by Adrian Cole
Riderman glanced at Miss Timkins, but simply nodded, as though she was of no importance. “Good. We have more guests. Come into the library, both of you.” He led the way and once in the larger room, Mears met the level gaze of Craig Rocklyn, who was dressed once more in an expensive suit. But it was the presence of the men with him that took Mears’ breath away.
Konnar almost filled the doorway with his muscular frame, his physique even more extraordinary than Mears had imagined it from its description in the novel. The huge Barbarian nodded at Mears, arms folded over his chest, sword hilt protruding from his belt. Yet even he was dwarfed by the immensity of the being behind him.
“I think you know these people,” said Riderman.
“Of course,” nodded Mears, still gathering his wits at sight of them. “Konnar and Alexander Cradoc.” Christ, they’re huge! Konnar looks as though there’s twice as much of him as there is of me! And Cradoc…ye gods, I never would have imagined anything like it!
Cradoc nodded, his eyes full of very human expression.
“We are almost complete,” said Riderman to the others. “And that is very much due to Mr. Mears here. Without his knowledge, we may never have known you were in Pulpworld.” He closed the door and waved the company to the seats. Only Cradoc remained on his feet, looming over them all, statuesque and silent. Mears tried not to gawk at him. No one else seemed unduly amazed.
“I think a council of war is called for,” Riderman went on. “Reverence has news for us.”
The detective nodded. “I do indeed. And it is not comforting. I visited my astral self upon the lair of our enemy, Fung Chang, specifically in search of Annabella Fortescue’s whereabouts. I have already informed Sir Henry that in this, I was, sadly, unsuccessful.”
Miss Timkins, sitting now on the periphery of the group, gave a little gasp. Mears, beside her, amazed himself by gripping her hand. She did not let go.
“But there is other news,” Reverence went on. “Our other American colleague, Mr. Bannerman, is not dead as we feared.”
Riderman’s grim expression altered. “Really? That is good news. But, hold on, we have his body —”
“That is correct. But when he crossed into this place, he was separated from his body. Part of him, his essence if you like to call it that, was drawn into the strange realm that you call cyberspace.”
Mears was nodding. “That would make sense,” he said. “When Bannerman converts into Cyberwolf, he usually links in to a computer or network. Then he downloads back into his body, which reconstitutes itself. So maybe the body isn’t dead at all. It must simply be in stasis.”
“Stasis, yes,” mused Reverence. “And Bannerman, or his essence, is trapped in Fung Chang’s net.”
“You’ve spoken to him?” said Riderman.
“Oh, yes. We’ve considered the possibilities. But the only way he can free himself from his current predicament is by returning to his body.”
Riderman banged a fist down on the table. “Then, by heaven, we’ll be complete! There’s no time to waste —”
Reverence held up a hand and, remarkably, Riderman was immediately silent.
“I fear there are a number of complications, gentlemen. Bannerman cannot return to his body until it is close to him. However this ‘downloading’ as you call it, takes place, it does not appear to work in the same manner as astral projection. It has no range. Bannerman’s body needs to be adjacent to the system that houses him.”
“What — in Fung Chang’s citadel?” said Riderman.
“Exactly,” said Reverence.
There was a firm knock on the door and Jameson opened it to admit the familiar figure of the private eye, Nick Nightmare.
“Jeeze, it’s been one hell of a night,” he gasped, leaning up against the paneled wall, chewing slowly.
“What have you found out?” said Riderman.
“Not good,” said Nightmare. “They’ve got her, all right.”
The door opened again and this time it was Armand de Gilbert. For once his handsome features were grey with anxiety, his composure clearly ruffled. “Your pardon, mes amis. I have distressing news.”
Nightmare waited patiently as all attention focused on de Gilbert.
“All traces of Annabella have been removed! My agents have been searching every part of the city. They continue to do so, but —”
“Hold on, fellah,” said Nightmare, gripping his arm. “I can help you there.”
“Monsieur Nick, I am truly sorry. I interrupted you —”
Mears could see the panic in de Gilbert’s eyes. Riderman’s too. For once their cool manner, their smooth control was slipping. He felt Miss Timkins’ grip tightening in his hand.
