Just Another Judgement Day
“I watched his back, on a few hunts,” said Suzie. “I was his native guide in the Nightside.”
“Miss Suzie is a most excellent shot,” said Chandra. “We worked well together. And I am hoping that you and I will also be able to work together, Mr. Taylor. You have been summoned here to hunt the Walking Man, am I not correct?”
“Could be,” I said. “How would that concern you? I thought you only hunted monsters.”
Chandra Singh nodded soberly. “Such has been my calling for many years, yes. I am a Sikh, Mr. Taylor, from the Punjab. I am what my people call a khalsa, or holy warrior. I stand against the forces of darkness, in all their forms. Does that perhaps remind you of anyone?”
“The Walking Man,” I said. “Both of you serve your god in violent ways.”
“Exactly, Mr. Taylor. I feel a great need to meet this Walking Man, and talk with him, and discover if he is indeed what they say he is.”
“And if he is?” I said.
Chandra smiled his great smile again. “Then perhaps I shall sit at his feet and learn wisdom. But I think that unlikely. If he has done even some of the things they say he has, he would seem to be as much a servant of the dark as the light. And I will oppose him to my last breath. So, I ask your permission to accompany you and Miss Suzie as you track him down.”
“What do you think, Suzie?” I said.
“He kills monsters,” said Suzie. “Better to have him where we can see him, than maybe sneaking up on us. And I am kind of curious to see what will happen when two holy warriors go head to head.”
“All right,” I said to Chandra. “You’re in. We split the fee three ways, and you’re responsible for your own expenses. Agreed?”
“Most certainly, Mr. Taylor. I shall be very interested to see how you work, close up.”
“If the Walking Man truly is a servant of the Christian God, where does that leave you?” I said, honestly curious.
“God is God,” said Chandra. “Creator of us all. I do not think the Supreme Being cares what name we give him, as long as we talk to him. And listen.”
Walker finally came down to fetch me and Suzie, looked around at the general blood and mess, and gave me a stern look.
“Can’t take you two anywhere.”
“Entirely not my fault,” I said. “See Bulldog Hammond over there, sitting very quietly in the corner?”
“Ah,” said Walker. “I suppose none of this is Suzie’s fault either?”
“Of course not,” I said. “Or there’d be dead bodies piled up all over the place.”
“Good point,” said Walker. “Come with me. The Authorities are waiting.”
“What took you so long?” I said. “I was under the impression they were expecting us.”
“We had things to discuss first,” said Walker. “Like whether the situation really was bad enough to justify hiring you and Shotgun Suzie.”
“Good point,” said Suzie.
Walker nodded respectfully to Chandra Singh. “Always good to see you again, Chandra. Keeping busy?”
“Of course, Mr. Walker. There is never any shortage of monsters in the Nightside.”
They bowed to each other briefly, then Walker led the way upstairs.
“I didn’t know you knew Chandra,” I said to Walker.
“Of course,” he said. “I went to Eton with his father. Splendid chap. First-class geneticist these days, by all accounts.”
The Nightside is full of unexpected connections. Heroes and villains, gods and monsters, we all know each other. Sometimes as friends, sometimes as enemies, sometimes as lovers. Sometimes all three. It’s that kind of place.
I let Walker lead the way up the back stairs, just in case. Only a fool turns his back on Walker. Suzie brought up the rear. And in a small private room at the top of the Club, surrounded by the very best security measures the Adventurers Club had to offer, I finally came face-to-face with my new would-be lords and masters. They sat around a long, polished table, trying to look like people in charge. My breath caught in my throat as I saw their faces, and I thought my heart would stop. I knew them. I had seen them all together before, and not in a good way.
Julien Advent, the legendary Victorian Adventurer, now editor of the Night Times. Jessica Sorrow, the Unbeliever. Annie Abattoir, spy, assassin, and high-class courtesan. Count Video, lord of the binary magics. King of Skin, in all his sleazy glory. And Larry Oblivion, the dead detective. I had seen these people gathered together in one place before, in a future time-line where they had been the last survivors of Humanity, and my Enemies. They sent terrible agents back through Time to try to kill me, before I could bring about the awful devastated future in which they lived. I had gone to great pains to avert that particular time-line, to save their souls and mine, but here they were, gathered together again for the first time.
It had to mean something.
I strolled into the room and gave them all my best unimpressed look, on general principles. Never let them see you’re hurting. And never let them think they’ve got the upper hand, or they’ll walk all over you. Suzie didn’t look impressed either, but then, she never does. Count Video spotted the shotgun holstered on Suzie’s back and stirred uncomfortably.
“Hold everything. I thought we agreed—no weapons at meetings!”
“You want to try to take it away from her, be my guest,” said Annie, amused.
