Veniss Underground by Jeff VanderMeer Page B

fiddler crab and a few sprigs of dandelion. Where he found the dandelion, you have no idea. It's been years since you saw a dandelion. The smell makes your mouth water as you sit down.
    As Salvador brings out the plates, he asks, “Shall I eat with you, or in the kitchen, Nicola?”
    â€œHere,” you say. “I want to ask you more about Quin.”
    He sits down and begins to eat—a very dainty eater, using his paw-hands to manipulate fork and knife, taking tiny bites, more interested in the garnish of fiddler crab claws (which he expertly cracks open) than with the seaweed casserole.
    â€œWhere did you get the fiddler crab?” you ask. “And how did you pay for it?”
    Salvador grins, revealing sharp canines. The full revelation of his teeth is anticlimactic, now that you have the gun.
    â€œMy secret,” he says.
    A secret indeed. You take a few bites of the casserole. It melts in your mouth, the vegetable and the cheese wonderful in combination. Where could you find fiddler these days?
    You decide on a line of questioning.
    â€œNow, Salvador, surely you can tell me more about Quin than those delightful lines you gave me this morning.”
    â€œOf course, Nicola.”
    You had expected another mysterious answer, a question thrown back at you, more evasive maneuvers.
    â€œI thought you said this morning that you had told me all you know?”
    The meerkat bows its head and crunches down on a fiddler claw. “I didn't know, Nicola. But when I went down to the Canal District to haggle for the fiddler crab, I stopped at the public archives and I did some . . . research. Have I done something wrong?”
    A mournful face, only it doesn't work on you because you are still trying to decide what is more incredible—that the public archives provide access to
made creatures
, or that Salvador knew how to access the data.
    â€œTell me, then,” you say.
    Salvador nods. “As you wish. My creator came to Veniss from Balthakazar in the middle of the breakup, during the period of lawlessness when above level and below level were at war. It would have been the year—”
    â€œYes. I know all of this. What about Quin?”
    â€œQuin makes biological creations. He has contracts with all eighteen above-level districts to produce Ganesha messengers and guards. He has contracts below level as well, although I do not know the details of such contracts.”
    â€œThat's it? You could have accessed all this information yourself.”
    â€œYes, Nicola. Would you like more seaweed casserole?”
    â€œNo. Do you know Shadrach Begolem?”
    â€œNo, Nicola.”
    â€œDo you know Nicholas Germane?”
    â€œShall I research both names at the archives tomorrow?”
    â€œNo!”
    You get up so fast the chair has no time to react and screeches against the floor. You walk into the living room and sit down on the couch. Salvador follows you.
    â€œLeave me alone, Salvador,” you say. At eye level, the meerkat appears more muscular, more dangerous. It could have you by the throat before your first scream.
    You opaque the window, which shows the dull, doomed lights of the city, and punch up a scene of pseudowhales breaching. Pseudowhale song—deep and sonorous—drowns out Salvador's response.
    He regards you for a moment, and waddles back into the kitchen to start clearing the dishes.
    Where is your brother in all of this? Why have you let this creature into your apartment?
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â 
    THE WORLD moves more swiftly, more deadly, and yet its center, Nicholas, moves not at all. Your face takes on a terrible implacability. You will see this through to the end. This is your brother, after all. And now you are curious beyond all reason. True, you still get that feeling of dread deep in your belly. You still feel fear. But that's better than feeling nothing at all . . .
    Your normal life goes on regardless, as if without respect for