The Doomfarers of Coramonde

by Brian Daley

  “Well, from the look of you men,” said Van Duyn, maintaining his false joviality, “I’d say we plucked you out of that Asian mess.”

  “I’m in no position to know what you mean by plucked, but we were on duty near Phu Loi about half an hour ago, or so it seems to me,” Gil replied. “Now what I want to know is, how were we brought here? And if it was you that did it, I want you to send us back.”

  Van Duyn, with a condescending air that the sergeant found extremely abrasive, continued, “My dear boy, you and your, er, comrades and your armored car have been brought here by a process which I need not explain, even if you had the faculties to absorb it, which you don’t. Events taking place here concern you not in the least but for this one fact: in order to be returned to your former place and time in the scheme of things, you will do one small job for me tomorrow morning. In the evening well send you back to that foolish war. In fact, it will be as if you were never interrupted.”

  The prince and the deCourteneys winced, sensing that Van Duyn was taking the wrong tack altogether. Andre shifted uneasily on his window seat and seemed about to speak.

  But the soldier was on his feet, the stool kicked backward. “You highhanded old bastard,” he said levelly. “If you can send us back, you’re going to do it now, or I swear I’ll grease you right here.” He grabbed a double handful of Van Duyn’s shirt, yanking the older man to his feet. The scholar’s hands darted up to seize the sergeant’s, and work one of those cunning, disabling tricks. The other three there, expecting to see Van Duyn restrain or injure Gil, were startled at what followed. The sergeant avoided the grasping hands with two short, vicious chops, the sides of his hands hacking away his opponent’s wrists. He snapped his fisted left hand, knuckles cocked outward, up into Van Duyn’s face just underneath the nose—but controlled what could as easily have been a death stroke—and drove a stiff-fingered right into the solar plexus, finishing with a hammer blow to the exposed neck as the other went down in a heap.

  The Prince and the deCourteneys were on their feet, and Springbuck swept Bar from its sheath. Stepping forward to separate the soldier from his antagonist, he was unprepared to see Gil jump back, nearly tripping on his overturned stool, and claw the .45 from his belt.

  The two faced each other in frozen tableau, the Prince with the gleaming length of cold edge poised close, near enough for a lethal flourish, and the sergeant with his pistol leveled at Springbuck’s heart. They held their positions so for some seconds, neither truly sure of what the other would prove capable. The son of Surehand recognized the gun as being, like Van Duyn’s, a fearsome weapon. Gil, on the other hand, knew that the gleaming sword was a fraction of a second from his throat. Van Duyn began to wheeze and attempted to sit up.

  “I didn’t hit him as hard as I could have,” Gil said, stepping backward a pace and bringing his back up against the wall. Gabrielle broke the frieze as she rushed to see to Van Duyn. Gil swung the muzzle of his pistol to cover her, but his eyes didn’t leave the Prince.

  “Stay back. He’ll be okay in a minute, but if you give me any grief I’ll have to hurt him and maybe you, too. Someone could get zapped.”

  She hissed at him and the sergeant knew he’d made a deadly enemy. Andre took her hand and restrained her from calling the bluff. Springbuck wavered, uncertain whether to attack or sheathe his blade. Finally, he withdrew a pace or so and lowered his point. Gil relieved Van Duyn of his Browning as the other sat rubbing his neck where the hammer blow had caught him.

  Gil, trying to sound calm, said, “Now you—I told you that I want some answers. It could be you’d mind your manners and chat more if we play this game over at my house.”

  He uncocked the .45 and, without, losing track of what the others were doing, deftly took Van Duyn’s left hand and wrist in a harsh come-along hold. Battered and subdued as he was, the older man came to his feet at the irresistible pressure.

  Gil turned to the others. “Okay, he and I are going for a parley in Lobo. Don’t try to stop us and keep clear of the track once we’re in it. I don’t know if any of you have been told, but my friends and I could kill everyone in this gravel heap just like I blew away that joker in the meadow.”