Of course then everyone at the table had to make their views known, and I took the opportunity to gather my shattered thoughts. It didn’t matter whether this particular grouping had any future significance; I had to deal with them here and now. So . . . Julien Advent I knew of old. We’d worked together, on various cases. Julien was a good, honest, and highly moral man, which meant he tended not to approve of me. Or at least, some of my methods. He’s far too good a man for the Nightside. I think he only stays because he’s never been known to back down from a fight. As always, he was dressed in the height of Victorian finery, all stark black-and-white, with the only touch of colour the apricot cravat at his throat, held in place by an ornate silver pin supposedly presented to him by Queen Victoria herself. He looked to be a handsome man of about thirty, and had appeared so for several decades.
Jessica Sorrow’s appearance was altogether more disturbing. Called the Unbeliever because for many years she didn’t believe anything was real except herself, and she believed that so fiercely that if any particular thing or person caught her attention . . . she disbelieved in them until they stopped existing. A very scary and dangerous personage, until I helped defuse her. She still had a powerful presence, a kind of anti-charisma that fascinated and appalled at the same time. Barely five feet tall, she sat curled up in her chair like a feral child, horribly emaciated and corpse pale. Her eyes were very big in her face, her colourless mouth little more than a slit. She wore a battered brown leather jacket and leggings, the jacket hanging open to reveal her bare, sunken chest, to which she tightly hugged the teddy bear I’d found for her. Her old childhood friend, perhaps her only friend, it helped her ground herself in reality. Given the fierce, unsettlingly blank look in her dark eyes, I wouldn’t have put money on her stability, but just the fact that she was there, interacting with other people, was a good sign. She cocked her head suddenly to one side, and looked at me, and knew me. For a moment, her expression was almost human. She smiled briefly. Her eyes didn’t blink nearly often enough.
Annie Abattoir was altogether easier on the eye. A ripe, voluptuous woman in her midforties, Annie was an accomplished seductress and heart-breaker, and many other things beside, most of which could not be discussed in polite company. Six-foot-two, broad-shouldered and imposing, with a sharp sensual face, she wore a ruby red evening gown, cut daringly low at front and back, that went well with her great mane of copper red hair. She was beautiful and sexy and effortlessly charming, and she knew it. She wore long white evening gloves; presumably to disguise how much blood she had on her hands.
Count Video was a Major Player, when he could get his
act together, and an old adversary of mine. And a real pain in the arse. Tall and stiff, he wore a stylish suit with little grace and less poise. I could still see the staples and stitches on his neck and face from where he’d had his skin ripped off during the Angel War, then reattached afterwards. The skin also puckered around the odd silicon node, or patch of implanted sorcerous circuitry, which powered his impressive binary magics. Plasma lights sputtered on and off around him, as some drifting thought or impulse rewrote reality on some basic level. He was good-looking enough, in a sulky sort of way, and would probably be dangerous if he ever got around to growing a pair.
King of Skin was more than a man but less than a god. Or possibly the other way round. It was hard to tell. Wrapped in his usual sleazy glamour, people only saw of him what he wanted them to see. He could charm or enchant you with a word or a look, or show you what you feared most. He could make nightmares real and send them chasing through the street after you, or grant you something very like your heart’s desire, though it might look very different in the morning. Except mostly . . . he couldn’t be bothered. A nasty man with nasty tastes and worse habits, King of Skin was also a Major Player, when he chose to be. For today’s meeting, he had chosen to appear as the young Elvis, in Ann-Margret drag.
And, finally, there was Larry Oblivion. The dead detective, the post-mortem private eye. He looked in pretty good shape, for a zombie. Word was he’d been betrayed and murdered by the only woman he ever loved. She brought him back as a zombie, and he killed her for it. Just another love story, in the Nightside. Tall and well built, he wore the very best suit Armani had to offer. He had a colourless, stubborn face under lank, straw-coloured hair, and his icy blue eyes burned with something much worse than life. Up close, I knew he would smell faintly of formaldehyde. He had a good reputation as a private eye. Almost as good as mine.
His brother was missing, presumed dead. Because of me.
And these were the new Authorities—my old Enemies. Did that mean something? Had I escaped one awful destiny, only to see the start of another? Or had I really escaped anything at all? Julien Advent excused himself from the increasingly bad-tempered discussions and came over to join me. Walker made a point of moving politely away, while Suzie made a point of standing firmly at my side, glaring at everyone impartially.
“Good to see you again, John,” Julien said easily. “I know we’re going to achieve great things together.”
Suzie sniffed loudly. We both ignored her.
“You always were the optimist,” I said. “I thought you didn’t approve of me?”
“Mostly I don’t,” said Julien, with his usual frankness. “But on the whole you do more good than harm, in your own disconcerting and quite appalling way.”
“That’s right,” I said. “Smooth-talk me.”
Julien regarded me seriously. “We need you, John. No-one else can do what needs doing.”
He broke off as Jessica Sorrow drifted over to join us, still hugging her teddy bear to her. Even the great Julien Advent got nervous around the Unbeliever. I sensed as much as saw Suzie reaching for her shotgun and shook my head urgently. Jessica stopped right in front of me and fixed me with her dark, bottomless gaze. She was so skinny there was hardly anything of her; in fact, her leather jacket probably weighed more than she did. She smiled briefly, almost shyly, and when she finally spoke, her voice was like a whisper from another room.
