NECROM

by Mick Farren

  "Ve haf come for you, Gibson, you piece of scheiss."

  This time it was B-movie German. "We have ways of making you talk." He had to get out of this dream.

  "Wake up!" The disembodied voice spoke again.

  "Wake up!"

  "Come on, Joe, wake up. It's just a dream."

  Now there were two voices, Gibson didn't understand. The voices were urgent, concerned. For a moment, faces looked down, shouting and shaking. Then the faces blurred and, instead, a skeletal hand with an SS ring on its third ringer was reaching into his face.

  "Quick, give him the shot, he's slipping back."

  A needle was going into his arm.

  Gibson started to struggle. "What?"

  "Psych attack."

  He was struggling out of the dream. "What?"

  "They tried to get you on the dream level."

  Gibson was shaking his head. He was stretched out on the bed in the guest room. A woman, either the receptionist or her double, was bending over him. A second Nordic blond, enough like the receptionist to be her sister, had just pulled the needle of a disposable syringe out of his arm and was wiping the skin with a swab. He felt the quick chill of surgical spirit. Casillas was standing in the background looking concerned.

  The receptionist or her double put an arm under his shoulders. "Can you sit up?"

  Gibson eased into a sitting position with her half-lifting him. She was exceedingly strong. Gibson sighed. He'd always had a thing about girls who could beat him at arm wrestling. He shook his head, trying to clear the craziness. '"What was that all about?"

  This time Casillas answered. "You have been under what we call psych attack. While you were sleeping, the enemy attempted to infiltrate your dreams."

  "Infiltrate my dreams?"

  "It's a very basic technique. Fortunately we were able to wake you in time."

  "And what would have happened if you hadn't?" Casillas stepped forward so Gibson could see him better. "I imagine there was something in the dream that was trying to get you, to do you harm?"

  Gibson nodded, "Rats and Nazis. What would have happened if they'd got me?"

  "You would have retreated into catatonia." Gibson took a deep breath. "Thanks for the early call." The last thing that he remembered was being taken to a small functional guest room, little more than a cell, and stretching out on the narrow single bed to think about the day's revelations. He must have fallen asleep almost immediately, and that was strange in itself.

  He looked at the receptionist's sister, who was disposing of the syringe. "What did you shoot me up with?"

  "A combination of tranquilizer and Methedrine."

  Gibson half smiled, "No shit."

  Casillas had an excellent bedside manner. "It's important that you don't sleep for the next few hours."

  "I don't think I'm going to be able to."

  "You may not be able to resist."

  "So I'm on speed for the duration?"

  "Until we get you to a safer location."

  "I thought that I was supposed to be safe here?"

  "Apparently not. The enemy seem to be incredibly interested in you."

  "So where do I go to now?"

  "London."

  "You're putting me on! London, England?"

  "It's clearly not safe for you in New York."

  "But why London? Why not Cleveland?"

  "We have an associate in London who I believe may be equipped to hide you. Why? Would you rather go to Cleveland?"

  Gibson quickly shook his head. "Hell, no. I was just curious."

  The door opened quietly and William Storm Eagle entered. "Is he okay?"

  Casillas nodded. "He made it."

  Storm Eagle came to Gibson's bedside. "How do you feel?"

  Gibson grinned like an idiot. The chemical cocktail was kicking in. "I feel fine. It was just some old dream."

  Storm Eagle didn't smile. "It was more than a bad dream."

  Gibson was feeling better and better, and the temptation was to minimize what had just happened. "I think it's time that we had a talk."

  Casillas shook his head. "You should rest."

  "The hell I should rest. I've just been shot full of crank and I haven't felt so talkative in years. Besides, I think you people owe me a couple of explanations."

  Storm Eagle glanced at Casillas. "He has a point."

  Casillas seated himself in a chair beside the bed. "What do you want to know?"

  "Know? I want to know anything you can tell me. I heard a bunch of stuff about dimensions and wavelengths, but nobody has given me anything like a satisfactory explanation of why I'm a part of all this. How did you people, you Nine, hook into me? All I've had so far is double-talk."