Nightmare alone seemed calm, delivering his news in the same laconic style. “I already found her. Beyond the waterfront. Way out past the edge of the city. There’s an estuary beyond the marshes where the last northern sector meets the open sea. In a small town called Dunsmouth. You know it?”
De Gilbert shook his head. Riderman frowned. “I thought it was derelict. There was a storm, decades ago, that practically flooded it out.”
“It ain’t empty now. Folks still live there. Damned weird bunch. Ideal place to lie low. Fung Chang’s people got a stake in it.”
“Mon Dieu,” said de Gilbert. “Is that where Annabella is?”
“Yeah, ’fraid so. I didn’t get to see her. There’s more bogies there than a rat’s got fleas. I’d have got a few of the boys together and bust in, but we’ll need an army. I spoke to the local honcho. Fellar called Ricketts. They want to cut a deal.”
“As we thought,” said Riderman, his voice low, his fists clenching.
“Excuse me, gentlemen,” said Rocklyn. “I’m a little lost here and I daresay my companions are, too. Who is this lady you’re talking about?”
Riderman apologised at once and explained. Rocklyn, Konnar and Cradoc listened attentively, aware of Riderman’s acute anxiety about the abducted Annabella Fortescue.
“You said you needed an army,” Konnar told Nightmare. “Then you shall have one. Lentullus will provide soldiers.”
“Soldiers?” said the private eye, puzzled.
“A moment,” said Reverence, again taking control. “We need to consider the situation very carefully. Mr. Nightmare, you told us just now that you had spoken to someone in this town of Dunsmouth.”
“Yeah. Slimy creep. One of Fung Chang’s rats. He runs the joint down there.”
“What did he want?”
“Straight swap. Annabella for the body that Armand’s keeping in deep freeze.”
“Ah,” nodded Reverence. “They are consistent.”
“Tomorrow night. We take the body to Dunsmouth. They hand over Annabella. Unharmed, they say. I think they’re on the level. They want this body real bad.”
“What do you think, Mr. Reverence?” Riderman asked the detective.
“I think we have no choice. But this could work to our advantage.”
“Rescuing Annabella is imperative, of course,” said Riderman. “But what about Bannerman?”
“The situation is fraught with difficulty. Bannerman needs his body, so in that respect it would seem sensible to let it be returned to the citadel. The danger, unfortunately, is that sooner or later, Fung Chang will discover that Bannerman is trapped in the net. At the moment, he doesn’t realise. But I fear that once Bannerman returns to his physical body, Fung’s his agents will simply fall upon him in numbers.”
Mears raised his hand for attention and at once the detective’s steely gaze was upon him. “Mr. Mears?” The eyes were intimidating, but Mears gathered his resolve.
“What form will these agents take?” he asked. “Did you see them?”
“No. But it would not be unreasonable to suppose that Fung Chang would use Shuddermen and possibly other hybrids created in his unspeakable laboratories. Why do you ask?”
“If Bannerman emerged as Cyberwolf, he’d take some holding.”
“Quit
e so, Mr. Mears, quite so,” Reverence smiled, suggesting that he was way ahead in his own thinking. “I discussed that with Bannerman. It could buy some time.”
“Do you have a strategy?” cut in Riderman.
“Of a sort. It will need some refining. But we have until tomorrow night. Certainly we must retrieve the lady Annabella.”
Rocklyn interrupted their dark thoughts. “You were inside Fung Chang’s citadel? Did you learn any more about his purpose? We know he wants us all, but what exactly does this madman have in mind?”
Reverence was sitting forward, his right elbow on the table, hand cupping his chin, one long finger pressed to the side of his face as if in a concentrated effort to visualise again the interior of that strange citadel. “He intends to bring about an invasion,” said the detective after a long pause. “From what I could see, he will draw upon the dark realms that lie outside space as we know it. His temple is to be a gate for powers not of this world, nor of any world we know.”
“The Dragon King was his vassal,” said the Barbarian, who seemed to have a remarkably good grasp of all that had been said.
