by Brian Lumley
“I know, so don’t say it!” She stopped him. “I’m no sleazy voyeur, Scott! But being telepathic—having always been telepathic—I view dreams differently and understand that they’re not simply subconscious wish fulfillment. I would think that has to be obvious, for if that was all they were there’d be no such thing as a nightmare! No one would wish that on himself. As for this latest dream: your sleep was so disturbed, and you were so restless—tossing, turning, and mumbling—that I was afraid for you. I knew it must be something very unusual, perhaps even dangerous, and I wanted to be with you. Just think, Scott. What if it had been the Mordris? I might have needed to wake you up, and Wolf, too, so that all three of us could erect our shields, fight them off.”
Scott nodded. “All right, I accept that. So having entered you saw what you saw. But what was it that so excited you?”
“It was Shing’t legend, thought by many to be sheer myth,” she replied, her lovely eyes staring and her voice full of awe. “Or perhaps it was race memory from a time predating the Khiff. But in any case it was something out of our fragmentary Shing’t history: an immemorially revered theology. Let me tell you what I know of it:
“In the beginning, after The All was created, The One who made everything watched His—or perhaps Hers? Or Its? But for the moment, for simplicity’s sake, let’s say His—watched His planets and peoples, life of every kind, develop. He was every-where, every-when, and for Him there was no distinction between space, time, the many levels and parallels. And He was so taken with what He’d made that He let Himself become absorbed into it, became part of it; call Him ‘Nature’ if you will. But before He was completely absorbed He became aware of evolution, mutation, and the rise of evil. Where there was intelligence, eventually, invariably, there would be evil. For as races as a whole strive to improve their lot, so individuals within those races work to improve theirs . . . which is how greed is born!
“Greed is born, and growing and thriving it spawns a longing for power; power spawns corruption; corruption spawns more evil . . . and so it goes. Alas, it is the nature of intelligence almost everywhere to spawn evil, so that perfection is impossible!
“And so, because The One was or was becoming ‘Nature,’ He saw that He must place restrictions on this evolutionary mutation of intelligence into evil; and He was saddened by the fact that He Himself, ‘Nature,’ was the cause! But at the same time He was fascinated and wanted to see for Himself how the intelligences He had created would prosper. But since He intended to sleep down all the aeons, how then might He remain conscious of occurrences in The All?
“Well of course He couldn’t . . . but perhaps others of His design could! And so while He was still able, He sought out in those early phases of The All certain burgeoning intelligences to imbue them with His essence. At the end of their life spans, and determined by the excellence of what they had achieved in life, they would only seem to die but would become other: His messengers, contacts, observers in The All. But He saw that as intelligences even these agents of His would be susceptible to change, to evolutionary mutation, to evil. And so while giving them purpose and almost infinite mobility, He restricted their knowledge, clouded their memories of prior existences, allowed only instinct to guide them: the instinct to work for the good of The All.
“As to their forms at the end of days: they would be many, but some of the chosen would become as myriad golden darts! And now you see why I am so excited; the magic that I feel, and the wonder. For you have just such a dart, Scott!”
And so do I, said the third member of their Three Unit as he padded silently into the room. But why are you up and about? It’s still night, still dark outside. My time more than yours.
“We’re talking,” Scott told him as Wolf lay down on a rug under his desk. “There are things we had to talk about. You can listen in if you wish.”
“And,” said Shania, “if you feel you have something to add to what we’re talking about, by all means tell us.”
Scott glanced at her questioningly.
“He has a dart!” she said. “Haven’t you been listening?”