  William Storm Eagle sat down on the edge of the bed. The unusual blue eyes scanned Gibson. "You have the mark of the coyote on you,"

  Gibson shook his head vigorously. "That's not what I want to hear. I've had enough bullshit mysticism. You know what I'm saying, Chief?"

  Casillas sighed. "The problem that we have here is one of language. William says you have the mark of the coyote, another of our number might say you had a manifest destiny, a third would describe it as a dark aura. The detector provided by the streamheat gave you a reading of two-hundred-percent normal."

  Gibson's head snapped round. "Are you telling me that the streamheat have given you some gizmo that you use to select recruits to your cause?"

  "Without their help, we'd be virtually blind."

  "Isn't it putting a lot of trust in those guys?"

  "We have no other choice."

  Gibson had a vision of Casillas and the rest of the Nine sneaking around in the New York night with something that looked like a Geiger counter, looking for a few good men to battle Necrom.

  "Jesus Christ."

  Casillas's voice sounded weary. "You are not here as a result of the device alone. The mark, the aura, manifest destiny, they are all ways of saying that you are an exceptional individual and that it seems you have a definite role in the coming conflict."

  "So what is that role? Are you telling me that I'm the fucking Ringbearer or the Defender of the Universe?"

  Storm Eagle sternly shook his head. "Probably nothing as grand. It may be that you are only a pivot, a catalyst of some kind. To be frank, it was a major surprise when the enemy took an immediate interest in you."

  "That's the other big-ticket question. Who exactly is the enemy? Who sent the tontons or whatever they were? Who caused the dream attack?" The speed was giving Gibson's voice a desperate edge. "Who's out to get me?"

  It was the first time that Gibson had seen Casillas look helpless. "That's something for which we don't have a precise answer."

  "No kidding."

  "There really is no single enemy as such. You have to think in terms of various marauding groups coming into this dimension. Some of these marauders we've known about for a very long time. They are the demons of old, set in motion by the approach of the confluence. Others are entirely new entities who have seen a chance to expand their power to other dimensions and are making the most of it. The confluence and the waking of Necrom are moments when massive power will be free for the taking. There are a great many ruthless and power-hungry entities in this universe, both human and nonhuman."

  "But why do so many of them seem hell-bent on heading for our dimension and causing trouble?"

  William Storm Eagle stood up. "Because we are vulnerable, Joseph Gibson. Over the last few centuries, this has become a particularly material world, obsessed with technology. Much of what we once knew about the multidimensional universe has either been lost or has been relegated to the level of mythology and folktale or else clouded by superstition. This is also why we have to rely so heavily on the streamheat. There is so much that we have to relearn."

  Gibson lay back on the bed. "I really need to think about all this."

  Casillas got to his feet and stood beside Storm Eagle. "I'm afraid you are going to have to do your thinking on th
e run. There is no time to linger. You'll be starting out for London very shortly."

  As the two men left the room, William Storm Eagle turned and looked hard at Gibson.

  "One thing, Joseph Gibson."

  "What's that?"

  "Don't ever address me as 'chief' again."

  If all those years on the road had taught Gibson anything, it was that travel gets easier the less that you have to do with the mechanics of it. The car takes you to the airport, the airline takes your luggage, the cabin attendants bring you drinks. They are paid to do these things; as far as you're concerned it's their reason for being. They maybe even enjoy it. Fuck-ups were inevitable but there was no way to beat the process. The only answer was to become as passive as possible. Insure as much comfort as you could, but, after that, behave as closely as possible to a piece of luggage and let them do it for you.

  The trip to London was arranged in what had to be record time, and Gibson's role in it was nothing if not passive. He didn't even have anything to pack. It had been decided that under no circumstances should he return to his own apartment. Within the hour, a chartered executive jet was waiting at JFK, a phone call to the home of a highly placed State Department official had covered his lack of a passport. Smith, Klein, and French had once again been assigned as his bodyguards, although they hadn't seemed exactly overjoyed to be saddled with the task.

  "We thought we were through with you, Gibson."

  "The feeling was mutual."