“Yes,” nodded Reverence. “All of us that have been brought here have had contact of one kind or another with Fung Chang’s agents. It is my belief that he is seeking to use our combined energies in some form or another to create even more advanced hybrids than those he has already experimented with. These monstrous creations, combined with those abominations he will summon from outside, will form the spearhead of his nightmare army.”
“Which he will unleash here,” said de Gilbert.
“He may not stop here,” said Reverence. “Fung Chang’s greed for power knows no bounds.”
Mears felt the clammy hand of fear. The Shuddermen had been in his own world. It was through trying to avoid them that he had tumbled into Pulpworld. So if they had been there once, they could go there again.
“We must begin at Dunsmouth,” Reverence affirmed. “After that, I think we should confuse Fung Chang by taking the initiative.”
“Storm his citadel?” said the Barbarian.
Reverence smiled indulgently. “I rather think that a direct attack would turn into a protracted siege. Fung Chang is more than prepared for such an eventuality. It would be playing into his hands. Unless, of course, it were to be a feint.”
“Whereas a select band,” said de Gilbert, “could more easily enter the place.”
“Precisely,” nodded the detective.
“Fung Chang will anticipate that,” said Riderman, frowning. “He’d never expect us all to sit back and watch. It may be what he wants.”
“There’s one thing,” said Mears, again surprised by his own audacity. He was conscious that everyone in the room was now watching him. “Uh, well, it’s just that Fung Chang has done his best to keep you all apart. Those of you he brought here, he brought separately. He wanted to capture you individually and keep you away from each other. He knows that if you work as a team, you’ll be, well, pretty much invincible.”
Rocklyn laughed gently. “That’s the right spirit, Mears! Nothing like confidence to steady the nerves.”
“An excellent point, Mr. Mears,” said Reverence. “Again we are indebted to your presence. And it’s why we need Bannerman. I suggest we let Fung Chang have his body. But we shall attend its presentation to him. What do you say?”
There were unified nods of assent.
“And I’ll summon up all our Pulpworld agents,” added Riderman. “Nick, Armand, you better get to work at once. Where’s Grimsfeather?”
“Propping up some sleazy bar with Montifellini,” grinned the private eye.
“We’ll need them.”
Mears felt the girl’s hand again. For a while he had been oblivious of her, having been so intent on the conversation. “What about you, Mr. Mears?” she whispered.
Good question, he thought. What the hell am I going to do in all this?
PART FIVE
BEHIND THE WALL OF NIGHT
It is with a sense of real regret that we have to inform our readers that we are withdrawing the Cyberwolf comic. We do this in reaction to the very negative press that has greeted the graphic novel, The Blooding, and as a response to some public concerns about the violent themes of the Cyberwolf canon and the nature of his persona.
We do feel, however, that the exploration of such themes is a valid one and that our desire to consider them was borne out of a genuine intent to throw light on to an otherwise dark part of human nature, rather than as cheap exploitation. We are equally sure that, in time, The Blooding will be viewed as a serious work, its statement about the human condition a grim reminder that the evolution of our species is not without its grimmer trappings. We ignore this at our peril.
—Statement by Michael Myerscough,
Director of Nightwork Comics, Inc.
CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE
Shadows in Dunsmouth
What on earth am I playing at? Mears kept asking himself. I am not a hero, pulp or otherwise, I’m an administrator, I deal with paperwork, I do most of my battles by phone or fax or e-mail. The closest I’ve ever been to a battle is via a TV screen. Yet I’m sitting here with a gun in my jacket pocket. A gun, for God’s sake! They’ve shown me how to use it, too, but I cannot imagine pulling the trigger.
Montifellini’s Magic Bus rumbled along the outskirts of Pulp City, heading steadily for its bleak northern outposts. Its oddly assorted passengers peered out through the misted windows from time to time, watching the scrubby terrain that replaced the last of the sporadic buildings, many of which seemed derelict, as if being eaten away by some virulent disease spreading from the northern wastes. Beside the bumpy road, which was itself sadly in need of attention, an occasional tree, scrawny and leafless, broke up the landscape and moonlight gleamed on the meres and pools on either side. If there was anyone outside they would not have been able to see into the bus, for it was the peculiar nature of the window glass that it only afforded a view of the exterior world.
