by Brian Lumley
‘A complaint?’ The other’s jaw dropped.
‘Of course, fool! No, no, not about you, but my driver and this bloody conference official, this Mr, er—’
‘Smith?’
‘Indeed, yes!’
‘Both the driver and the official were Smiths?’ ‘Eh? Yes, I know that, you idiot! Please try not to inform me of what I already know. But, damn! You’d think that at least one of them would know the way to the hotel, wouldn’t you…?’
By the time the precog lan Goodly picked up the locator David Chung from Brisbane’s international airport, Trask was in bed asleep. But he had left a message not to be disturbed, with a note that said:
David, welcome—
But I’m afraid you will have to start ‘swarming’ in the morning. Right now we’re all badly in need of a few hours’ sleep. I imagine it must be pretty much the same for you, what with jetlag and all.
lan: make sure the D.O. knows to wake me if anything important comes in during the night. Other than that, give me a shake when the sun’s up and there’s a pot of coffee on the go. Thanks…
Jake Cutter had had his fill of sleep en route; so he thought. He sat up downstairs and played a quiet game of poker with the Warrant Officer commanders of the military contingent from the second jetcopter. By three in the morning, however, they were all yawning; then, deciding to call it a night (or a new day), each of them went off to his cramped sleeping quarters.
Jake didn’t know it, but on the other side of his bunk’s thin plasterboard panelling Liz Merrick had taken the cubicle next to his. Acting on Trask’s instructions, she was intent on getting into his mind and following his progress through whatever esoteric activities might take place in his — and whoever else’s — head or heads. Still not keen on what she was doing, Liz had nevertheless come to realize its importance.
Frustrated when Jake stayed up, she had tried to wait him out and failed. But as finally he went to his bunk, and tossed and turned a while before settling down, she was disturbed and came awake. Following which it became a matter of establishing telepathic rapport. As Jake grew still and his breathing deepened, so Liz concentrated on strengthening her now instinctive connection with his subconscious mind, inviting his ‘detached’ thoughts to mingle with her own.
Then for a while there was nothing, just a vague uneasiness of psyche as Jake’s shields relaxed and his thoughts automatically sought to rearrange themselves into typical dream patterns, or perhaps into something else. And before too long Liz found herself nodding again…
… Until she came starting awake to an unnatural psychic stillness or pent awareness which had its origin in Jake. Next door, he was motionless and physically asleep; but psychically his mind was something else. It, too, was still — breathlessly still — like a cat watching a mouse emerge nervously from its hole; or more probably (Liz decided), like someone in an empty house, suddenly aware of an unusual sound in the night.
He was listening to something — but so intently! — and for a moment Liz thought he had detected her presence. But no, while Jake’s attention was definitely rapt upon a subconscious something, it wasn’t focussed on Liz at all. On what, then?
And so for an hour Liz ‘listened’ to Jake as attentively as he was listening to some sensed but unheard other or others, but with little or no result. On occasion he would come alive and ask, ‘Who are you?’ Or he would say: ‘I know you are there — I hear you whispering — so why not talk to me instead of about me?’
But even though Liz was given to understand something of this, she sensed rather than ‘heard’ what he said, because (a) Jake wasn’t speaking to her directly, and (b) his recently discovered shields, while they weren’t fully engaged, were neverthless shrouding his thoughts.
Until unable to bear the not-knowing any longer, she tried to break in on him and ask, ‘Who is it, Jake? Do you know them?
What are they talking about?’ At which the doors of Jake’s mind at once slammed shut and she found herself locked out entirely. For a while, at least.
But lying there on her bed, Liz believed she knew who he had been trying to talk to. And that was knowledge that sent a shudder down her spine, so that even in the oppressive heat of this El Nifio night, still she felt cold. And she also knew how he had detected her and shut her out. It was the difference.
For the precog lan Goodly had had it right when he’d said: ‘When you heard Jake speaking, or thinking, that was your telepathy working. You heard him because he’s alive. But the others… they were in a different category, using a different mode.’
