I told them the truth about what happened . . .”
“They already know,” said Suzie. “He had to have been following orders. Which means they wanted this.”
“So all that’s left to us now,” said John, “is to win the war. Even though the Droods never lose.”
“They’ve never gone to war with the Nightside before,” said Suzie. “And they’ve never fought anyone like us. Should we contact the Authorities?”
“They must know by now,” said John. “And they’ll have enough on their hands trying to put together a credible resistance. No, I’m Walker, so it’s down to me to do something to stop the Droods in their tracks . . . We need more information on what they’re up t
o. They must have spread themselves pretty thin, to cover the whole of the long night, so maybe there’s a weak spot in that we can take advantage of. I think we need to go talk with Argus.”
Suzie looked at him. “You never mentioned that name before. Have you been keeping secrets from me?”
“Of course,” said John. “I’m Walker.”
* * *
• • •
The gold pocket-watch transported both of them to a grubby little back street in one of the less-well-travelled areas of the Nightside. They appeared outside a shabby storefront, whose starkly lettered sign above the single whitewashed window said WELCOME TO THE NIGHTSIDE TOURIST INFORMATION CENTRE! None of the few people on the street showed any interest in the place. Suzie studied the sign suspiciously.
“I didn’t even know we had one of these.”
“Not many do,” said John. “Most people research what they’re looking for on the UnderNet, before they come anywhere near the Nightside. And even the most gullible of tourists would know better than to venture inside a place like this.”
“Then why do we have a Tourist Information Centre?” said Suzie.
“We don’t,” said John. “It’s camouflage.”
A small bell over the door tinkled sadly as John led Suzie into a small and gloomy office. Flapping posters on the walls showed gaudy images of places of interest. VISIT THE STREET OF THE GODS, WHERE MIRACLES HAPPEN EVERY HOUR ON THE HOUR! VISIT THE MAMMON EMPORIUM, HOME TO RETAIL CHAINS FROM A DOZEN DIFFERENT DIMENSIONS, FOR AN OUT-OF-THIS-WORLD SHOPPING EXPERIENCE! VISIT FREAK FAIRE, FOR THE DISCERNING EROTICIST ONLY! There was dust all over the place, more than a suspicion of cobwebs, and a general feeling of quiet despair. A single dark figure lurked behind a desk at the back of the office, peering out from behind piles of information leaflets that hadn’t been disturbed in ages. John crooked a finger at him.
“Mr Carter . . . Get out from behind there and make yourself useful for once.”
Carter emerged reluctantly from behind his desk and slouched forward to scowl unhappily at John and Suzie. A sullen figure in a grubby undershirt and jeans, he looked furtive, unhealthy, and sleazy to the core.
“At your service, sir and madam. What do you want?”
“This appalling specimen is Basil Carter,” John said to Suzie. “Not his real name, to keep the locals from bursting in and lynching him. He serves here as an alternative to a lifetime sentence in the Nightside’s very worst dungeons, down in Shadow Deep. He was given this opportunity by my predecessor, in a rare moment of mercy, on the grounds that Carter’s very existence would help discourage people from coming in. He also looks after Argus.”
“Who is this Argus?” Suzie asked, looking thoughtfully at Carter in a way that made the man very nervous.
“Walker’s window on the world,” John said grandly. “He sees and hears everything that happens in the Nightside. How is he doing, Basil?”
Carter shrugged. “Much as usual. He doesn’t change. I should know— I’m the one who has to change him, and may I remind you we’re running out of nappies again? I hate this job! I suppose you want to see him . . . This way.”
He led them through a concealed door at the rear of the office and into the much larger room beyond. All four of its walls were covered from floor to ceiling with hundreds of flickering viewscreens. Images came and went, faster than the human eye could follow, displaying visions of every location in the Nightside. Constantly changing and updating themselves, they showed everything that was happening in the long night at that moment. Miles of cables connected the screens to a series of lumpy machines clustered together at the back, criss-crossing the open room like a spider’s web produced by something out of its head on weapons-grade crystal meth.
Sitting in the middle of all this was a gaunt and silent figure, naked apart from an adult nappy. He sat bolt upright, held in place in his chair by a series of tight leather straps. His skin was grubby, his face was blank, and he stared at nothing with dull, unblinking eyes. Wires sprouted from his shaved head, where holes had been drilled to admit them and give direct access to his brain. He didn’t react to having company because he didn’t know they were there. He smelled bad.
John glared at Carter. “You need to take better care of him, Basil.”
“Or what?” said Carter. “You’ll find someone to replace me? Go ahead! There are days when even Shadow Deep looks good compared to this!”
