“He is British, of course. He was trained by Paterson…”
“Per l’amor di Dio, Enrico! The name!”
“Gurn!”
Western Transvaal, 1899
Gurn had been lucky.
He and only three other British soldiers had managed to capture a Boer commando of a dozen men. Gurn had quickly recognized among them some of the men who had hunted him after he had defected and joined the British cause. Men who had dared threaten him.
“On your knees!” he shouted.
“Sir!” said one of the Boers. “We’re soldiers. We’ve surrendered...”
Gurn shot the man who had spoken.
“On your knees,” he said again, this time very calmly, before the body had even touched the sand.
They kneeled.
Gurn pulled out his army knife and handed it to the second man from the left amongst the line of kneeling prisoners.
“You will stab and kill the man on your left. Then the man on your right will take that knife and kill you. Then, the man on his right will do the same, and so forth.”
“Sir! You’re completely mad! I won’t do it!”
Gurn shot him twice in the stomach. The man writhed on the ground in horrible pain. Gurn kicked the Boer and moved on to the next man.
“If you disobey, you each will die a long and painful death. But if you aim straight at the heart, you can at least dispatch yourselves painlessly. You may begin.”
Sartene, Spring 1900
“Gurn is indeed a sadistic beast, Godfather,” said Enrico Gioja. “He was going to be decorated for his courage by the British, but ended up almost court-martialed when his crimes were discovered. If it hadn’t been for high-ranking protection...”
“From the very man we seek,” said Saladin. “He was his aide-de-camp. They sympathized, if such men can ever do such a thing. They share the same... proclivities. Gurn has his trust, his confidence, and a powerful motive to help us.”
“Can we be sure that he will give us the Stone of Priam?”
“We cannot. But have we got any other choice?”
Calais, Summer 1900
The Englishman: a tall, distinguished, white-haired Lord in his sixties, disembarked from the ferry that had carried him across the Channel. After the tiresome events of the Man in Grey, he was looking forward to a vacation in Paris.
A car with a chauffeur was already waiting for him. As always, Gurn had taken care of everything.
The ride to the Capital was smooth and without event. Inside the berline, he wondered what thrilling surprise his former aide-de-camp had in store for him. His hand already clawed and his mouth watered at the thought of their last escapade in the bowels of Montmartre. Gurn was without peer when it came to procuring the rare and exotic pleasures that his former Commander enjoyed. Pleasures such as these came with a cost, but thanks to Gurn’s diligence, he had been able to disguise his secret life from his wife, the insufferably boring Lady Maud.
While the car drove on through the plains of Picardy, he felt the stirring in his loins subside. He knew that something in him was beginning to change, was no longer the same. Age, perhaps? An heir… Yes, maybe the time had come for him to look for a spiritual heir, a man worthy of someday following in his footsteps? Gurn? Perhaps. Should he speak to him?
He shrugged away the disturbing thought and returned to contemplate what Gurn had in store for him. Mustn’t damage the organs this time, he thought.
Paris, Rue Lavert, Summer 1900
The car stopped near the garçonnière, No. 147 Rue Lavert, in the 20ème arrondissement. It was a small, insignificant street near Belleville, mostly deserted, which suited him.
He opened the outside door with his key, Madame Doulenques, the concierge, was absent, a further guarantee of discretion, and climbed the stairs, pleased to observe that he was barely out of breath when he reached the fifth floor.
He entered the small apartment and called out:
“Gurn? Gurn? Where are you?”
Suddenly, he heard the unmistakable sounds of passionate lovemaking coming from the small bedroom. He rushed in and discovered the sight of a beautiful blonde woman, her abundant hair surrounding her head like a halo, tied, spread-eagled, on the bed, in the throes of orgasm, while a man he knew all too well was plowing her helpless body.
“Maud?”
“Good morning, Lord Beltham,” said Gurn, turning around. “Or should I say, Fantômas?”