“What?” said Scott. “To myths and legends? Okay, now listen to me. My people—my world’s peoples—have many of their own theologies. And they’re all different! They all have divine visitations, magical resurrections, incredible revelations. And their various ‘truths’ are all sworn by, and their laws more or less adhered to by their priests and advocates alike, according to whichever religion they espouse. But, Shania, they can’t each and every one be right! And logically if most or maybe even all of them are wrong, how am I to put my faith in your theology? I don’t have that much faith anyway, and you’re not even of—”
“Of your world?” Shania shook her head, in seeming disappointment. “Sometimes I feel you argue like the Mordri Three, or perhaps for the sake of it, or because you always demand proof. Scott, I hate to hurt your feelings, but you think on too small a scale. The Mordris have argued: if there was just one supreme being, one creator, The One, then how is it that every intelligent, theologically inclined race—be it of an animal, insect, fungus, or whatever other variety or species—how is it that all of them, on all the worlds which they inhabit, insist that they alone were created in His image? That is one of the principal reasons why the Mordri Three cannot accept a Universal One—or any deity, for that matter. But universal? Even that gives a false impression, for He was multiversal!”
Scott threw up his hands. “But we’re arguing about a dream, for Christ’s sake!”
At which, reminding Scott of something that Harry had said in that very dream, “Not at all unlikely,” said Shania. “Or for Someone’s sake, most certainly! That was your theology speaking, Scott, which I’m sure is as good as anyone else’s. But the fantastic things your strange visitant told you, and the things he did: why, they were simply inspirational! Surely powers such as that could only be . . . yes, God-given!”
“It was a dream,” Scott said again, almost as a last ditch protest. “Well, more than just any ordinary dream—I’ll grant you that—but I was here in bed with you. I wasn’t in a graveyard, wasn’t in this . . . this ‘Möbius Continuum’ thing, whatever that’s supposed to be. And I definitely wasn’t shooting forward and backward in time. I was here, asleep in bed with you!” But:
Not all of the time, said Wolf, with his head up, his ears erect, his brown eyes going from one to the other of the two. I felt a strange thing was happening—something in my own dreams told me it was happening—and I listened for you two. You were there, yes, in your den; my nose is good and I could smell you, the scent of your warm bodies. But your thoughts were somewhere else. I was worried; perhaps I even whined a little. But when I listened your hearts were beating and your bed made noises when you moved. I might have tried to follow your thoughts, wherever they had gone; but when I looked I saw only a vast nothingness, and whatever it was I didn’t much care to explore it. While I’m not some cowardly, skittering dog with my tail between my legs, neither am I a fool! And so I went back to sleep, which seemed to me a very sensible thing to do. When next I woke up I heard your movements down here, and now—having come down to ensure that all is in order—I’m very happy to inform you that your thoughts are back where they should be . . .
Shania stared at Wolf in astonishment, then offered Scott a different, more challenging expression.
“Well?” said Scott. “What? Some sort of out-of-body experience? Is that what you’re thinking?”
She nodded. “That’s how I would explain it, yes. Its purpose was to remove all the mystery—to show you why you are as you are—to fill in the remaining gaps in your knowledge, and to tell you that your purpose has been approved and you’ve been granted the powers to achieve it. And that’s why I find it magical and wonderful, and why I now dare to hope. Scott, we have higher powers on our side!”
Scott believed her, sensed that she was right; at least he knew that she believed. And yet he still felt weighed down with seemi
ngly unanswerable questions. “Higher powers?” he said. “On our side? Then why haven’t they taken care of this themselves?”
That was something Shania couldn’t answer, but she must at least try or Scott’s partial acceptance might quickly evaporate. “Perhaps they’re incapable of intervention. For as I’ve already tried to explain, The One ordained that his agents—in particular whatever remained of them, their residua—would never be capable of performing harmful acts, not even against the direst of evils. But while they themselves may not participate, it now seems obvious that they can enhance, guide, and influence their flesh-and-blood hosts. And as we’ve seen, for the time being at least you are just such a host. Yes, and Wolf, too!”
Scott shook his head, sighed, chewed his lip; but while he remained undecided about certain things, there were others that he couldn’t deny. His, or his Three’s telepathy; Shania and her Khiff; Kelly’s death, and the fact that Simon Salcombe had murdered her; the sure knowledge that someone or thing had entered into him . . . if not for the reasons that Shania had given, then why? But of course there were other questions, such as:
“You say that in the legend The One gave his agents almost infinite mobility,” said Scott. “In what form? The Möbius Continuum? And what of you with your . . . your localizer? What of the Shing’t as a whole? Doesn’t that make you—your entire race or what’s left of it—doesn’t it make you The One’s agents, too?”