  Klein had slowly shaken his head. "London, huh?"

  Gibson had nodded. "You were hoping for somewhere a bit more exotic?"

  "I'm always hoping. I guess it won't be for long, though. We've only got to stash you and then we're done."

  "That's what they said the last time, wasn't it?"

  Klein had looked at Gibson curiously, as though wondering for the first time if he might have had the rudiments of intelligence after all.

  "You may have a point there."

  The first phase of the operation was to move Gibson out of the building and into the car. The entire Greene Street security force was assembled in the lobby. Before Gibson was even allowed to enter the elevator, patrols with hand radios were sent out to nearby intersections and up to the roof. It was only when they reported back that everything seemed safe that the party for the airport and its considerable protective shield started to move out. Gibson found that he didn't even make it into the first elevator. This was entirely filled with security whose job was to cover the short distance between the building entrance and the car that would take him to JFK. Gibson had been the focus of hired protection before, but even on the Self-Destruction Tour, when that bunch of psychotics who called themselves the Order of the Cleansing Flame had been threatening to cleanse him, there had been nothing on a scale that could approach this.

  "I guess this is how Nixon felt."

  One of the guards, who was standing right beside him in the tightly packed elevator, grunted. "Or maybe Jack Kennedy."

  Gibson turned his head and regarded the man bleakly. "Thanks a bunch."

  "Anytime."

  When he hit the street, he was almost too hemmed in to see anything. The white Cadillac was waiting. As he was hurried to the car, he craned around to see as much as he could of what was actually going on. To his surprise, he found that the block had been sealed at both ends by the regular NYPD. There were the familiar crowd-control sawhorses and parked blue-and-whites with red flashing lights that reflected off the officers' nylon jackets. The street was completely clear of both vehicle and pedestrian traffic, and the building's security force was able to fan out with weapons at the ready, looking every which way for possible threats. How the hell had the Nine managed to persuade the cops to cooperate at such short notice? They might be strange but they seemed to have a wealth of connections on every level.

  "How's all this being explained to the general population?"

  Klein grinned.

  "We're making a film. It seems that in this town, a movie crew can do about anything it wants."

  They were in the car. Just Gibson, Smith, Klein, and French. A police cruiser in front of them immediately whooped into life and, as its lights started slowly rotating, they followed as it eased forward. They were on the move, up the block at little more than walking pace. The police barriers were drawn aside, and they nosed through a small crowd of curious onlookers. The moment they were clear, the two cars rocketed away. Gibson was pushed back into his seat by the sudden acceleration. By the time he'd struggled to lean forward again, they were running red lights at seventy miles an hour, the police car in the lead with its sirens howling a warning while the Cadillac followed behind flashing its own signal-one of those magnetic flashers that stuck to the roof of the car. They touched ninety on Delancey Street but had to drop to just fifty crossing the Edward R. Koch Bridge (named for the very popular mayor after his 1988 assassination) to avoid running into a truck. After that they were on the BQE and weaving in and out of traffic, following the signs to JFK at speeds that weren't actually suicidal but frequently came very close. Nobody was going to take them on the highway.

  To reach their chartered jet, they had to use an extremely exclusive side entrance to the Pan Am terminal that led directly to the airline's most isolated and protected ultra-VIP sanctuary. This was the place that was used only for the likes of Margaret Thatcher, Fidel Castro, or Michael Jackson. A quartet of Pan Am officials was waiting for them. There was an undercurrent of excitement in the superplush suite of rooms, as though the Pan Am people thought they were participating in some real-life James Bond epic. Gibson wondered what story they'd been told regarding the reasons for this sudden no-expense-spared flight.

  Smith went straight to work. "Is the aircraft prepared for takeoff?"

  "It's fueled and stocked but it'll be about twenty minutes before it can be integrated into the traffic pattern and given clearance. Would anyone care for a drink while you're waiting?"

  Smith began to shake her head, but Gibson quickly interrupted. The Methedrine was riding roughshod over the tranks that they had given him, and if he didn't have something to mellow him out a little, he'd be chewing on the inside of his lips. "Yes, I would. I'd like a very large Scotch, please, the oldest single malt you have behind your bar."

