by Brian Lumley
In answer to his Unit Leader’s query, Mordri Two’s voice—very much like his physical voice, when he deigned to use it—was shrill as he “innocently” inquired, What? Remiss? How so?
And as they all loosened their grips to sit up straighter, the one in white said, She is asking: have our precautions been insufficient? Which I’m sure you understood full well, “Simon.” For after all, your catchment area was the inner circle, including London, was it not?
What are you insinuating? Salcombe, or Mordri Two, replied, turning his head in a snake-like motion to glare at the creature that called itself Guyler Schweitzer.
I imply nothing but merely state a fact! that one snapped. Only ask yourself, “Simon”: where lurks this sudden danger? Who are they, whose thoughts turn to us? And yet more to the point, where are they? Let me answer for you: they are in London!
But “Frau” Gerda Lessing’s thought-tones were clipped when she cut in on both of them to state: I accused no single member of our Three Unit, but perhaps all of us. We could have adopted their methods but chose to use our own, which we considered far less cumbersome, sublime, and . . . invigorating? As for the touch: perhaps we employed it too often and too vigorously! For in its stead bullets and knives would have sufficed and would scarcely have suggested to lesser intellects evidence of superior powers or “alien” incursions; but they would have been adequate to our purpose.
Adequate, perhaps, Mordri Three tittered, but by no means as pleasing! It gives my Khiff pleasure to sense their agonies, to watch their shapes melting as they writhe, bloat, or invert. He delights in it! And what are these “people” anyway, that we should feel concerned? They are primitives! Denying our beliefs they espouse a god, even gods! Ah, but where will their gods be when we move on? The Saak’nhi, Yo-mirsh, Masakhrii—hah! Even the Shing’t themselves—they, too, gave credence to deity, to an almighty, universal creator. And where are they now? Gone! Gone forever. And we three alone are the last of them, even the last of the Shing’t! And for all that we have done to draw it or him or her out, no alleged “deity”—neither a god nor any creature mortal or otherwise—nothing and no one has yet challenged our acceptance of Science as the only genuine source and supremacy.
If only for a moment fazed by Guyler Schweitzer’s “logic,” Mordri One demurred. Then she said, Mainly true, but you stray wide of the subject. I am well aware of our superiority; indeed and as a Three Unit we are invincible: our Science is certainly invincible! But still it appears that we’ve shaken these beings from their complacency. And the fact is that we are only three, while they are billions!
I agree, Mordri Two replied. Racially they are as a swarm. But as individuals and small groups as opposed to fully cooperative Units, it seems that our real enemies—the only ones we might have some small cause to be concerned about—
Such as the ones you have so clumsily alerted to our presence, our activities, Mor-dri Three snapped.
—Are very few and merely human! Mordri Two shrilled. And then, showing his pearly teeth in a momentary snarl, he went on to point out: What is more, “Guyler Schweitzer,” you seem oddly confused! No more than a moment ago you yourself argued against their capabilities! So why now these grotesque and unsubstantiated accusations toward me? I agree with you: this planet Earth is peopled by primitives, god-worshippers, religious dupes! And if they really were made in his image, where is he now in their hour of greatest need? Nowhere to be found. Bah! Any threat to us, our intentions—to prove beyond all doubt, if only to ourselves, that no such supreme being exists or ever has existed—is minimal. For I repeat: these people, these human beings, are merely human.