Deadspeak, yes. The difference between a live conversation and a dead one…
They were talking — arguing among themselves — about him, Jake Cutter. And Jake knew it. More than that, he knew or suspected who or what they were, which was something he had yet to remember and admit in his waking hours, perhaps because no sane man would ever want to admit such a thing. Well, with the possible exception of a handful of dubious psychic mediums.
The dead in their graves were talking about him, and Jake could hear them like the buzzing of bees in a clover field, or more properly the rustle of dry leaves on a wintry garden path. For bees and flowering clover are redolent of burgeoning life, while the rustle of fallen leaves… isn’t.
All of the voices belonged to strangers; he didn’t know — or hadn’t known — a single one of them. And while it was quite obvious that they heard him, no one bothered to answer Jake on the few occasions when he felt galvanized to break in on their conversation; but his brief bursts of eager questioning invariably found long-drawn-out silences following in their wake.
And the worst of it was that these voices seemed afraid to talk out loud: they whispered, so that he found it difficult to follow what they were saying. But they seemed to be arguing the pros and cons, Jake’s merits against his drawbacks, to what end he couldn’t rightly say.
We don’t — we daren’t — let them in among us! one of the voices said quite clearly. While another mumbled:
But he isn’t one of them. See, his light hums like a lantern in the dark, and we feel its warmth. Only the Necroscope — only Harry Keogh and his sons were ever like this — beacons in our everlasting night, or places to warm ourselves in the presence of the living; our only contact with the world and all the loved ones we left hehind.
And another voice said, But in the end even the Necroscope succumbed. Is that what you would have us doP Befriend this one and give him access to the deadPAndifhe, too, were seduced — what then? A vampire in our midst, and. one who knows our every thought and secret? But the difference between a Necroscope and a necromancer… 15 vast.
Andmonstrous! said yet another, whose voice shuddered. We can’t risk giving such a gift to anyone who would misuse it.
But he already has the gift! said the voice, or its owner, who spoke in Jake’s defence. And given to him by Harry himself, if we can believe what she has said.
Ah, but she’s not long cold. Naive in the ways of the long night, what can she know?
She knew Harry,
And what good did that do herp Like so many others before her, and like Harry himself, she too became a victim. No, she’s no guarantee. And as for Harry: don’t speak of him. The teeming dead know all about him.
But Harry never harmed us! He was our friend and champion, right to… to the end. But here the defending voice grew very quiet and uncertain.
And what an end, said another small voice, when the Necroscope must Jlee his own world in order to keep faith!
She was the last of the living who Harry spoke to, the one who was unafraid came back. She says he made promises — and he kept them.
True, said another, more doleful voice. But Harry isolated himself for the sake of the living, not for the dead.
I say we should trust the woman, the other insisted.
No, said the doleful one. For in the end she brought down a DOOM upon herself. Why, she was fortunate that she only died! And now— if we
trust this one on her word — perhaps she will bring a DOOM on all of us.
At which point:
‘Zek?’ Jake tried again to cut in. ‘Is it Zek you’re talking about? Zek Foener?’
And again a long, cold silence. Until out of nowhere:
I presented your case, Jake, and now we must let them talk it through. (Zek’s voice, which he recognized at once.)
‘Talk what through? I’m not with you.’
If the Great Majority, the teeming dead, decide that they don’t want you to have or to use deadspeak, Zek explained, then you can talk all you like and they won’t listen. They’ll simply ignore you. Oh, they’re drawn to you — we’re all drawn to your warmth, Jake — but at the same time they’re afraid of you. They were afraid of Nathan, too, once upon a time, but Nathan proved himself, showed them they were mistaken. If he was here now… well, he could far better plead your case than I can.
‘And what about Harry?’ Jake said. ‘Where is he? Couldn’t the Necroscope, er, “plead my case” — whatever that’s supposed to mean — even better?’
Nof any longer, Zek answered.
‘He did something to upset them?’
Something… happened to him, she answered carefully.
