Necroscope V: Deadspawn n-5

by Brian Lumley

  ‘What?!’

  ‘According to the boy — ‘ Shaitan had nodded ‘ — The Dweller’s father eats only beast flesh. Compared to your vampire, my son, it seems his is a puling, unsophisticated infant of a thing.’

  ‘And the so-called “Lady” Karen?’

  ‘Ah, yes.’ Shaitan had nodded. ‘The Lady Karen: last of Starside’s Wamphyri. You have designs on that one, don’t you? I remember you remarked on her treachery, and even now her name falls like acid from your forked tongue. Well, Karen and Harry Keogh are together. So at least he’s that much of a man. They share her aerie. If she’s the beauty you say she is, doubtless he’s in her to the hilt and beyond even as we speak.’

  It was a deliberate jibe and Shaithis knew it, but still he could not resist rising to the other’s bait. ‘Then they should enjoy each other while they can,’ he had answered, darkly. And finally he had looked around for the Traveller child.

  ‘Gone,’ Shaitan told him. ‘Man-flesh, pure and simple. I’ve had my share of metamorphic mush these thousands of years. The boy was a tidbit, but welcome for all that.’

  ‘The entire child?’

  ‘In Sunside there are entire tribes,’ Shaitan had answered, his voice a clotted gurgle. ‘And beyond that entire worlds!’

  With which they’d commenced to ready themselves for their resurgence…

  Now Shaithis waited on the emergence of his latest warrior-creature, and his ancestor Shaitan the Fallen waited with him. When the beast’s scales, grapples and various fighting appendages had stiffened into chitin hard as iron, a matter of hours now, finally it would be time to venture forth against Starside.

  As for any future ‘battle’: would it even last long enough to qualify as such? Shaithis doubted it. For he firmly believed that on his own — single-handedly controlling a mere fistful of warriors from the back of a flyer, and without his ancestor’s help — still he would have the measure of Karen and her lover, and whatever allies they might muster. And therefore the measure of Starside, too.

  What, a mere female? A pack of wolves? And a vampire ‘Lord’ who shied from man-blood? No army that — but a rabble! Let Keogh call up the dead if he would; fine for scaring trogs and Travellers, but Shaithis had no fear of the crumbling dead. And as for that other facet of Keogh’s magic — that clever trick of his, of coming and going at will, invisibly — that wouldn’t help him. Not this time. If he went, good riddance! And if he came let it be to his death!

  But on the other hand…

  Shaithis could scarcely deny his own troublesome dreams, whose patterns were strange as the auroral energies which even now wove in the sky high overhead. Perhaps he should examine those dreams yet again, as so often before, except -

  — No time, not now; for he felt a familiar encroachment and knew that Shaitan was near, in mind if not in body. And: What is it? he inquired.

  How clever you are, the other purred telepathically. And oh so sensitive! There’s no sneaking up on you, my son.

  Then why do you persist in trying? Shaithis was cold.

  Shaitan ignored his testiness and said: You should come now. Our creatures are mewling in their vats and would be up and about. They must be tested. We have things to do, preparations to make.

  Indeed, it was true enough. And: I shall be there immediately, Shaithis answered, commencing the treacherous climb down from the cone. Yes, for his ancestor wasn’t alone in his eagerness to be free of this place. Except there’s freedom and there’s freedom, and the concept is never the same to any two creatures.

  Shaitan would merely free himself from the Icelands, while his descendant… he had something else to be free of.

  Some little time earlier, and several thousands of miles to the south: the Necroscope had been out to inspect Karen’s advance guard, her early-warning system of specialized warrior-creatures (or rogue troops, as they seemed to have become) where she’d stationed them at the rim of the frozen sea against any incursion from the Icelands. He had gone there via the Möbius Continuum, in a series of hundred-mile jumps which had taken him far across consecutive northern horizons into aurora-lit wastes where the snow lay in great white drifts on the shores of a sullenly heaving, ice-crusted ocean.

  Karen’s creatures had been there sure enough, and Harry was soon to discover how well they’d adapted. Metamorphic, a single generation had sufficed to accelerate their evolution: they’d grown thick white fur both for protection against the cold and as a natural camouflage. When Harry had thought to detect some slight movement in a humped snowfall, and after he’d carefully moved a little closer, then he’d seen just how effective the latter device was. His first real awareness of the beasts had been when three of them reared up and charged him: in combination, a quarter-acre of murder running rampant!