  “Let them go,” Andre advised his sister and Springbuck. We have no hope anyway unless Edward can convince them to help us.”

  This last puzzled Gil, but he took quick advantage of the wizard’s attitude to hustle Van Duyn out and down the stairway, being on guard against any attempt the other might have been inclined to make at tripping him or otherwise trying to escape or resist.

  The women were the only ones remaining in the hall, and they made no move to stop him, but stood gawping in amazement at the sergeant and his prisoner. One of the main doors was still ajar, but when the two reached the courtyard, they found that many of the locals were gathered there around the APC, some of them holding or wearing swords or other weapons, primitive but deadly. Woods was leaning over the .50 cupola chatting amiably with two young girls who were giggling shyly and blushing.

  The sergeant barked his name and Woods’ gaze came to him. The driver assessed the situation and reacted instantly. Traversing and depressing the machine gun, he brought it to bear on the crowd to Gil’s left, calling to Olivier as he did. Olivier, already behind his gun, covered the group to the track commander’s right. Pomorski popped his head up through the cargo hatch, cursed and ducked back down to open the rear hatch.

  “Tell your friends,” Gil grated to his captive, “to stay away from Lobo. We’re going in.”

  Van Duyn did so, and the twenty or so Erubites moved away from the track and permitted Gil to drag his unwilling guest to it. The rear of the boxlike APC was designed to be lowered by winch cable to serve as a ramp. There was a smaller hatch set into it, and it was this that Pomorski unlatched. Gil thrust Van Duyn through headfirst and the grenadier caught the dazed man up effortlessly and slammed him into one of the two interior benches set along the walls, covering him casually with the submachine gun.

  Gil confronted the crowd outside, pistol in hand. “We’re not going to hurt him,” he said. “We just want him to tell us a few things.”

  The people looked at one another doubtfully. At last a man stepped forward and said, “You may rest assured that if you give hurt to our teacher, we will try as best we can to kill you, and in any case you’ll have the wrath of the sorceress Gabrielle deCourteney and her brother to contend with.”

  Sorceress?

  Rather than bandy words, Gil backed to the rear batch and slid through it. Pomorski was sitting in the bench opposite Van Duyn, very relaxed. When it hit the fan, the sergeant reflected, the spec-four never balked or asked dumb questions. Demands of violence pushed aside all rivalry and debate.

  “What’s the problem?” Pomorski asked mildly.

  Gil sat down, trading off the .45 for Shorty. “This dude and the redheaded babe and one or two others are the ones who got us here, I think—I don’t know how yet—with the idea of making us do something or other for them. Your man here got nasty about explaining details and got kind of, you know, high-strung, so I invited him over for some Nine-Mob hospitality. I don’t think the adoring public outside will give us any trouble for the time being, as long as this one’s not messed up too much.” He thought for a moment. “Al?”

  “Yeah, Mac?” answered Woods from the cupola.

  “Are the gates locked? If so, d’you think we could bust out of this brick barn?”

  “The gates are barred, Mac. We might be able to crash through, but it seems to me we’d come down hard on that old bridge; might go right through it into the ditch outside. I don’t know that we could climb out again.”

  The sergeant bit his lip. Van Duyn was sitting up, watching them and listening to the interplay. Gil glared at him for a second, ready to speak, but Van Duyn began first.

  “MacDonald, I appear to have misjudged you seriously, at least as far as temper and tractability go. Rather than lose all chance of your cooperation, I’
m prepared to try to explain to you all that I can. I warn you though; it won’t be easy to accept or, for that matter, to express.”

  Pomorski snorted, and said, “A while ago a Dink with a rocket launcher was going to smoke us, had us dead to rights. Then we roll through a gray fog bank and we’re in Fantasyland. I’ll be real surprised if the explanation is anything but loony.”