But before Mordri Three could answer him:
As for their being merely human, said Mordri One, I cannot any longer believe that to be entirely true. In which case both of you would appear to be in error! She delivered her statement so coldly, it brought her male colleagues’ thoughts to an immediate standstill, causing them to jerk their heads as one in her direction. Then, moving awkwardly, Mordri One stood up, angling herself aloft like some cowled, semihuman phasmid. And jerkily pacing the stone-flagged floor, she continued:
Now tell me: did you not sense—have you not detected—someone? By which I mean a being other than one of a handful of enhanced humans in London and a smaller handful somewhere in or around the Mediterranean? And if not, am I then mistaken in believing that a Shing’t mind is out there, in this world, trying to coordinate opposition to our plans? No, I cannot be mistaken, when of the three of us my senses have always been the keenest; or can it be that I am more in tune with female emanations, and that I know an old foe when I meet up with one? She has opposed us before, this one, and my Khiff recognized her aura. My Khiff knows it well—and hates it as much as I do! Moreover, she has formed a Three Unit, this one; she works with one who is human, and another who is . . . well, I cannot make him out! His thoughts seem strange to me; he scarcely seems to think in Shing’t terms at all but is closer to the generally inferior human psyche. In any case he is different. But she: yes, I know her well. And so should you.
Ah! Mordri Three’s mental “gasp” was like a small burst of light in the minds of his colleagues. You must surely mean that female of the Shania Unit: Shania Two? I remember how she stood against us at the hearing, her ludicrous accusations of madness. And yes, now that you mention it, I, too, detected a Shing’t mind—a shielded mind—at the edge of consciousness. I thought I must be mistaken and so made nothing of it.
As to madness, said Mordri One: each of our minds was examined and found wanting, dangerous to such a degree that we were imprisoned—and our Khiffs were madder still! I for one do not dispute that I am mad and that I am capable of, and indeed have a craving for, monstrousness! But I have heard a saying that is common among these Earth beings: that with some people there is “method” in their madness. Well, likewise in mine; and not only method but a purpose which I must pursue; if only out of spite, in order to exact a small measure of revenge for all the humiliation and degradation, the outrages I’ve suffered at the hands of misguided religious zealots!
As she fell silent Mordri Two spoke up. Much like Three, I, too, sensed a presence and believed myself mistaken. So . . . this Shania survived the destruction on the Shing system. And if she survived, perhaps there are others.
Obviously there will be others! Mordri Three sneered. Many Shing’t Units would have been exploring and studying off-world.
But this one, said Mordri One, this Shania Two, might have been close enough to see what happened . . . in any case she knows what happened, and who was responsible. And so she has followed us here. But where we seek enlightenment and justice, she seeks only revenge. Which brings me back to what I said earlier: that she is working with others—humans with advanced mental skills—in an attempt to organize opposition to our plans. In short, in order to thwart us!
The Mordri who called himself Simon Salcombe jerked to his feet. She is one and we are three! We shall do away with her!
No! said Mordri One. Shania Two will die, of course—with this planet, when it dies. But since I sensed her in two places at more or less the same time, obviously she has a localizer. I do not know what her recruits have—only that they know how to shield themselves, making telepathic scrutiny difficult. But we can’t afford to be diverted from the course we’re set upon. No, if we must engage in conflict, let it be that this old enemy of ours brings whatever troops she can muster to us. This place is a natural fortress. And meanwhile—
With all three members of the Unit on their feet now, Mordri One looked from one to the other of her male companions and inquired—How does the work progress? How long before we leave and destroy this terminally diseased world?
Nine, maybe eight days . . . minimum, Mordri Three replied.
Then let us make it seven, even six days—maximum! Mordri One snapped. Send out your Khiffs to chivvy up the workers; let your Khiffs find ways to hasten the slackers and accelerate the process. Give them
free rein . . . well, within certain limits, of course; for they, too, are frequently overzealous. And then—if our clever Khiffs can’t find the appropriate, er, incentives with which to increase the productivity and speed our departure—then I don’t know who or what can! And now to work . . .
29
That same night:
Finally exhausted, asleep in the arms of Shania Two, Scott St. John drifted in troubled dreams; while in and between brief bouts of sleeping, Shania did the best she could to shield both Scott and herself from outside observation and interference. As for Wolf: with a full belly, sated, warm, and dry—and as clean if not cleaner than on the day just two years ago when his wild mother gave birth to him—he lay on a soft blanket outside the bedroom door. Even in fitful dreams he followed Shania’s example: covered himself in opaque, intangible thoughts that denied that he was there at all; while in fact he was well aware there was nowhere else he would rather be, and only a very few places where he would know how to be. For prior to this Wolf had known only the woods and hillsides of southeastern parts of Zante in the Ionian. And in any case his dreams when they showed through the blanketing opacity were of squawking chickens, and rabbits that all too often evaded pursuit.