  Then, removing himself some small distance, he’d thought: I’d be little more than a minnow to be divided between three great cats. They’d get no more than a taste apiece.

  But note their instinctive tendency to secrecy, Karen had commented from her aerie some two thousand miles south. Their minds may be feeble, but still they were able to hide their thoughts, and thus themselves, away from you. What’s more, you are Wamphyri — a Lord, a master — but that didn’t stop them either!

  The Necroscope had detected a degree of pride in Karen’s thoughts; these were her creations, and she’d made a good job of them. Alas, but then she’d allowed them to slip the leash. Still focusing on him, she had detected that thought, too.

  The distance was too great, she’d shrugged. I see that now. Telepathy is a special talent which we share. Our mainly human minds are large, and we focus them well, wherefore contact between us is simple. But their minds are small and mainly concerned with survival. Again her shrug. Quite simply, they’ve forgotten me.

  Time they remembered, then, Harry had answered. And as she amplified and reinforced her original orders and instructions, so he’d relayed them directly and forcefully into the group’s dull minds. Following which, and when he went among them a second time, they’d behaved with more respect.

  Brave of you! she’d commented, however nervously. To examine them at such close quarters. And perhaps a little foolish, too. Come out of there, Harry, please? Come home now?

  Home… Did she mean back to the aerie, he wondered? And was that really his home now? Perhaps it was in keeping: that monstrous menhir rising over Starside’s boulder plains, whose furnishings were fashioned from the hair and fur, gristle and bones of once-men and — monsters. What better home for a man whose lifelong friend had been the Grim Reaper himself?

  Bitter thoughts. But on the other hand it had seemed to Harry that Karen pleaded with him, and that she was concerned for him. And any home was better than none.

  Anyway, his job was finished here now and he was cold. But he knew that Karen would warm him…

  A universe away, in the Urals: Major Alexei Byzarnov was present in the Perchorsk core for the latest computer-simulated test firing of the Tokarevs. His 2 I/C, Captain Igor Klepko, was in charge of the test. Klepko was short, sharp-featured, with the dark eyes and weather-worn complexion of his steppemen ancestors. Throughout his preparations, the officer had kept up a running commentary for the benefit of the half-dozen junior officers in attendance. Also in attendance and keeping a close eye on the proceedings from where he stood apart on the perimeter walkway under the inward-curving arch of the granite wall, Projekt Direktor Viktor Luchov was quietly intense, totally absorbed in Klepko’s instructive monologue as it approached its climax.

  Two missiles, yes,’ Klepko continued. ‘A dual system. In the field their launching would constitute either a preemptive strike in a hitherto non-nuclear battle zone, or retaliation against an enemy’s use of similar weapons. The first Tokarev would seek out Enemy HQ somewhere beyond the forward edge of the battle area, and the second would home in on heavy enemy troop concentration in the battle zone.

  Tor our purposes, however, here in Perchorsk — ‘ Klepko shrugged.
‘While our targets are somewhat more specific, they remain paradoxically conjectural. We aim to detonate the first missile in a world beyond this, er, Gate,’ (with a cursory wave of his hand, he indicated the glaring white sphere behind him), ‘and the second Tokarev while it is still inside the “passage” between universes. The mechanics of the thing are very simple. On-board computers are linked by radio; as the first Tokarev clears the Gate into the far world, contact will be broken; one-fifth of a second later both devices will detonate.’

  Captain Klepko sighed and nodded. ‘As for the purpose of this system: if and when used, it will be entirely defensive. You’ve all been shown films of creatures from the other side breaking through into this world. I’m sure I don’t have to stress how important it is that, in future, no further emergence be allowed.

  ‘Lastly, and before the simulation, there remain the questions of command and personal security.

  ‘Command: these weapons will only be used on the instructions of the Projekt Direktor, as qualified by the Officer Commanding, Major Byzarnov or, in the unlikely event of his absence, by me. Except under circumstances where a chain-of-command situation has been initiated, no other person will have that authority.