  Van Duyn considered this. “Quite so,” he decided. “Very well, I’ll ask you not to interrupt until I’ve finished, and kindly to suspend your doubts for the duration of my story. If you find yourselves outraged from a commonsense standpoint, I suggest that you examine your surroundings; that should make you receptive.”

  Gil nodded. “You three stay at the guns,” he told Woods, Handelman and Olivier, “and let us know if you can’t hear what’s being said. Mr. Van Duyn, the floor is yours.”

  Chapter Nine

  What is now proved was once only imagin’d.

  —William Blake

  Despite his request, his story was subject to frequent interruptions for questions and comments. But as his quiet, composed voice continued, the Nine-Mob listened with grudging, growing credulity:

  * * * *

  My name is Edward Van Duyn. I hold degrees in a number of fields, some earned and some honorary, but they are of little importance to me now, here, as they are part of a life I no longer wish to live. They are of no further use or interest to me.

  You see, I come from the same Reality as you gentlemen do. But I had long since grown bored and frustrated with my existence before leaving there. I had fallen prey to ennui; never saw it coming or felt it arrive, but one day there it was.

  I had essayed to do some teaching, but one must sort through so much gravel for the gems. And then what is their attitude? “Teach me; it’s my right.” I tell you, there is a surfeit of left-handed monkey wrenches in the world compared to the supply of worthwhile students.

  So, I restricted my activities to pure research. It was for this reason that I accepted a position with the think-tank center called the Grossen Institute. I don’t suppose you’ve heard of it? A foundation supported by sizable governmental and industrial endowments for abstract projects of scientific inquiry. I was not specializing in any one field. I was responsible, like several others, for “synthesizing,” exploring correlations and interfaces between various areas of research.

  About two years ago, I became interested in three studies being done at the Grossen. One was a rigorous mathematical investigation of the theories of a plurality of universes, another a new attack on the problem of the relationship between perception, reality and the effect of altered expectations on perceptual reality. The third was an attempt to establish new data on the basic nature of matter-energy systems. I began to acquaint myself with each of these endeavors and even began to do a little independent study on my own. I began to see parallels and correspondences in the three projects. I conferred in detail with each team but didn’t reveal the dovetails I’d spotted, for as time went on I became more and more certain that I’d come upon a major breakthrough, perhaps unequaled in history.

  Because of the rather relaxed administrative regime at the Grossen, I wasn’t interrupted. It’s not unheard of for Senior Consulting Fellows of the Institute to work for years before presenting their findings with only sketchy progress reports in the interim. In fact, that’s the only situation some of the better researchers will stand for. Too, as a synthesist and a Senior Consultant, I had unrestricted access to computer time and privacy. I was even permitted to recruit a former student of mine, no questions asked, to assist me. Actually the boy was the only one I thought I could trust.

  Things became unbelievably complex, forever evading us with one more unexpected factor. How many times we hit dead ends I do not even remember, but it never seemed to matter. We always knew that somehow we would find an answer. And a disturbing thing happened in those days; I felt myself coming alive again for the first time in years. It can be a bit traumatic, I assure you, to feel your vallum of tædium vitæ slipping.

  I am the scarred veteran of two divorces. I had become bored with the company of my colleagues and intolerant of everyone else’s. I found most of life’s pleasures either empty or juvenile. Yet now there was this desire awakening in me to make this project work, a desire in no way connected with scientific kudos.

  Making practical application of the findings I had developed was more difficult than I can tell you; you’ll pardon me, I’m sure, but you simply don’t have the vocabulary. I built a device to permit access to the perhaps infinite universes which coexist with our own—if, indeed, you and I are from precisely the same one. To put it another way, I had—hmm, let me see if I can put this in terms you can follow—yes, isolated a technique for translating the Reality of one cosmos into a form perceptible in another. Call it a kind of transportation if you will, or the creation of a contiguity between universes. That’s no more or less accurate than calling it a translation.