A red veil seemed to cloud Lord Beltham’s eyes. Gurn’s taunts barely registered as his blood drummed in his ears. He pulled out a gun.
But Gurn was ready. He grabbed a hammer that he had carefully placed on the nightstand and, with a swift move of his hand, knocked Lord Beltham unconscious. He quickly jumped off the bed and, straddling the body of the Lord, grabbed his neck and squeezed.
Lady Beltham opened her mouth as she watched her naked lover strangle her husband, but before she could scream, Gurn’s hand covered her mouth.
“Fantômas is dead. Long live Fantômas!” he whispered.
He returned to the body and slowly started to undress it. As he did so, he searched the clothes. Finally, he found a jewel hanging on a gold chain around Lord Beltham’s neck. It looked ancient and eldritch. Gurn unclasped it and took it in his hand. He felt its power, its inebriating magic.
Lady Beltham looked at him in a daze, her eyes glazed.
Gurn began to dress himself with Lord Beltham’s clothes. They were of the same stature and they fit him rather well. He then took a wig and perfected his disguise.
Under Lady Beltham’s eyes, Gurn had become Lord Beltham.
Sartene, Fall 1900
“Here it is, Signore. Gurn kept his word.”
Enrico Gioja presented Saladin with a small box.
“Thank you, Enrico. You have been a faithful member of our Brotherhood. I want you to take an oath…”
“An oath?”
“Yes. You will swear on the Santa Vergine that this jewel will be buried with me. This is the reason I wanted to buy it. To be sure that nobody would ever touch it again. Never, for any reason…”
“I swear on my honor, Signore. I know its power. It has fomented wars, death and many horrors. Schliemann was aware of this, but he didn’t care.”
“And he paid for that with his life. Now, leave me, Enrico, I want to be alone.”
After Enrico Gioja had left, Saladin opened the small box. Inside was a small, seemingly harmless jewel, hanging from a gold chain. The stone, a yellow diamond, was shaped like an apple.
Saladin looked at the jewel that had started the Trojan War and which Homer called the Golden Apple of Discord. There was a small note with it:
“I don’t need it. F.”
Chateau de Beaulieu, Dordogne, Winter 1900
“Fantômas.”
“What did you say?”
“I said: Fantômas.”
“And what does that mean?”
“Nothing... And everything!”
“But what is it?”
“Nobody... And yet, it is somebody!”
“And what does that somebody do?”
“He spreads terror!”
Dinner was just over and the company was moving into the drawing room.
It had been the immemorial custom of the Marquise de Langrune to have a few of her personal friends to dinner every Wednesday night...
THE BEGINNING
When, in 1962, Georges Gallet, the editor of the French V Magazine, asked artist Jean-Claude Forest to create an adult comic strip featuring Tarzella, the latter turned him down flatly as he wasn’t interested in the concept of a jungle lady; but from that request sprang forth one of the most enduring icons of science fiction: Barbarella. Our regular contributor Bill Cunningham, who likes nothing more than to bring iconic characters together like flintstones to create a spark, postulates about the encounter between the Queen of the Spaceways and her opposite archetype…
Bill Cunningham: Next!
The Future
“Quite frankly, I find this hard to believe.”
The tall woman with the silky blonde mane stretched across her bed. He was going to make her explain it all over again despite the fact she was clearly ready for sex.
“Captain–James. May I call you James?” she asked, still seducing him with her eyes. She ran her fingernail slowly down his arm. “It’s really quite simple. This is the 21st century...”
“But not my 21st century, an alternate one,” he interrupted. This was going to be harder than she thought. Wasn’t this man a “tomcat?”