  ‘Personal security: from the moment the button is pressed the warheads are armed; there will be a delay of five minutes before firing; anyone who remains in Perchorsk at that time will be alerted by continuous klaxons. The klaxons have only one meaning: GET OUT! Exhaust from the Tokarevs is toxic. As a safety measure against the unlikely failure of the Projekt’s ventilation systems, any stragglers will need to employ breathing apparatus until they’ve exited the complex. It takes about four minutes for a fit man to make it out of here from the core into the ravine.

  These Tokarevs are weapons; their use will not be experimental but for effect; there is no failsafe. After firing, the system cannot be aborted and we cannot rely on more than sixty seconds before detonation. Which makes a total of six minutes after initiation. The explosion of the device on the far side should have no effect here, but the one in the passage… may be different. It could be that the sheer power of the detonation will drive radioactive gases and debris back through into Perchorsk. Hopefully all such poisons will be contained down here in the vicinity of the core, by which time the place will have been vacated and the exits sealed.’

  Klepko straightened up and put his hands on his hips. ‘Any questions?’ There were none.

  ‘Simulation is computerized.’ He relaxed, scratching his nose and offering an apologetic shrug. ‘Bit of a letdown, I’m afraid, if you were expecting a fireworks show. Instead it will all happen on the small screen there in black and white, silent and with subtitles. And no special effects!’

  His audience laughed.

  ‘Mainly — !’ Klepko held up a warning hand to silence them,’ — this is to let you see how short a span six minutes really is.’ And he pressed a red button on a box seated in front of him on top of his lectern.

  Major Byzarnov had seen the simulation before. He wasn’t especially interested in that, but he was interested in the expression on Viktor Luchov’s face. One of rapt fascination. Byzarnov took two paces backwards onto the perimeter walkway, edged up quietly on the gaunt scientist and coughed quietly in the back of his throat.

  Luchov turned his head to stare at the Major. ‘You still think this is some kind of game, don’t you?’ he accused.

  ‘No,’ Byzarnov answered, ‘and I never did.’

  ‘I note that any order I might give on the use of these weapons is to be “qualified” by you or your 2 I/C. Do you suspect I might order their use frivolously, then?’

  ‘Not at all.’ The Major shook his head, only too well aware of several close-typed, folded sheets of paper where they bulked out his pocket: Luchov’s current psychological profile as supplied by the Projekt’s psychiatrist. And to himself: Insanely, yes, but not frivolously.

  Luchov’s eyes were suddenly vacant. ‘I sometimes feel that I’m being punished,’ he said.

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Yes, for my part in all of this. I mean, I helped build the original Perchorsk. In those days Franz Ayvaz was the Direktor, but he died in the accident and so paid for his part in it. Since when the responsibility has been mine.’

  ‘A heavy enough load for any man.’ Byzarnov nodded, moved apart a little, and decided to change the subject. ‘I saw you come up from below, before Klepko started on his demonstration. You were… down in the abandoned magmass levels?’

  Luchov shuddered, and whispered: ‘God, what a mess things are in, down there! So many of them were trapped, sealed in. I opened a cyst. The thing inside it was like… it was an alien mummy. Not rotten or liquid this time, just a grotesque mass of inverted, half-fossilized flesh. Several major organs were visible on the outside, along with a good many curious — I don’t know, appendages? — of rubber, plastic, stone and… and… and et cetera.’

  Byzarnov felt sorry for him. Luchov had been here too long. But not for much longer, not if Moscow would act quickly on the Major’s recommendation. ‘It is terrible down there, Viktor,’ he agreed. ‘And it might be best if you kept out of it.’

  Viktor? And Byzarnov’s tone of voice: what, pity? Luchov glanced at him, glared at him, abruptly turned away. And over his shoulder, stridently: ‘So long as I am Projekt Direktor, Major, I’ll come and go as I will!’ And then he made away.

  Byzarnov approached Klepko. By now the twin dart shapes moving jerkily across the computer screen had popped into oblivion; the simulation was over; Klepko was finishing off: ‘… will still be filled with toxic exhaust fumes and could well be highly radioactive! But of course we shall all be well out of it.’ The Major waited until Klepko had given the dismiss then took him to one side and talked to him briefly, urgently.