But Scott St. John’s dreams were stranger far—in certain ways terrifying—and Shania listened intently to his heart and dreams both; the first occasionally pounding, and the others as strange as anything in any world that Shania had ever seen. For she knew that they were far more than mere dreams . . .
Scott was a boy again, maybe eleven or twelve years old. As for his location: he didn’t recognize it—or perhaps he did, however vaguely—but he sat on a bank in the bight of a river with a friend, their shoes and socks close at hand and their feet in the cool, gently swirling water. It was a summer afternoon, and glancing rays of sunlight sparkled on the ripples and fell warm on the faces of the two boys, Scott and his friend.
“Rather odd, don’t you think?” said the latter, in a voice which wasn’t at all young and boyish but manly, strong, mature. “I seem to remember that when I was this age I lived elsewhere. I never once came here, not when I was this age.”
Scott looked at him. Of medium build, freckle-faced, and sandy-haired, the boy wore plain prescription spectacles balanced on a stub of a nose. Behind the spectacles dreamy blue eyes gazed out of a haunted face in a peculiar, paradoxical sort of expectant bewilderment. Only a little older than Scott himself, the boy wore a crumpled school uniform over a once-white shirt, with a school tie dangling all askew, its end starting to fray. And Scott at once liked him.
“You’re a . . . a friend of mine,” Scott said. “That much I know. But I don’t know—or maybe I’ve forgotten—your name.”
“It’s Harry,” said the other. “And you’re Scott. That much I know, but not everything. I go places to help out but I’m not given to know everything. You must have taken a dart, right?”
For a moment Scott was puzzled. “I took a . . . ?” But then he remembered. “Oh! A dart! A golden dart, yes!” And then, feeling a little uncertain, even afraid: “But where am I? I wasn’t ever here before and I don’t know this place. And where’s my father? He doesn’t like me going places where I’m not supposed to go.”
“But this is a place where you were supposed to go,” Harry answered. “I would hazard a guess we’re in my past, or at least in a location from that past. It happens that way sometimes.”
“What happens?”
“My meeting people who need my help.” Harry shrugged. “But hey! Like I said: I don’t know everything. And on this occasion very little. Your name is more or less it! Usually I’m given at least a hint.” He shrugged. “That’s the way it is.”
Scott shook his head, drew his feet from the water and out onto the bank to dry. “That’s sort of vague,” he said. “And you know something? You don’t talk like a boy.”
“You neither,” said Harry. “And that’s because you’re not. It’s just the way they do things.”
“They?” said Scott.
Harry shrugged again. “I don’t know who they are; I never did, not really. I had my suspicions, though. Let’s just say I work for someone or something who’s a lot higher up the ladder. And so do they.”
“What ladder? I don’t follow you.”
“And you wouldn’t want to,” said Harry, ominously. “Not to some of the places I’ve been, or will be . . .” And then, changing the subject: “Anyway, you asked about your father.”
But Scott was remembering now—remembering what was still to come—and said, “I know: he died a long time ago. And Kelly more recently. I think that’s why I got your dart.”
“So, you know the dart was part of me?”
“I know that you are part of me,” said Scott. “Only a very small part; but I think that you’ve been here for some time, in me, trying to tell me things. I mean, I’ve sometimes remembered things, or half remembered them—people, faces, events—that I never knew, that never happened. Not to me, anyway. I think I got your dart when Kelly died.”
“Probably because Kelly died,” said Harry. “It’s usually a great wrong that needs to be righted.” Then he frowned. “But on the other hand it’s very unusual if only one person or thing is involved. Events need to be going very wrong—need to be especially bad—before they’ll step in.”
All of Scott’s future, but in fact his past, had come back to him now. He remembered almost everything. “Why did they make us boys?” he said. “Why couldn’t we talk as men?”
