Ghosts of War: A Tale of the Ghost

by George Mann

  It had only occurred to him later that he could actually improve on the original human form. At first, he had tried only to emulate it.

  The new limb had been magnificent, a triumph of microengineering, and the day after its completion he had pumped his shoulder full of local anesthetic and flayed open the diseased arm, fixing it in a vise and using his good hand to saw through the bone. He'd tied off the artery as quickly as possible, still spilling a tremendous amount of blood on his workshop floor. Then he'd slowly deconstructed the appendage, freeing tendons and hacking away necrotic tissue. After he had finished he had cauterized the exposed flesh of the stump. Then, without any further ado, he had set about attaching the new mechanical arm, fusing the bone to the brass and attaching the tendons. It had taken a number of attempts to get it right, and he'd been forced to sleeve the arm in brass plating to protect the exposed tendons, packing the new limb full of moisturizing jelly to stop them from drying out.

  Ten hours later, however, tired but triumphant, Abraham Took had regained the use of his limb.

  That had only been the start. Abraham hadn't been able to stop tinkering, making constant improvements to his design. In the end he'd replaced the tendons entirely with a less perishable material, disposing with the need for any organic matter whatsoever.

  Next had been his left leg, then his right, and finally parts of his chest and stomach. All of them had been rebuilt, redefined, mechanized as the disease progressed.

  It wasn't that he wanted to live forever, that he was attempting to extend his life indefinitely—not at all. It was simply that he wanted to beat the disease. He couldn't let it win, couldn't let it smother him and change him and keep him from his work. So he had continued, altering himself, shedding his soft, diseased body in favor of the new brass components he constructed in his workshop.

  Of course, the new appendages were not without their faults, and now, sitting in his workshop trying to reconnect his leg, flustered by the constant shrieking of the creature in the pit, Abraham could almost wish he'd never started. But he knew that was only frustration talking. The mechanization had given him a new lease on life, helping him to live with his disease, and he had learned a few things in the process, things he'd been able to use to make improvements to his pets, the raptors.

  He glanced up at them now, watching them scrabbling around among the rafters of the warehouse. They were beautiful. His finest creations. They looked down on him from the shadows, chittering and clicking, and he thought he could see awe in their piercing red eyes. He was their god, their creator. He had given them form and breathed life into them, constructing their bodies from so much lifeless scrap. He was their master, and they obeyed him explicitly.

  There were nine of the raptors, plus the two he had sent out into the city and the two he had temporarily decommissioned for repair. Thirteen in all; the perfect quorum. He'd made another six for the senator, of course, but he tended not to think of those orphaned beasts as part of the family.

  Abraham had been shocked to find one of them had returned damaged the previous night, its wing torn to ragged shreds by some kind of projectile weapon, but he had patched it up that morning, flaying some fresh skin from one of the corpses and stretching it over the skeletal wing to form a membrane. Within an hour it had been as good as new. He didn't yet know who was responsible for hurting one of his pets, but he intended to find out. When he did, he would make them pay.

  Abraham placed the cupped end of his mechanical leg over the fleshy stump of his thigh and gave it a sharp twist. He grunted in satisfaction as it snapped into place. He wiggled the brass digits experimentally to ensure it was working. Then, rising from his chair, his metal feet scraping on the concrete, he turned to survey his work.

  The warehouse was cluttered with all manner of bizarre machinery. Electrical components lay strewn across the floor or heaped against the walls. Iron girders were stacked neatly to one side, and electric flood lamps flickered and hummed, illuminating the entire scene in brilliant white light. Rising out of this sea of mechanical detritus were the twin spurs of a great machine, curving like the tusks of some enormous land mammal to form an archway, a doorway, a portal. These spurs were at least twenty feet high, and each was precisely engraved with an array of arcane symbols and ancient pictograms. It had taken Abraham months to etch those markings, carefully tracing the outlines from grainy photographs and line drawings in long-forgotten history books, studiously deciphering their ancient occult significance. Accuracy had been tantamount; any deviation and the machine would fail to work. But Abraham had been careful, and he had not failed.

  This, Abraham mused, was his life's work. It was almost complete, almost ready to install in the vessel that waited in the neighboring hangar, ready for its long journey across the ocean. He knew that it worked—the creature in the pit was evidence enough of that. Yet there were more tests still to be run, and before it could be put to use, his raptors had to do their work.

  The creature in the pit was still flailing about and screeching, desperate for sustenance. He walked over to it now, looking down over the edge of the hole.

  The original purpose of the pit had been to enable the shipbuilders to access the undersides of their vessels, to repair the hulls while the ships were out of the water. But Abraham had found a much better use for it. He'd used it to incarcerate an alien.

  The creature was like nothing he had ever imagined, not even in his wildest dreams. It was huge. Its form approximated that of a giant squid, but it was a thousand times more bizarre than anything born of the physical world. The hulking mass of its body was a globular sphere of translucent, glistening flesh, with one large, cyclopean eye at its epicenter. That eye stared up at him now, a sphere of bright, glowing amber, burning with hatred and menace. It had twelve ropy tentacles that served as limbs, formed from the same thick, translucent flesh as its body. Each one terminated in a snapping mouth, lined with razor-sharp teeth, which the creature used to burrow into its prey, extracting the blood that gave it sustenance.