“You take better care of Argus or you can take his place in the chair,” said John.
Carter looked at the floor and didn’t say anything. Suzie looked at John.
“This is Argus,” said John. “Not so much a name, more a job description. The god with a thousand eyes. His brain’s higher functions have been surgically removed, so they won’t interfere with his connection to the computers. Argus sees everything that happens in the Nightside and reports on anything red-flagged by his programming.”
“It never ends, does it?” said Suzie. “He never leaves that chair.”
“Don’t feel sorry for him,” said John. “He’s not a volunteer. Only the very worst and foulest of criminals undergo this process. If you knew what he did before he was Argus, you’d think this was a mercy.”
“Of course your predecessor did this,” said Suzie. “It’s the kind of thing Henry would do.”
“Argus makes Walker’s job possible,” said John. “How else could I always know what’s going on, in an area the size of the Nightside? But don’t put all the blame on Henry. There’s no telling how long this, or something like it, has been going on.”
“How does it work?” said Suzie.
“Damned if I know,” said John. “But because Argus sees and hears everything, I can step in and put a stop to things before they get out-of-control. Usually.” He moved forward, slipping carefully past the hanging cables, until he was standing next to Argus. Suzie followed him. Carter didn’t. “And, occasionally, I can use Argus to reach outside the Nightside and call for assistance. On those rare occasions when we need specialist help with special problems. People like the Carnacki Institute, or the Soulhunters. But I can’t see either of them agreeing to go to war with the Droods, over us.”
“Why didn’t Argus tell you Droods had entered the Nightside?” said Suzie.
“I don’t know,” said John. “He should have.” He leaned forward and addressed the thing in the chair. “Argus, show me the Droods in the Nightside right now. What are they doing?”
The viewscreens immediately showed armoured Droods marching through different parts of the Nightside. Heading for the offices of the Night Times, the Uptown Clubs, the Hawk’s Wind Bar & Grill, and many other places of interest. The Droods had already penetrated deep into the long night, in their separate groups. One screen showed Molly Metcalf walking down a street with an unidentified figure at her side. Presumably a Drood out of his armour.
“Those two are heading for Strangefellows,” said John. “I’d better warn Alex.”
“We’re going to need bigger guns,” said Suzie. “I’ll go visit the Gun Shoppes of Usher, see what they have on offer for truly apocalyptic occasions.”
“You do that,” said John. “I’ll intercept Molly Metcalf and the man with her, who just might be Eddie Drood.”
Suzie looked sharply at John. “You’re going to need me with you if you plan on taking them down. They’re dangerous.”
“All I have in mind is a little civilised conversation,” John said easily. “It may not be too late to put an end to this madness.”
“And if it is?” said Suzie.
“Then I’ll have to speak very harshly to Eddie and Molly,” said John. “In my capacity as Walker.”
“Give them hell,” said Suzie.
They both looked around sharply as all the viewscreens snapped off. Carter made a loud, whining noise. Eddie looked sharply at the thing in the chair.
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“Argus! What’s happening?”
“Telepathic interference, from a source outside the Nightside,” said Argus, in a cold, dead voice. “We are under attack by the telepath Ammonia Vom Acht, wife to a Drood. She is shutting us down. I know this because she wants you to know this. And to know there is nothing you can do to stop her.”
“We’ll see about that,” said John. “Carter, mind the store.”
He produced his gold pocket-watch, and the portable Timeslip whisked John and Suzie away to Strangefellows.
* * *
• • •
They appeared in front of Alex Morrisey as he tried to force some more than usually recalcitrant bar-snacks back into their cage. He didn’t jump. He was used to stranger things than them appearing out of nowhere. As long as he didn’t have to immediately reach for a weapon, he considered himself ahead. John looked around, but Strangefellows was unusually empty, for once.
“Where is everyone?” said Suzie.
“They all went running off to see what was happening for themselves, the fools,” said Alex. “I told them, stay here where it’s safe, watch it all on television, but no . . . I think some of them fancied their chances against a Drood. Idiots. What are you doing here?”
“Argus is under attack by Ammonia Vom Acht,” said John.
“Hold it,” said Suzie. “You told him about Argus, and you didn’t tell me?”
“I already knew,” said Alex. “I am wise and wonderful and know many things.”
“We will talk about this later,” Suzie said to John.
“Looking forward to it immensely,” said John. “Anyway, Ammonia is interfering with Argus, and I need some help to ward her off. Are you still on good terms with Vivienne de Tourney, Alex?”
“Name-dropper,” said Alex. “I can talk to her, but . . .”
“Try,” said John.
Alex produced a phone from beneath the bar and punched in a really long number.