On the other hand, apparently that particular news show boasted the highest ratings the station had ever known, and had already been nominated for several awards.
The black limousine moved smoothly out of the bad lands and into the mainstream traffic lanes. The roar of never-ending traffic embraced us immediately though hardly any of it got past the limo’s soundproofing. The usual mixture of unusual vehicles passed by on either side. Ambulances that ran on distilled suffering. Huge articulated trucks with no-one visible in the driver’s seat, carrying unknown goods to unknowable destinations. One of them had a big sign on the back, saying COMPLAIN ABOUT MY DRIVING. GO ON. I DARE YOU. And all kinds of cars, from a shocking pink souped-up Model T Ford, to an Edsel with tall, shiny fins and a radioactive back burner, to a 2020 Velociraptor Special, with a motor so powerful it rattled the fillings in my teeth as it shot past.
Most of the traffic had enough sense to give the black limousine plenty of room on the grounds that anything so obviously expensive was bound to have top-of-the-line armaments and protections; but something that only looked like a car moved quickly through the adjoining lanes to ease in alongside us. Up close, it quickly became apparent there was something seriously wrong with the car’s shape and details. All the windows were pure black, including the windscreen, the wheels didn’t turn, and the thing moved in sudden darts and rushes that would have had its passengers ricocheting around the interior. I drew Julien’s attention to whatever it was that was coming our way, but he didn’t seem particularly worried. The car thing lurched in close beside us, our two sides almost touching. The all-black window nearest us disappeared, and dozens of dark green arms ending in hooked and clawed hands shot out to attack our windows. They slammed to a halt against the glass and skittered angrily over it, unable to break or even scratch it.
“Bullet-proof, shatter-proof, waterproof,” said Julien, a bit complacently.
“Make a good watch,” I said, deliberately unimpressed.
The claws and hooks clattered in vain against the heavy glass, then all the arms snapped back into the car thing. The black window reappeared. The car thing cut its power and fell back behind us, taking up a position right on our bumper. Long machine-gun barrels protruded from its dully gleaming grill-work, and the car thing opened fire. Luckily, our rear windows were equally bullet-proof. The limousine hardly rocked at all under the impact. The blonde chauffeuse made an adjustment to something on her dash-board, and flame-throwers opened up from the back of the limousine. The car thing shrieked shrilly as terrible flames washed over it. The featureless exterior scorched and bubbled, charring and blackening like roasted flesh under the extreme heat. The car thing burned fiercely, then exploded. Bits of burning car flesh flew through the air, tumbling end over end, bouncing and splattering off the surrounding traffic.
“James Bond, eat your heart out,” said Julien Advent.
I couldn’t find it in my heart to feel sorry for the car thing. Some predators are too damned nasty for sympathy. The black limousine moved smoothly on through the night traffic, which treated us with a little more respect than before.
It took us a while to reach the Hospice of the Blessed Saint Margaret. The Nightside’s one and only hospital is located right on the outskirts, not far from the Necropolis. So that when things go wrong, they don’t have far to move the body. It also allows the rest of the Nightside population to feel that little bit more secure in case anything should escape. Or anyone. Julien made a series of important phone calls to the editorial desk of the Night Times, and I passed the time dozing on the back seat with my mouth open. Eventually, the black limousine eased to a halt, and I opened my eyes to find we were right in the middle of the Hospice car-park. The chauffeuse turned to address Julien, and he lowered the intervening glass panel.
“You want me to wait, chief?”
“No thank you, Gloria,” said Julien. “Hospital car-parks charge a fortune. You take some time off. I’ll call you if I need you.”
“Suits me, chief. Try not to pick up anything nasty in there. I’d hate to have to fumigate the car again.”
“Again?” I said, but Julien already had the back door open and was climbing out. I got out after him, and the moment I was clear, the back door slammed shut, and the limousine pulled quickly away. I hunched my shoulders inside my trench coat against the chill of the night air, and stood beside Julien while we looked the Hospice over from a safe distance. Despite having lived most of my very dangerous life in the Nightside, I’d never actually seen the Hospice before. Julien saw me frowning.
“Something wrong?”
“Don’t like hospitals,” I said bluntly. “They get on my nerves. And don’t even get me started on dentists. On bad days, I need a local anæsthetic, even to make an appointment.”
“Back in my old days, the hospital was where you went to die,” said Julien, reflectively. “In Victorian times, surgeons were butchers, survival rates were frankly terrifying, and we had none of today’s wonder drugs. You had to be tough to survive a Victorian hospital. And don’t even get me started on the Elephant Man.”
The Hospice itself was a huge, bright, white-walled building, sweeping up into the night sky. Searchlights blazed from the roof, to guide in air ambulances, flying carpets and the occasional winged unicorn. They’d had a dragon drop in on the roof once, many years ago, and they’re still talking about it. Still trying to get the last bits of dragon dung out of the guttering, by all accounts. That was one sick dragon. All the windows were mirrored one-way glass, to ensure privacy and keep passers-by from seeing things that might upset them. The Hospice was named after the original Saint Margaret, who founded the place when she passed through the Nightside, many centuries ago.
“She didn’t stay long,” said Julien, when I tried to impress him with my limited knowledge. “We don’t get many saints in the Nightside, as a rule.”
“Gosh,” I said. “Imagine my surprise.”
“But she did hang around long enough to found a much-needed leper Hospice. She ran it herself, tending the lepers with her own hands, until she could find someone brave enough to take over; and then she couldn’t get out of the Nightside fast enough. The lepers didn’t bother her, but she felt contaminated by the general moral ambience. Which is fair enough. The Hospice evolved, through various fits and starts, into the Hospice you see before you, the most impressive and experienced of its kind. It deals with supernatural and super-science medical problems, and all the extreme and unnatural cases that inevitably occur in a free-thinking community like ours. It was either this, or fire-bombing whole areas of the Nightside on a regular basis. And don’t think that wasn’t discussed. The Hospice is supported by many good friends and grateful ex-patients, and even more people with a thoughtful eye to the future.”
“You still wouldn’t catch me dead in there,” I said solemnly.
“That joke was old when I was young,” Julien said crushingly.
We walked through the car-park and headed for the main front doors. We’d barely got half-way there before a whole bunch of heavily armed security people emerged suddenly from all sides to cover us. Some wore old military outfits, some wore specially adapted battle armour, and every single one of them kept their weapons trained very seriously on Julien and me. I looked casually around, careful to appear conspicuously unimpressed. All the security people had the same cold, focused, dangerous look. I knew who they were immediately. Who they had to be. A lot of them recognised me, and there was a lot of glancing around to find someone ready to make the first move. I could all but see the buck shifting in mid air. After a certain amount of glancing and muttering, they all carefully chose to point their weapons between me and Julien rather than directly at us.