Shania shook her head. “The localizers are tools; they’re machines, products of advanced technology, the physical science that the Mordri Three avow is the closest thing to Godhead. But the Möbius Continuum—what I saw of it—that is of the mind, Scott. It’s meta-physical.”
Scott nodded. “Metaphysical, yes. Paranormal: beyond logic and science and explanation, something from outside.”
“Or from deep within.” She nodded.
And finally he said, “If I’m to accept metaphysical—if I can believe in that, which it seems I must—then I must also believe in this other . . . thing, this deadspeak, and accept that it’s real, too. And thinking back on it, it was so utterly real! I did believe—I do believe—that I spoke to my father, and to Kelly. And in that case you’re absolutely right, Shania, and it is a very wonderful thing. But it’s also terrifying!”
“Oh, yes,” she answered, hugging closer yet to him, so that her shivering shook him also. “I know. And, Scott, given all the technology of the Shing’t—with all of their entirely natural telepathic skills—no member of my race ever conceived or devised a means of communication with the dead! They might be able to induce a travesty of mindless, soulless life into dead flesh—though that in itself was an immemorially forbidden, heinous crime—but no one had ever spoken to souls who had passed on. And so I ask myself this: if you can cause the dead to speak to you, if they love you as their sole living contact with a world they’ve left behind and will do almost anything for you—”
“—Then what else can I ask them to do? But what else can they possibly do?”
In answer to which Shania said nothing at all; while under Scott’s desk Wolf whined softly to himself, then curled himself into the tightest possible ball . . .
32
“So then,” said Scott, “let’s take a little time out and try to summarize all of this. What we believe is that because I have a motive—because I need to avenge my wife’s murder—I’ve been chosen to wreak vengeance on Simon Salcombe and the Mordris?”
“Yes,” said Shania. “You, me, and Wolf. But especially you two, who have become instruments of The One’s residua.”
“Okay,” said Scott. “So you have your motive, and I’ve got mine . . . but Wolf? What’s his motive? Why did he get a dart?”
Shania could only offer a helpless shrug; but Wolf himself came out from under Scott’s desk, sat at their feet, and said:
Do I need a reason? As far as I know I’m only here to care for and protect you. He cocked his head at Scott. And you, too, of course. Now he looked at Shania. You two, you are my One and my Two. And I am Three. We care for each other. My Two, Shania, connected me with my One, who brought me out of my misery to be with him. Now I’m no longer miserable but happy . . . yet I smell danger afar and I sense it coming closer, and so I’m needed. My only desire: to do what was done for me, to save and protect my One and my Two, my master and mistress. In that respect I shall follow in my wolf father’s tracks and be satisfied to do so.
Seeing Wolf’s explanation as being both logical and reasonable, Scott reached out to scratch a lopsided, twitching ear and said, “Did we miss one? A flea, I mean?”
That seems likely. Wolf whined, sat back, and scratched at the same spot with a hind paw. Several, I think. Perhaps we can get them later?
“And as for this master and mistress thing,” Scott continued, “do we have to do that? I mean, it’s not as if you’re some kind of ordinary, er, wolf, now is it? So why don’t we just say we’re friends?”
As you wish, said Wolf. But still you’re my One.
Meanwhile, not at all satisfied with Wolf’s explanation—far from it—Shania had remained thoughtfully silent. But now she said, “No, Wolf’s reasoning isn’t wholly acceptable. He has a dart! And there has to be a real reason.”
Scott shrugged. “To make him a regular member of our Three Unit, maybe?”
“No.” She shook her head. “He’s already a regular member—as much as any of us—and I repeat: he has a dart. That can’t be taken lightly, Scott. And even though we don’t yet know what it is there must be something more, over and above his enhanced telepathy. That dart has given him real powers, be sure of it!”
Perhaps there is another reason, said Wolf, done with his scratching. It could be in my blood.