“That’s correct. In this universe, I have been tasked with creating a superbeing. I am to be its mother, and you are to be its father. You have been selected and brought here across several realities and timeframes via the Chronosphere. Once we’ve accomplished first contact,” she giggled, “then we can return you to almost the exact second you left. James, please we need you. I need you. “
“All this,” he gestured to the luxurious envelope of space time they were lying in. For a mathematical construct, it was something else–cushions and food and atmospheres at the touch–all dedicated to sensual pleasures. He merely had to think it and anything he desired appeared. “It’s a bit much. Why not simply take the DNA you need?”
Barbarella smiled mischievously. She got up to her knees and uncoupled the fastenings of her pleasure-skin revealing her tender flesh underneath.
“Where would the fun be in that? Besides, it’s not like you haven’t done this before.”
And with that, the starship captain pulled her in for a kiss.
Barbarella jumped out of the sonic shower and grabbed an absorba-skin from the rack. She was refreshed after her energetic session with the captain. She would need all the sexual energy she could muster for her baby’s next “father.” Many more sessions were required before the right DNA mix presented itself–the right eye color, bone structure, skin tone, psycho-sexual proclivities–all matched and cross-indexed against the project template.
Barbarella tuned in her tele-viewer to see James back at his command and none the wiser. She actually hated doing that–wiping the event from his memory, but it was crucial to transdimensional integrity. A shame–for a man not familiar with the intricacies of 21st century technology, James sure could use a sense-all crystal to best effect.
She shivered at the thought, but turned her attention back to choosing the next candidate.
She commanded the tele-viewer to materialize multiple screens.
Barbarella jumped back into bed (the sheets had already changed themselves) and stared at the hovering images of her future suitors above her. It was very stressful saving a universe–there were so many choices:
She wondered why they called that one The Dark Knight, though she immediately got excited at the thought of counting his many scars with her lips.
The Man of Bronze was interesting too. Always in control. Always thinking, strategizing. Barbarella immediately wanted to see him lose control. Now that would be interesting!
The Lord of the Apes would be a challenge. She knew he would take what he wanted, but could the brutal savage give?
The Patchwork Man needed tenderness and understanding, and he gave great emotion.
The Thief was clever, inventive–qualities a superbeing would need.
Then there was the Diabolical One, The Alien, The Detective, and The Pilot–each of them with their own qualities and quirks. Then there were the dozens of others across multiple realities and...
Barbarella closed her eyes and pushed a button. Some days you just have to go with it. There was a brief flash and suddenly the time-space construct was filled with a chilling laughter.
“Hello, Ying Ko. Please sit down. We have much to discuss...”
One of the greatest satisfactions in launching our Rivière Blanche science fiction, sister imprint in France in 2004 was the opportunity to track down some of my favorite genre writers from the 1960s. The legendary André Caroff, now in his mid-80s, was one of those prolific authors whose novels never failed to entertain, and whose characters, such as secret agent Bonder and starship trooper Rod, are still fondly remembered by myriad fans. In Caroff’s polymorphic oeuvre, however, there is one creation that has since acquired the status of a genuine cult classic: Madame Atomos.
Her real name is Kanoto Yoshimuta. She is a scientific genius whose family perished in the nuclear holocaust of Nagasaki. She has sworn undying revenge on the United States and has labored in secrecy for 20 years to hatch a series of diabolical plans, each one more fantastic than the last. She has only one purpose in mind: the infliction of as much pain and suffering as possible upon America. Invariably, she signs her actions: “Hiroshima. Nagasaki. With the compliments of Madame Atomos.”
Rivière Blanche has now begun to reprint all 18 Atomos novels in a six-volume omnibus series, each featuring an all-new short story, taking place during the continuity of the series. If there is an event other than the bombing of Hiroshima that will forever be remembered in history, it is the Moon Landing of July 20, 1969. Clearly, such a cosmic enterprise, especially one launched by her hated enemy, could not leave Madame Atomos unaffected. The talented François Darnaudet, who appears in Tales of the Shadowmen for the first time, went looking behind the curtain (with a little help from the undersigned) and discovered the horrific truth…
François Darnaudet & J.-M. Lofficier: Au Vent Mauvais...