‘So/ Jake tried to reason it out, ‘Harry is dead, but the Great Majority won’t have any truck with him. Yet you get along okay with him, and that thing in the sump was positively clinging to him. All very weird.’
IfE-Branch, or Harry himself, had wanted you to know certain things, then I’m sure they would have told you, said Zek.
But Jake was still puzzling it out. ‘Trask, lan Goodly and Lardis — yes, and Liz, too — they’ve all had a go at hinting at something without being specific. They seem concerned that once I know the whole thing, or when I can see the big picture, then I’ll run from it. But surely it would have to be something terrible to scare the Great Majority, who have absolutely nothing to lose! Yet even the dead won’t spit it out up front. They speak in whispers, as if afraid to even talk about it. Not only that but Harry Keogh, a once-powerful metaphysical mind, is now an outcast among his own kind. So what in hell did he do…?’
Jake sensed that he must be close now. But so did Zek, who was anxious to divert him. And:
Jake, she cut in, you’ll have an explanation. All of this will be explained eventually — or you’ll work it out for yourself— but for now let it go, and let the teeming dead deliberate. The wisdom of the ages is down in the earth, Jake. I can’t see that they’ll make a mistake on your account, know they’ll let you in… eventually.p>
‘Huh!’ he snorted. ‘In a way they’re just like Trask; even like you, Zek! Everyone seems to think I should want to be “in” — that I should consider it a privilege — but all of these E-Branch types will tell you their talents are a curse. So why is it different for me? Why should I accept a curse? And just what sort of a curse is it, anyway? I mean, that is what this is all about, isn’t it? The stuff that Trask isn’t telling me? The bottom line? The downside?’
Then for a while there was silence in the psychic aether, until Zek said, I can’t ask you to trust me, can’t promise you anything, for the dangers are enormous. But one thing is certain: you can be the new Necroscope. You are the Necroscope, if only you’ll accept it.
‘I would accept it,’ he told her then. ‘I have accepted it in a way. For how can I deny what is? But if there’s a short cut to my — well, to my being — then why can’t I take it now? And as for the drawbacks… surely it’s my right to know what they are? I mean, what’s the big mystery?’
Jake, Zek answered, Harry Keogh was born with his skills, or with some of them at least, but you’ve had them thrust upon you. What came naturally to Harry is coming unnaturally to you. But some things are so unnatural— and the very possibility of others is so frightening — as to make deadspeak and the Mobius Continuum seem mundane by comparison.
‘Now, if that was intended to give me confidence—’ Jake started to say, only to be cut off as Zek broke in:
Personally, you wouldn’t have been my choice. (He sensed the sad, reluctant shake of an incorporeal head.) But you were Harry Keogh’s choice, which has to be good enough, for he must have had good reasons. And now there are others I have to talk to, others to convince — on your behalf, yes — on the far side of the world. Before I go, however, it seems only fair to tell you: you’re not making it easy, Jake…
‘That seems to be one of my big problems—’ he started to say, then realized that she was gone.
But I am here, Jake, always, said another voice, phlegmy, lustful and darkly sinister, close and even too close to hand. The voice of Korath Mindsthrall, fading to a distant, bubbling chuckle.
And in a little while, coming to Jake as if from far, far away, the whispering of the teeming dead started up again. But it was now more fearful than ever…
Morning found Jake in an introspective mood. But before he was up and about Liz took the opportunity to have a word in private with Trask about her experience of the previous night.
They were out in the grounds, walking under the high wall, breathing easy while still the sun hung low in the east. It was early, and the dawn chorus of various parrot species was clattering in the still air. Another hour or two, the air would be dry and ‘subtropical’ Brisbane baking in furnace heat.
Trask heard Liz out, was silent a while, thinking it over. Then he asked her: ‘He was definitely using deadspeak?’
‘I don’t think so… but does it matter? I mean, the way I understand it, as a Necroscope — or the Necroscope — his very thoughts are deadspeak. Unless he’s shielding his thoughts, the dead will hear him thinking. And they will always know where he is. It’s like an extra sense, their only sense. They can’t see, hear, feel, taste or smell, but they’ll know when he’s near.’