Shania stared hard at him and said, “Please explain.”
My father, said the other, was a wolf of the wild on Starside. So he told me when we spoke of this and that: of his life with men and wolves in far places, and of evil beings that came raiding in the night and lived on the blood of men and the good brave hearts of wolves. And he said that certain wolves of this far world were reared by men—they grew up and lived with men, and were their . . . their—
“Watchdogs?” said Scott.
A term I dislike! said Wolf. Watch-wolves is far more acceptable. Anyway, my father was gifted and could hear both dogs, wolves, and even certain men thinking. Zek—a woman from your world, whom you have met—was especially talented; she became my father’s One; she could speak to him on his own terms as you speak to me! And they fought vampires together: Zek, my father, and a man called Harry who was . . . strange! He talked to people who were no more, passed on, and he called them up out of their places in the earth to fight alongside him. All of these things my father told me.
So then, my father’s blood—and his father’s, and all of their forefathers’ blood—it is in me. And as they fought evil so shall I. It is my lot. Perhaps this is why I got my dart . . .
Wide-eyed, Scott and Shania stared at Wolf, looked at each other, felt the utter weirdness of it all. At Wolf’s mention of that name, “Harry,” and when he’d spoken of what the Necroscope could do, their own blood had run cold. But if not a motive, at least there was a strong connection, and if the significance of Wolf’s dart remained obscure, still it must surely exist.
Shania took Scott’s face in her hands, kissed his brow, and said, “Any further doubts? Any more questions?”
“A million,” he answered, “of both! But let it go. We have work to do and I’m damned if I know where to begin. Perhaps the only question that really matters right now is how much time we have? Is there any way to know?”
“Oh, yes,” she answered. “There’s a way to find out. But it could be very dangerous.”
“Then tell me about it,” he said. “For as long as Salcombe and his friends are alive I’m going to burn inside. Flames like that can consume a man, Shania, and for me there’s only one way to douse them . . .”
Two days later in
the Swiss Alps, in the high hollow crag known as Schloss Zonigen, the Mordris were once again together in the great workshop cavern where they had assembled their workforce. A certain uneven area of the floor had been cleared of all useful materials, and a protective screen of stanchions and carbon steel mesh had been erected between the huge cannon-like device and the cleared area.
Standing tall, slender as wands on the central stone dais, the Mordri Three faced outward; and more alien than ever, they no longer paid too much attention to their human disguises, nor even to correcting or controlling the occasionally erratic flux of their protean forms. And not a man or more rarely a woman of their human slaves harboured the slightest doubt about the Mordris’ exotic origins, for it was now perfectly obvious to every one of them that they were not of this Earth. Well aware of the fact, the Mordris felt no concern; indeed, they now intended to “explain” almost everything to these captive souls, in order to give them renewed hope—however false—and so impel them to greater effort.
And there they stood on the central dais, their eyes scanning left and right, occasionally pausing to admire their hideous handiwork on the face or form of this or that member of the crowd, as armed guards and trustees trooped the last handful of workers into the great cavern.
Finally silence fell, and Mordri One, formerly “Frau Gerda Lessing,” turned her eyes upward to that area of the high domed ceiling that was pierced through by shafts of exterior daylight. The scaffolding was empty of workmen now, and electrical cables snaked down from the roof to one side of the floor, where hard-hatted trustees stood by with handheld detonating devices. The scene was set . . . at least for this part of the act. Nodding her satisfaction, Mordri One returned her gaze to her audience, and at last spoke:
“Now listen to me,” she commanded, her clipped tones echoing in the cavern’s natural acoustics. “Listen, and perhaps you may understand me. You know, of course, that we are not of your primitive race, nor of this primitive planet. For some time now we have made little effort to hide this fact from you. Why not? Because knowing it will make it that much easier for you to believe what I’m now telling you. Also, you will see why you have laboured here, to what end, and will understand that the harder you work the sooner you will be set free and all put to rights. For there can be no doubt but that we have the ability to order all that we have made chaotic.”