08: Babylon

Of the three of us arriving from the Codex, only Sal had been to New Babylon before; for an extended period, no less. Our heavyset companion, of Italian heritage, had called New Babylon his home for several years, up until Core had recruited him for his skills as a mechanic. According to him, he had loved living in Core, and subsequently at my home in the Codex, however, as the saying often went, you could take the man out of New Babylon, but not the New Babylon out of the man. So it was for my friend Sal. And like Sal, New Babylon had an exterior that looked, from the outside, roughly strong, and it was noisy – constantly in motion, never standing still. Also like Sal, it was stock full of shady little corners and dark, foreboding alleys, but unlike the man, the deeper one went in New Babylon, the darker it got, until it suffocated all within its walls. From all I had been told about the place, New Babylon's core was as rotten they come, and that was also unlike our prize mechanic, whose gruff exterior belayed a heart of dented gold. I knew, though, that there was a part of Sal that would always belong to New Babylon – he had grown into his skills within its dank, prefab confines, after all. But he owned that part, not the other way around.

The prospect of coming to New Babylon was daunting to me, I’ll admit. It was a legend in its own right, and one of the oldest metros in the world. It was also quite foreign to everything that anyone not from there knew of the world; unlike every other metro on the planet, it had no particular vision for the reclamation of the old-world. It existed neither to re-discover and advance ancient technologies, like the tech-unions headed by Wyethfizer, Intel, Exshell, and the other major tech-union powers, nor was it devoted to preserving ancient works of art and history, like the Codex and Metro Davinci. New Babylon simply existed for the sake of existing, feeding off the vital energy of the people who lived and strove in its crowded tunnels, and those who looked down from the heights up its upper-class terraces. It didn't really matter a person's station; all belonged to the city.

I could feel that insidious energy as I drove the Gravedigger deeper and deeper into the bowels of New Babylon’s various levels of poverty and neglect, as though it wanted to suck me in and never let me leave. It was like something I read about in an ancient astronomy journal – a black hole. In all the reclaimed science-fiction stories I had read, I couldn’t recall anyone ever escaping one of those.

* * *

Clawing its way over the ice-shell, the Gravedigger found itself dwarfed by the metro's administration tower, once the upper floors of an old-world compound of ice-battered industrial buildings in what used to be the city of Baghdad. The rest of New Babylon, like most other metros, was underground, however unlike most other metros, it was not a series of hastily dug-out caves, but was actually located in a huge, natural cavern, which legend said was one filled with petroleum before it was emptied sometime in the twenty-first century. Untold treasures were said to be hidden somewhere within. Those inside the gravedigger, aside from Sal of course, took a deep breath of awe at the sight of the tower. There were many ancient ruins of tall buildings in the world, but very few had been made habitable.

Noal and Naomy were still staring when he drove the 'digger onto the New Babylon ramp, an impressive structure, wide enough for three toyos to drive side-by-side in either direction. Built in tiers, with the lowest segment of society inhabiting the lowest sectors, and the elite segment inhabiting the luxurious upper terraces, the metro seemed to spiral from top to bottom all around them as they descended into the bowls of the lowest levels. There, the dirty street-dwellers barely avoided being stepped on by the slightly more upwardly-mobile, who at least had a place to call home with a door, and possibly a lock. It was an appalling degradation of humanity.

“You're sure this is the way to the Steampunk, Sal?” asked Noal, uncomfortably.

Sal nodded, “I could find this place with my eyes closed, believe me,” he said, shaking his head, “I've never seen the lower levels this hard up before, though. They always had it bad, but this – ah, here we are; the Steampunk Cultural Club.” They pulled up to a shabbily-built, four-story domicile structure, which looked barely livable at the best of times, and this was clearly not the best of times. The top three floors were apartments for the ‘rich’ among the lower level inhabitants, and the bottom floor was all Steampunk.

Up and down the dimly-illuminated street were a plethora of vendors, hawking an odd variety of wares, from food and produce (the thought of which turned Noal’s stomach), to cheaply manufactured old-world knock-off items, and even a few genuinely antique artifacts that Noal could see. He made a mental note to pay a visit to those ones on his way out.

“Make sure to lock your doors, eh, “said Sal, “Residents around here are none too picky about what belongs to whom, and they very rarely get the chance to own a toyo, so they’ll be watching ours like hawks.”