  One of the Pan Am officials beckoned to a hovering waiter. "Ralph here will take your order."

  Gibson repeated the order to Ralph. To his surprise, as Ralph walked away, Klein beckoned to him. "I'll have one, too."

  "Certainly, sir. What would you like?"

  "I'll have the same as him."

  Gibson raised an amused eyebrow. "I didn't know that you people drank."

  Klein winked. "You'd be surprised what we do. I have a feeling that this is going to turn into a long and grueling trip, and I thought I might settle in just a little."

  The drinks arrived before he could elaborate. Two very large Scotches on a silver tray with separate glasses of ice and water and a bowl of mixed nuts. Klein put two ice cubes into his and topped it off with a little water. Gibson took his straight. As the first sip hit his tongue, he let out a delighted gasp.

  "Like a dancing angel."

  It was possibly the finest whiskey that he had ever tasted.

  All too quickly, as far as Gibson was concerned, the flight was ready to board and he found himself being ushered toward the escalator that led out onto the dark tarmac. The twin-engine executive jet was standing by itself under cold floodlights in the parking area reserved for large private aircraft. There was no other traffic that late at night, and they had the area to themselves. The plane was white with gold trim, and as they hurried toward it, one of the Pan Am officials attempted to fill in a little of its background.

  "I think you'll enjoy traveling in this aircraft, Mr. Hoover…"

  Hoover? Who the hell did they think he was? Didn't the guy recognize him? It wasn't that long since he'd been a regular in People magazine.

  "… it was originally bu
ilt for an Arab oil prince and it really is on the cutting edge of luxury."

  Gibson glanced curiously at the official. "What happened to the prince?"

  "He was assassinated by his brother-in-law. That's how the aircraft became available for private charter."

  If pink leather couches, concealed lighting, gilt cherubs, and a fifty-inch projection TV were the cutting edge of luxury, then the Pan Am official was right on the money.

  As he stepped into the cabin, Gibson looked around in wonder. "Christ, it looks like a flying whorehouse."

  The captain was waiting to greet them. He smiled and nodded. "I believe that was what its first owner used it for most of the time. I'm Captain Donovan, and my crew and I hope that you enjoy your flight. Flying time to London will be just under seven hours."

  Gibson wondered if all airline captains were turned out from the same mold: calm, tall, mature, good-looking and slow-spoken, laugh lines at the corners of their eyes, and gray at the temples-the very image of capable reliability.

  Once again, Smith had no time for pleasantries. "Will we be leaving right away?"

  "We're going through the final clearances right now. As soon as you're settled in, we'll start to taxi out to the runway."

  "Which airport will we be landing at?"

  "We'll be coming into Luton. It was thought to be less conspicuous than Heathrow."

  "We'll need a suitable car waiting when we arrive."

  The captain nodded, "As soon as we've reached our cruising altitude, I'll call ahead and make the arrangements."

  Smith thought about that. "I'd rather this was left to the last moment, say when we're an hour or so out from London. That way there'd be less chance of word of our arrival leaking out."

  The captain was nothing if not anxious to please. "Whatever you suggest." He indicated the cabin attendant, who up to that point had been standing in the background. "I have to go forward now. This is Janine, she'll be happy to answer any other questions that you may have and generally make your flight as comfortable as possible."

  Janine stepped forward with a professional smile. "Hi, if you'd all like to take your seats and strap in, we'll be getting underway."

  If anyone had ever needed a model for the perfect stewardess, Janine would have admirably filled the role. She had lavish red hair that might have belonged to Ann-Margret in her Vegas prime. Her figure was long-legged showgirl perfect and shown off to total advantage by the short tailored uniform that matched the pink and gold of the decor. As he dropped into his seat and fastened the seat belt, Gibson wondered idly how well acquainted he and Janine might become during the seven-hour Atlantic crossing. There had been a time when stewardesses had fallen all over him, but since his very public descent from grace, their ardor had cooled to nothing more than routine courtesy.