Within the vehicle, two long lights buzzed and hummed, as if perpetually on the point of popping out, though they never quite did. At the front of the bus, behind the driver’s screen, the blurred form of Montifellini swayed from side to side, partly bounced by the appalling suspension of his ancient crate, partly in time to soft strains of Verdi which emerged from somewhere on his dashboard. His passengers were spread out in the seats behind him.
Grimsfeather sat near the front, glued to the window, anxious not to miss a single movement outside, though there seemed to be very few now that they had left the city limits. Several rows behind him sat Mears, nursing his grim thoughts, the gun in his jacket weighing him down like a lump of concrete. Riderman sat next to him, but he seemed to be in a trance, his thoughts almost certainly dwelling on the woman they were en route to rescue. The rifle across his thighs gleamed in the dim light, a further reminder of the potential mayhem to come.
Further back still were Reverence and Jameson, quietly discussing their next moves, Reverence with a confidence that was unnerving, Jameson ever cautious, clearly not at all satisfied with their impulsive strategy. Bannerman’s cold body was stretched out on the back seat, the Barbarian on one side of it, Cradoc on the other. Both sat like statues, twin guardians at the gates of some strange temple.
Mears was amazed by the Barbarian’s equanimity. Nothing seemed to phase him. He could never have been anywhere remotely like Pulpworld before and yet he took everything in without a murmur or a hint of fear. He was vastly experienced in war, used to an almost daily diet of conflict, using his wits and the strength of his arm. Perhaps, Mears mused, it had made him blasé about such things. Getting on to this vehicle must have seemed utterly alien to him, yet he leaned forward in his seat, one arm resting insouciantly on the back of the seat in front as though he had been travelling on char-a-bancs all his life.
Even more incongruous was the massive bulk of the Mire-Beast, Alexander Cradoc. It looked frightening, like something that
had burst up from a swamp, its limbs bloated and disfigured, its composition impossibly mutated. And yet it sat here calmly, its all-too human eyes missing nothing, patiently waiting for Konnar to speak, relying on him to be its medium. For all its monstrousness, it oozed intelligence.
They’re all superhuman, Mears told himself for the nth time. Even Riderman. He’s been all over his world, braved notorious jungles, deserts, mountain ranges. His age is no barrier to his energy, or his ability to defend himself. And the others. Darkwing, de Gilbert, Nightmare, they’re all suited to this. He deflected his gloom with the thought of Megan Timkins. Like him, she preferred the quiet life, a chair where she could watch or read about her own heroes and heroines. She had been afraid for him and said as much.
“It seems silly that you should go,” she’d told him. “You’ve done what was expected of you. If it were not for you, the five who are six would never have come together.”
She had been quite right, of course, but how could he possibly have refused to go with Riderman and the others? It would have seemed cowardly. And to appear so to Megan Timkins would have been humiliating. So of course he had agreed to come. She told me it was silly, he mused. But she saw it as an honourable thing to do. However, there was cold comfort in the thought now that they approached the fog-hung outskirts of Dunsmouth. The only way here, they had agreed, was by Montifellini’s extraordinary vehicle. The marshes were treacherous, the road wide open.
Grimsfeather had got up and stood now at the front of the bus, beside Montifellini, who switched off the strident opera. The bus was slowing, still bouncing up and down on a road that had become almost impassable, like something from the age of highwaymen, pitted and pocked, slick in places with mud. Mears imagined any ordinary vehicle getting bogged down in those deep ruts, but this bus would probably have happily chugged across a lunar surface.
Outside, the clustered buildings of the town closed in like talons. Squat, gabled, with ancient roofs and leaning chimneys, puking thick clouds of smoke, they overhung the narrow street, providing barely enough width for the vehicle to pass. It slowed to an almost walking pace, Montifellini crouched over his wheel, concentrating like a child in front of a games console, sweat beading his high dome of a forehead.