“I’ll keep it in mind,” replied Noal, following his portly companion through a well-used doorway, underneath a sign that would have depicted gears and cogs in motion, had it not been for the years of dirt and grime that had collected overtop of it. Inside was little better: dark, dank, seedy, and smelly. The floor felt like it hadn’t been cleaned in weeks, or possibly months, and a smoky haze filled the room as club-members sat alone or in small groups, inhaling all manner of illicit drugs. A dirge of sound that might, by some liberal definition, be called music, pumped out of a mismatched assortment of crackling loud-speakers. The overall impression was one of deep corruption and disdain humanity on any meaningful level. People came to the Steampunk to puff away their troubles and die, slowly. Noal figured it must have been different once, if Sal was regular here.

“Well, looks like nothing much has changed around here,” said Sal, “Let’s go talk to the bartender and find out if this Mikhail guy is around.”

“Well, well,” said a burly, bald man behind the bar counter, taking a long look at the Codexers, concentrating especially hard on Naomy, “Visitors from out of town, eh?”

“How do you know that?” asked Noal, suspiciously, “There must be thousands of people down here, and you can’t possibly know all of them.”

The bartender laughed heartily, “Well there is your clothing, for one thing: relatively clean, strong creases, and appears to have been laundered sometime in the last decade. Doesn’t exactly scream of squalor, if you know what I mean. And you don’t reek of stim-toxified urine, neither, so that’s also something to consider.”

“Right, my apologies, I must be getting jumpy in my old age,” Noal conceded.

“And just clear up your previous assertion,” the bartender continued, “There are three-thousand, two-hundred and seventy-nine residents down here in the nether. And yes, I do in fact know every smelly, drugged-up, piss-soaked one of them, and I’ll be buggered if I can place any of you among them.” He held out a giant-sized, meaty hand in greeting, “Erik is my name, and this is my place. Please to make your acquaintances.”

Noal shook the hand, glad when he got his own back, “I’m Noal, and this is Naomy and Sal, from the Codex.”

“Sal, is it?” said Erik, shaking the big man’s hand, “Sal…Sal…Salvatore. Yes! Salvatore Vasko, I remember you! How have you been, big boy?”

“It’s been a long time, Erik; I didn’t think you would recognize me,” Sal replied, shaking his old friend’s hand. “I’ve been well. Traveling a lot, lately.”

“So they’ve got you over in Codex now, have they? Auspicious digs for a backwater troll like you!” Erik laughed, a genuine, friendly laugh.

“Something like that,” Sal grinned. “I’d love to catch up, my friend, but we are here to meet someone, and it is of utmost urgency. You understand, yes?”

“Of course, of course,” said the bartender, “How can I help?”

“We’re looking for a man who calls himself Mikhail. Do you know him?”

“You’re looking for Mikhail, the Russian?” said Erik, questioningly, “I wouldn’t have expect you of all people to be mixed up with that sort, but perhaps it’s better I don’t know what you’re into these days. Yes, I know Mikhail. He’s not here now, but he’ll be here at midnight, on the dot. Leaves at exactly four in the morning, too. Never early, never late; if I still had a clock that worked, I could set it by his comings and goings.”

“Can you tell us what he looks like?” asked Noal.

“Tall and pale, with dark black hair and a scar across his left cheek,” Erik explained, “Always dressed to the nines: pressed suit, shiny shoes, tie – all black, as if he were going to a funeral. He always sits at that table in the far corner, too. No exceptions.”

“Always?” said Naomy, “What if someone else is already sitting there when he arrives?”

“They aren’t,” insisted Erik, “People around here know enough to get out of his way; every night at five minutes to twelve, everyone clears out of his corner, just in case he gets here early for once in his life. Anyone who doesn’t know about it, is informed very quickly. You’ve been informed now, by the way.”

“Twelve o’clock, you say. That’s a couple of hours away – do you have anywhere we can hole up until then? We can pay,” Noal asked.

“Sure, no problem, I’ve got a rental if you like, just around back. Half-price for Sals’ friends.”

“We’ll take it.”