  The first model was rudimentary, a sort of framework which served as the contiguous point. I searched through a number of different universes, once with almost disastrous results, and never seeing any that looked at all inviting, until at last on a Friday evening I looked out at this one, at an empty field in Coramonde, this place where we are now. I don’t remember actually stepping through the contiguity. All at once I was standing on the other side, my hands in my pockets and my cigar still in my teeth. The breeze that came up was . . . intoxicating. I felt full and at peace for the first time in years. In the distance I could see a small village, lit by torches and candlelight. The air was clean, with no hint of city or machine. In a way I cannot explain, it was as if I’d come home.

  When I returned, my assistant, nearly hysterical, was plucking up the courage to come through after me, although he’d been able to watch me the entire time through the contiguity. He did not share my enthusiasm for exploration, for personal involvement in research.

  But the few minutes I’d spent in Coramonde had changed me irrevocably. I had been given a last-minute reprieve from the barren life that I’d accumulated around myself. I had no one to consider; my ex-wives were well off and my children—a daughter by each marriage—thought even less of me than I did of them.

  I monitored the contiguity for days, watched the shape and pace of life in Coramonde, and decided that it was for me—though it wasn’t until later that I ran afoul of its rather exotic natural laws.

  Of course, it was impossible to sneak the entire machine out of the Grossen, which was my first impulse; I didn’t intend to enter another world and another life only to be followed in time by the people I’d come to I despise. My world weariness had become a sort of spiritual impotence, yet here was the extraordinary chance to change my entire life, an out, and I didn’t want to risk having it spoiled through the interference of others. So I compromised by removing two essential components from the contiguity apparatus and smuggling them out in my briefcase. I then destroyed all my notes and tapes, erased my computer runs from the banks and in general concealed my research as well as I could. I left the components I’d taken in the keeping of my assistant, who agreed to keep silence of a sort. In the meantime I was preparing a second contiguity generator at home; it is not as hard when you’ve conquered the basic problem of what it is you’re building. The second-generation model was a platform which would transport itself along with its cargo. I equipped myself with a rifle and some gear and, four months after my first trip to Coramonde, left that world for good. I’d used up all the cash and credit I could lay my hands on in building the second apparatus, but what did I care? I’ve no intention of returning. If Coramonde begins to pall, well, I’ve universes waiting.

  My preliminary experiences in this cosmos are not important at this time, but I met Andre and Gabrielle. Unfortunately, I took the contiguity generator to Earthfast—that is, when I met the local ruler and proposed some political revisions—and it was impounded when we were forced to take hurrie
d departure. I believe Yardiff Bey—an agent of our enemy—has it now.

  I know that all this seems like circumlocution, but I want you to see the full string of events that lead to your being here. Let me explain some things about reality here, to help you understand the situation. You’re now in a place where phenomena that you might call magic are operational, and usually controllable. Laws of nature in this universe permit outrageous things like that air elemental that nearly toppled this APC. This is a world of conflict, and the beings who influence movements of—call it good and evil—are often active participants in the struggle.

  How shall I tell you about our enemy? I’m afraid it’ll be a bit simplistic-sounding. We’re menaced by a, a force, if you will, directing uncounted servants and driven by a monomaniacal urge to dominate everything, everything in creation. Hard to accept? Oh, yes, quite. Well, gentlemen, here’s one that’s harder, albeit closer to home: tomorrow at dawn our enemy is sending a dragon to destroy us here in this castle.”

  The Nine-Mob’s declarations of disbelief tumbled over each other, but Gil was thinking about a miniature tornado that had almost turned their thirteen-ton APC over on command. Van Duyn continued.

  “My friends and I invoked a being from the spiritual plane to open a way between worlds and bring you to us. We’ve no adequate way to defend ourselves, but yours should prove effective enough.”

  Pomorski leaned forward, eyes narrowing. “Even if what you say is true—and I don’t concede it by a long shot!—why shouldn’t we make you send us back right now?”