Somewhere in the U.S.A.., July 1969
Et je m'en vais / Au vent mauvais
Qui m’emporte / Deçà, delà,
Pareil à la / Feuille morte.
Verlaine
Chanson d’Automne.
The light of the television screen lit the entire room.
The location did not matter. It was an anonymous meeting room of a type found in millions of office buildings throughout the United States. There was a conference table, half-a-dozen leather chairs and four trite seascape paintings on the fake wood-paneled walls.
The television set had been tuned to CBS, where Walter Cronkite had been entertaining viewers with models of the LEM and conversations with Arthur C. Clarke and Robert Heinlein.
It had been a hot day, but now it was night; a rather hot night. The crescent Moon was tantalizingly high in the west. The Moon landing had successfully ocurred some six-and-a-half hours earlier. Now they were waiting for the first man to walk on another world.
On the table, quite appropriately, were a bucket of ice with a bottle of champagne and two glasses made of the purest cristal d’arques.
There were three people in the room, a man and a woman, sitting across the table, riveted by what was happening on the television screen, and a tall Japanese man in a chauffeur uniform who stood rigidly next to the door.
“Ozu, you may open the bottle of champagne now,” said Madame Atomos. Few would have recognized the sworn enemy of America in this stunning young Oriental woman dressed in the latest Fifth Avenue fashion.
Her companion was a dark-haired man, handsome in a way that could only be described as “dangerous.” His attire was European in style and he could easily have been taken for one of those European playboys who spent their lives jet setting from Saint-Tropez to Saint-Moritz.
“You will toast with me, n’est-ce-pas Monsieur Zemba?” asked Madame Atomos.
“Naturally, my dear,” replied the man, with barely a hint of French accent.
“I believe that, this time, you have outdone your notorious grandfather.”
The Frenchman could not keep himself from casting a covetous glance at Madame Atomos’ long, shapely legs, alluringly covered by black silk tights, and which she crossed and uncrossed with consummate skill.
Zemba III, or Zemba The Third, as he liked to be called, smiled in self-satisfaction. Yet despite his outward calm, he was actually quite uncomfortable. He had heard of Madame Atomos; her sinister reputation, her obsessive ruthlessness and hatred for all things American had spread far and wide, even amongst
the European Underworld.
She had been trying to hire a master-thief, and many in the game had turned her down, despite the truly staggering fortune she had offered.
More than the money, it was the nature of the assignment that had made Zemba III agree to take it. If he succeeded, his reputation would be made. He would no longer be a joke, a comical version of his prestigious grandfather, Gaspard Zemba, who had once been called the Master Criminal of Paris.
Ozu had opened the magnum of champagne in a manner that would not have shamed a sommelier at Maxim’s; he was now carefully filling the two glasses.
On the television screen, Cronkite was becoming increasingly emotional. Understandably so, since he had been on the air 27 of the 30 hours it had taken the spacecraft to reach the Sea of Tranquility. The great moment had arrived. Soon, very soon, Neil Armstrong would step out of the LEM and would become the first human to walk on the Moon.
Madame Atomos and Zemba III grabbed their glasses.
“Look! It’s happening!” he said.
“That’s one small step for a man, one giant leap for mankind.”
Armstrong had finally stepped off the lander’s ladder. The reception was particularly good and the sound crackled, but it was spectacular nevertheless. Cronkite shed a tear.
“Americans are such children,” said Madame Atomos contemptuously.
Zemba III said nothing. He didn’t share Madame Atomos’ obsession. On the contrary, he was somehow moved by the astounding venture.
“We still have a couple of hours to go, ” he observed meekly. “Let us drink to the success of your enterprise.”
“It has made you a very rich man,” said Madame Atomos.
“For that, too, I am grateful, but now I can tell you: I would have done it for free.”
Tales of the Shadowmen 3: Danse Macabre Page 4