Trask shook his head defeatedly. ‘I probably know as much about deadspeak as anyone else,’ he sighed. ‘Indeed, more than anyone else. But I still don’t know about it. I talk about it, yes — I know it exists — but sometimes it’s hard to believe in it. So don’t ask me about it, because I don’t know. Hell, Liz! You’re the telepath!’
‘It was deadspeak,’ she said. ‘Or at least, he was listening to deadspeak. Listening to — my God! — to dead people, conversing in their graves. And they were talking about him. That was all I got: the fact that he could hear them and was trying to join in their conversation, but they wouldn’t let him.’
‘Huh!’ Trask grunted. ‘Who can blame them? Neither would I “let him in” if I could help it. His bloody attitude…’
‘But to mature, to be the Necroscope, he has to be able to talk to them, right?’
‘That’s part of it, yes. Well, let’s just hope it comes to him, as everything else will have to come to him — the good and the bad. And meanwhile you keep an eye, or an ear, on him.’
‘You’re still hot sure of Jake, are you?’ Liz said.
Trask shrugged. ‘I’m not sure he’s sure of us! And despite what he has said, I know he still has his own agenda. Anyway, I spoke to Premier Turchin about that, and I’m hoping he can come up with some answers. If we can just find a way to lay that one ghost — kill off the one thing that’s burning a hole in Jake’s brain, this revenge thing, this course he’s set on — maybe it will leave him with an open mind.’
‘You mean with Castellano out of the way, Jake would more easily be able to concentrate on the job in hand?’
‘Right. So Turchin will try to dig some dirt on this fellow, see if he can get something solid on him. If we could lock him away it would be a start. But lan doesn’t think that would be enough, not for Jake. And the hell of it is I understand: I know how Jake feels. Think yourself lucky, Liz, that you don’t know the kind of hatred we’re all capable of. What if I should tell you that I would gladly give my right arm at the shoulder just to see Nephran Malinari writhing, burning on a cross, and to revel in the stink of his smoke? Well, now I’m telling you. And I mean it.’
‘And Jake’s no different,’ she said, with a small shiver.
‘Neither was the Necroscope Harry Keogh,’ Trask told her.
‘And neither am I. Few men are, when the crime and the pain it brings are nasty enough. An eye for an eye, Liz.’
‘But in fact, Jake hardly knew that girl.’
‘He knows that she was raped and tormented and died horribly, because of him. He knows it was fixed so that he’d take the blame, and that Castellano tried to have him killed in the jail in Turin. That’s enough. It would be enough for me, too.’
‘Yet you’re still hard on him. You think hard on him.’
But the other shook his head. ‘He’s hard on himself. Anyway, let it go now. And let’s hope Turchin comes up with something.’
Hearing footsteps on the gravel drive, they look’ed toward the house.
It was the precog, lan Goodly. He came in his accustomed, long-legged lope — with a long face, too — for all the world a cadaverous mortician. ‘Fresh coffee’s on the go,’ he said in his piping fashion. And: ‘Did I hear someone mention Turchin?’
‘What about him?’ said Trask.
‘It was on the early news,’ the precog answered. ‘He’ll be attending a couple of conference sessions this morning, but tonight or tomorrow he’s out of here and back to Moscow.’
‘What?’ Trask frowned. ‘Moscow is the last place he’d want to be right now. What happened?’
‘A fist fight, apparently,’ Goodly answered. ‘In Turchin’s hotel bar last night. An Australian delegate got drunk, accused the Premier point-blank of lying about Russia’s soft ecological policy, went on to call him a puppet mouthpiece for his industrial and military masters back home.’
‘Which right now is true as far as it goes,’ Trask nodded. ‘Mainly because he has no other choice. So what else?’
‘Turchin got a drink thrown in his face before his minders stepped in and started throwing their weight around. The upshot is that he’ll speak today — state Russia’s case, protest about his treatment and what have you — and take the first plane out tomorrow. Tonight, if he can get one.’