The room wasn’t much to look at, but at least it gave the trio a chance to talk, at least it would have if the walls hadn’t been full of conveniently placed listening holes. Not that anyone felt particularly inclined to talk at this point, anyway; they had a job to finish, and nothing else mattered until it was done. Noal contented himself with making a few last minute contingency plans, though he was reasonably sure that events would be moving too quickly to worry about plans, when it came down to it. Silent, and restless, the hours seemed to drag by at about the same rate as frozen oatmeal traveled uphill.

At five minutes to midnight, they returned to the Steampunk to find it buzzing with activity. All over the place, people were gathered, sprawled around on top of chairs and tables, drinking or smoking their minds into oblivion. But sure enough, Mikhail’s table sat conspicuously empty.

“Shall we make ourselves at home?” said Noal, leading the others to the table and taking a seat, with his feet up on the table. Naomy and Sal did likewise, much to the collective shock of everyone else in the club, who whispered and murmured amongst themselves with their eyes on Mikhail’s table. ”Taking your lives into your own hands,” one voice said.

A few minutes later, at exactly twelve o’clock, the door opened, and in walked a tall, darkly handsome man with a scar across his left cheek. As Erik had described, he wore black everything, arranged just so. He looked like he meant business, whatever his business was. His footsteps echoed closer and closer, and before long he was standing at his usual table, quietly scrutinizing the three unknowns sitting around it, with a casual arch of an eyebrow.

“I would have to assume that you are looking for me,” said the pale man, face betraying no emotion, neither anger nor apprehension.

Noal looked over at Sal with a grin before responding, “You know what they say about making assumptions.” Mikhail seemed to glower at that.

“May I sit?” the black-clothed man asked. Noal gestured for him to pull up a chair, and the man sat, leaning forward to whisper to the trio. “Now, look – I don’t know who you all think you are, or who you think you are fooling with here, but I assure you, you want none of it. I will pretend this never happened, but you must get up from my table and leave immediately, or else I am afraid my patience will rapidly run out.” When nobody budged, he added, “I am not playing around, here.”

“Neither are we, Mikhail,” Noal deadpanned, as the click of a pistol being cocked came from under the table in Sal’s direction. Mikhail’s eyes opened wide with momentary surprise before retaining their unaffected glaze. “Now that we have your attention, there is a little matter that we have come to discuss with you, regarding a certain associate of yours.”

“I do not discuss such things with people I do not know,” growled the Russian, through clenched teeth.

“We are, or shall I say we were friends of Hugo Vasquez. Of Rico’s End,” said Noal. Mikhail’s face turned even paler than its natural skin-tone. “I see you know the name.”

“I do,” Mikhail answered, “And I know everything that happened there. You must be the ones who leveled it; I hear the authorities from Metro Exshell have been unsuccessful in identifying a culprit, much to their great frustration. There was talk of a rather significant reward, as I recall.”

“And you won’t live to tell anyone about it if you don’t answer our questions.”

Mikhail nodded, “Ah yes, I see. It is the Wraith you seek, yes?”

“Yes,” Noal confirmed.

“And why would you seek such a man as the Wraith?” asked the scar-faced man, “Is it revenge you are after, for poor Hugo? I hear his end was rather gruesome.”

“Not exactly,” said Noal, “Hugo was our friend, sure enough, but his death was entirely his own fault. Before he died, we had spoken about a certain problem that I have been having with a satellite colony that has been an irritant to my Metro. Hugo said this Wraith of yours was the man to call to take care of it.”

“Well why didn’t you say so earlier? We could have avoided all of this fuss had I known what you were looking for,” said Mikhail, smiling. “Yes, I do believe we may be able to work things out; I assume you came prepared to pay well.”

“I am a department chief, so yes, I came well prepared,” he slid a clipped fold of currency onto the table, eliciting an acceptant smile from Mikhail.

“Then I don't imagine we shall have a problem. Please follow me,” said Mikhail, standing to lead the group into the back stairwell and up several flights to the highest floor in the building, where a single, large residence awaited them, emptily. “I will leave you here – please feel free to make yourselves comfortable, as you may be waiting for some time. Once you have discussed your business with the Wraith, he will decided on the cost, which you will then pay to me.”

“Thank you, Mikhail, I shall personally make sure you get what is coming to you,” said Noal. Mikhail closed the door behind him, and the apartment was left in silence.

“So what now?” asked Sal.

“We wait.”