“It’s a matter of innocence—I think,” said Harry. “Boys can talk to each other; it’s far easier to believe, when you’re young. That’s why you’re a boy—I think. And if I were a man, then you might have been wary of me. So that’s probably why I’m a boy. And believe me, there was a certain me you wouldn’t have wanted to know at all! That was the last me, before I . . . well, before they took me.”
“Harry, you’re dead, aren’t you?” said Scott then, somehow knowing it for a fact.
“In one sense, yes,” said the other. “But in another, hell no! I’m alive all over the place!”
“Like in me?”
“And like in lots of others in lots of other places.”
“I’m talking to a dead man!” said Scott, feeling his flesh creep.
“Ah!” said Harry. “That’s it! I knew we’d find the reason, if only we talked long enough.”
“Reason?” Scott was back to short, even single word questions again.
“The reason for my being here,” said Harry. “You’re talking to a dead man. And that’s because you can! That’s one part of me that you’ve definitely got, even if you might not be able to retain it. You see, I was the original Necroscope; I was the man who talked to dead people. I was their only friend, and the dead would do anything for Harry Keogh. Hah! It seems my memory is improving . . . a little, anyway.”
“Mine, too,” said Scott, for the moment ignoring—perhaps deliberately failing to acknowledge—what Harry had said about speaking to the dead. “I’m in a boy’s body, but I have a man’s memories. And I remember . . .”
He remembered lying on his back on a surgical trolley, being wheeled along a corridor past a door with a nameplate that read “Harry’s Room.” And so:
“You worked for E-Branch, didn’t you?” he said.
“I was part of E-Branch, for a while,” said the other, his eyes now misty, as if viewing distant things. “Yes, we did some good work together, me and the Branch . . .” But then, once again, as if certain memories were too powerful, too strong for Harry, he changed the subject. “But I can’t stay here too long, Scott, and there are other things you’ll need to know; they’re difficult things, it’s true, but still you should have accepted them by now. They’re in you even as I am in you; it’s just that you haven’t discovered them yet.”
Scott’s head spun; he was confused by what he’d been told, felt threatened by what he didn’t yet know. “Other things?” he said. “Difficult thi
ngs? But I don’t yet understand about this dead thing you were talking about! I mean, were you really trying to tell me I can talk to dead people? I remember trying to talk to them—once, in another dream, I think—but it didn’t work out.”
“Because you didn’t believe; because you’re very hard to convince, Scott, and you hadn’t quite let the dart take hold. Which is probably another reason why I’m here: to ensure that it does. So then, no more questions from you for now; but tell me something: what are you like with numbers, with math?”
“Math?” Bewildered by this third abrupt change of subject, Scott could only shake his head. “What do you mean, math? To me numbers are like musical notes or languages . . . they have their own beat, their own pitch and rhythm. Except that unlike music, math’s beat is immutable: it never changes. So yes, I think I’m okay with numbers; I don’t often get shortchanged, anyway! But why do you ask?”
“Ah, but you’re wrong,” said Harry. “Numbers aren’t immutable. If you know how to ‘play’ them, how to ‘speak’ them, you can change them!”
“Play them, speak them?” said Scott.
“Like music, like languages.” Harry nodded, and then continued. “Look, close your eyes and let me show you something.”
“Close my eyes and . . . ?” said Scott. Something of a contradiction, surely. But since Harry had already closed his, Scott followed suit. And:
There on the darkness behind his eyelids—like symbols on the monitor screen of a vast computer engaged in solving an incredibly complex mathematical problem—a stream of decimals, fractions, algebraic equations, Arabic cyphers, formulae, non-Euclidean and Riemannian configurations, flickered from top to bottom of Scott’s “vision” in a constantly evolving, seemingly endless display. And if he had felt dizzy before, now his mind reeled!
He opened his eyes. “What was that!?”
“Numbers, that’s all!” cried Harry. “It was math! But it’s also the answer to everything you’ll need to know. So now close your eyes again and keep watching.”