  About Luchov.

  The Necroscope dreamed.

  He dreamed of a boy called Harry Keogh who talked to dead people and was their friend, their one light in otherwise universal darkness. He dreamed of the youth’s loves and lives, the minds he’d visited, bodies he’d inhabited, places he had known now, in the past and future, and in two worlds. It was a very weird dream and fantastical — more so because it was true — and for all that the Necroscope dreamed about himself, his own life, still it was as if he dreamed of another.

  Finally he dreamed of his son, a wolf… except this part was real and not just a memory from another world. And his son came to him, tongue lolling, and said: Father, they’re coming!

  Harry came awake on the instant, slid from Karen’s bed, went swift and sinuous to the window embrasure where he drew aside the drapes. He was wary, kept himself well to one side, was ready to snatch back his hand in a moment if that should be necessary. But it wasn’t, for it was sundown. Shadows crept on the mountain divide, usurping the gold from the peaks. Stars at first scarcely visible, came more glowingly alive moment by moment. The darkness was here, and more darkness was coming.

  Karen cried out in her sleep, came awake and jerked bolt upright in the tumbled bed. ‘Harry!’ Her face was ghostly pale — a torn sheet, with a triangle of holes for eyes and mouth — where she gazed all about the room. But then she saw the Necroscope at the window and the holes of her eyes came burning alive. ‘They’re coming!’

  Their scarlet glances met and joined, forming a two-way channel for thoughts which moments ago were sleeping. Harry saw through Karen’s eyes into her mind, but he answered her out loud anyway. ‘I know,’ he said.

  She came off the bed naked and flew to him, buried herself in his arms. ‘But they’re coming!’ she sobbed.

  ‘Yes, and we’ll fight them,’ he growled, his body reacting of its own accord to the feel and smell of her flesh, which was soft, silky, pliable, ripe, musty and wet where his member grew into her.

  She trapped him there with muscles that held him fast, and groaned, ‘Let’s make this the very best one, Harry.’

  ‘Because it might be the last?’

  ‘Just in c
ase,’ she grunted, forming barbs within herself to draw him further in. After that -

  — It was like never before, leaving them too exhausted to be afraid…

  Later, he said: ‘What if we lose?’

  ‘Lose?’ Karen stood beside him; they leaned together and gazed out through a window in a room facing north, towards the Icelands. As yet there was nothing to be seen and they hadn’t expected there would be. But they could feel… something. It radiated from the north like ripples on a lake of pitch: slow, shuddery and black with its evil.

  Harry nodded, slowly. ‘If we lose, they can only kill me,’ he said. And he thought of Johnny Found and the things he had done to his victims. Terrible things. But compared to Shaithis and any other survivors of the old Wamphyri, Johnny Found had been a child, and his imagination sadly lacking.

  Karen knew why the Necroscope closed his mind to her: for her own protection. But it was a wasted effort; she knew the Wamphyri much better than he did; nothing Harry was capable of imagining could ever plumb the true depths of Wamphyri cruelty. That was Karen’s opinion; which was why she promised him, ‘If you die, I die.’

  ‘Oh? And they’ll let you die, will they? So easily?’

  They can’t stop me. On this side of the mountains it is sundown, but beyond Sunside… true death waits there for any vampire. It burns like molten gold in the sky. That’s where I’d flee, far across the mountains into the sun. Let them follow me there if they dared, but I wouldn’t be afraid. I remember when I was a child and the sun felt good on my skin. I’m sure that in the end, before I died, I could make it feel that way again. I would will it to feel good!’

  ‘Morbid.’ Harry stood up straighter, gave himself a shake. ‘All of this, morbid. Keep it up and we’re defeated before we even begin. There must be at least a chance we’ll win. Indeed, there’s more than a chance. Can they disappear at will as we can, like ghosts into the Möbius Continuum?’

  ‘No, but…’

  ‘But?’

  ‘Wherever we go — ‘ she shrugged’ — and however many times we escape, we’ll always have to return. We can’t stay in that place for ever.’ Her logic was unassailable. Before Harry could find words to answer — perhaps to comfort her, or himself — she continued, ‘And Shaithis is a terrible foe. How devious — ‘ she shook her head ‘ — you could scarcely imagine.’