“You helped me, John. Or at least, the bear did. I’m so much more together, these days.”
“I’m glad to hear that,” I said.
She looked me over slowly, consideringly. “Something bad happened. Something so bad I had to make myself forget everything, just to be rid of it. I don’t even know if my name really is Jessica. I’m better now. More . . . focussed. Being here, being a part of this, helps.”
“We’re all very pleased to have you here with us, Jessica,” said Julien. And being him, he probably meant it. I had to wonder how the others felt, having the Unbeliever in their midst. Must be like sitting down with an unexploded bomb and wondering if you could hear ticking. I left Julien and Jessica talking and moved over to the long table. They’d run out of things to argue about, for the moment, and were scowling coldly at each other. Until I arrived, then they all switched immediately to glaring at me. I gave them my best cheerful smile.
“Hi, guys. Where’s the buffet?”
“We should never have invited you here,” said Larry Oblivion, his voice remarkably normal for a dead man. He scowled past me at Jessica Sorrow. “We should never have invited her, either. I don’t trust her.”
“Hell, darling, I don’t trust anybody here,” said Annie Abattoir. If a cat could purr with a mouthful of cream while screwing another cat, it would sound like Annie. “But if I can put aside my prejudices, and my quite-justified paranoia where some of you are concerned, to try and make this work, so can you. Oh hush, dead man. We’ve heard it all before. Don’t make me come over there and sit on you.”
“We all bring something to the table,” Julien Advent said firmly, as he and Jessica seated themselves again. “I bring respectability, and the power of the press. Jessica is here to frighten our enemies. Annie has practised her appalling profession for every side there is, and a few she made up specially, and so has important contacts everywhere. Count Video and King of Skin are both Major Players, and command respect. And Larry has built quite a reputation for public service, since his death.”
“Nothing like dying to provide a real wake-up call to the conscience,” said Larry. “Heaven and Hell seem so much closer . . .”
“If you wanted a professional private investigator, why didn’t you ask me?” I said, a bit put out.
“You’ve never been much of a team player, John,” Julien said kindly. “And to be honest, given your . . . family history, no-one in the Nightside is ever going to feel comfortable with you in charge.”
“He has a point,” said Suzie, leaning back lazily against the wall with her arms folded. “I’ll still shoot them all, though, if you like.”
“Maybe later,” I said. I can never tell when she’s joking about things like that. Maybe she can’t either. I indicated Walker, still standing politely off to one side. “What about him? Why isn’t he a part of the new Authorities? He’s got more experience in running the Nightside than all of you put together.”
“They asked me,” Walker said calmly. “I declined. My feelings about the Nightside are no secret, and I have to admit; my recent attempts at imposing some kind of order on the various Beings of the Street of the Gods...didn’t work out too well. I was called in to organise, regulate, and modernise all the various churches, religions, and Beings, but despite my best efforts, things . . . deteriorated quite rapidly. It’s not my fault the make-overs didn’t take. Worshippers can be so literal, and very stubborn. And then the Punk God of the Straight Razor got involved, and it all went to Hell in a hurry.”
“I remember that,” I said. “For a while you couldn’t move in some parts of the Nightside for Beings running out of the Street of the Gods, crying their eyes out.”
“Well, quite,” said Walker. “Either way, I feel I can best serve the interests of the Nightside as a functionary, not a decision-maker.” He smiled briefly. “Unless the new Authorities should prove unworthy or incompetent, in which case I will move in to shut them down.”
“You would, too, wouldn’t you?” I said. “Suddenly and violently and with malice for all.”
“It’s what I do best,” said Walker. “I have always found the possibility of sudden death tends to concentrate the mind wonderfully.”
The new Authorities gave every indication of being united for the first time, as they glared at Walker.
“Let’s get down to business,” I said. “You brought me here because of the Walking Man. Why don’t you people want him here? Would it really be so bad if he were to wipe out some of our more prominent scumbags and generally take out the trash?”
“This Walking M
an tends to favour the scorched earth policy,” murmured Walker. “And bad as this place undoubtedly is... there are some things here worth preserving.”
I smiled. “You are mellowing, Walker.”
“Told you,” said Walker. “Terrible, isn’t it?”
“What exactly do we know for sure, about the Walking Man?” I said, looking round the table.
Julien Advent took the lead, as always. “Throughout history, there has always been the legend of the Walking Man. That once in every generation, a man can make a deal with God to become more than a man. He can swear his life to God, and if that man will swear to serve the Light and the Good with all his heart and all his will, forsaking all other paths, such as love or family or personal needs...then that man will become stronger, faster, and more terrible than any other man. He will be invulnerable to all harm, as long as his faith remains true and he walks in Heaven’s path. God’s will in the world, God’s warrior, the wrath of God in the world of men, sent forth to punish the guilty and stamp out evil wherever he finds it. Called the Walking Man because he will walk in straight lines to get where he has to go, and do what he has to do, and no-one will be able to stop him or turn him aside.”