  What was more, Abraham had come to realize, it had a very particular taste for human blood.

  He looked down at it and sneered. This thing, this alien, had been dragged through his portal from its own dimension. It wasn't really an alien at all, not in the truest sense—it hadn't originated on another world. Rather, it belonged to a dimension of time and space that functioned alongside the one inhabited by the human race, in parallel to it.

  These were the creatures that inhabited the nightmares of men, the ghosts on the other side of time. These were the creatures that had known of men since the first primates had dropped down from the trees, that had already been ancient when the dinosaurs had roamed the earth.

  This creature and its brethren shared the universe—and the planet—with humanity. Yet the two dimensions were out of sync with one another, only rarely coming into contact. And now Abraham had one of them prisoner in his workshop, by virtue of his creation, his machine that collapsed those dimensions together, creating a gateway between worlds, a doorway into another place.

  At first, Abraham had feared the creature, feared everything it represented, feared that it might find the strength to haul itself out of the pit and consume him. The solution he'd developed, however, derived from a sample of blood that he knew to be anathema to the creature, had worked to control it.

  He'd perhaps been a little overzealous in his application of the poison at first, accidentally rendering one of its tentacles dead. This had taught the creature a lesson, though, and now Abraham was a little more conservative with its use, applying it only when it was required to force the beast into submission. Consequently, the creature was pockmarked all over its body with patches of decaying, necrotic tissue, much like Abraham himself.

  Now, however, Abraham needed more of the solution. He barely had enough to keep the creature in check, and with mounting pressure from his patrons to have the machine fully operational, he'd had to increase the frequency of his rapt
ors' trips to the city. He'd tested over a hundred people now, probably more, and not one of them had resulted in a positive match for the blood type he was searching for. Nevertheless, the rejects had served as a ready food supply for the creature, as exemplified by the random assortment of human bones and articles of discarded clothing that surrounded the thing at the bottom of the pit.

  The creature had grown still as it regarded him. Its tentacles curled and writhed, but no longer thrashed against the walls of the pit. Good, Abraham thought. It was finally learning respect. He'd reward it with some food.

  Abraham circled the large hole, his metal feet clopping as he walked. He approached the far wall of the warehouse, where three people—a young man and two women—were chained to iron stakes in the ground. He stood over them, trying to decide which of them to throw to the creature first. It had to be the man. He'd proved the most difficult when Abraham had sliced open his arm to test his precious blood, struggling and kicking and trying to break free. Abraham had been forced to employ the raptors to hold him still while he'd worked.

  The man was cowering now, however, bound and gagged, a pitiful sight on the warehouse floor. Abraham smiled. He enjoyed the power he commanded over these people. He could choose whether they lived or died. Today, he chose that this man would die.

  Abraham hauled the man to his feet, slapping him hard across the face with his mechanical arm to warn him that any insubordination would not be tolerated. The man gave a muffled cry from behind his gag as his cheek split open with the impact. Abraham carefully unclipped the man's wrists from the iron cuffs that bound him to the stake. His wrists were still bound together with twine, as were his ankles, making it impossible for him to flee. If he tried anything, Abraham knew his raptors would make short shrift of him, anyway.

  Abraham gave him a short, sharp shove toward the pit. The man stumbled and tried to shuffle away, but Abraham shoved him again, harder this time, and the man fell to his knees. He was crying now, tears streaming down his face, whimpering and moaning. He knew what was coming. He'd seen a woman dropped into the pit the previous day.

  Abraham stooped and grabbed the man by his collar. He dragged him forward to the edge of the pit, watching the creature stir again in excitement as it realized what was coming. Without further ado, Abraham pushed the man over the edge, watching him tumble into the slimy folds of the alien's flesh, which blanched under the impact.

  “My God, Abraham, do they have to be alive when you throw them in there?”

  Abraham turned at the voice of Senator Isambard Banks, who was standing just a few feet away by the spurs of the machine. Abraham hadn't heard him come in. He was surprised the raptors hadn't started up, but he supposed they were used to the senator by now. Abraham smiled. “It likes them better that way,” he said, turning back to watch the creature devouring the young man, its multiple mouths burrowing deep into his flesh, drawing the blood out of him. Abraham watched the fluid course along the creature's translucent gullets, dark and red, pooling in its belly. “It's remarkable, isn't it?” he said to Banks, who had drifted over to stand beside him and was looking down, an expression of sheer disgust on his face. “So alien, so deadly. A living nightmare.”

  “It's barbaric,” Banks replied stiffly before averting his eyes to focus on Abraham. “But it's effective. It's exactly what we need.”

  Abraham grinned. “Yes, it most certainly is,” he agreed. He couldn't hide his euphoria at the thought of the part he was playing in the great scheme. His machine, his weapon, would go down in history. Future generations would remember his name. Abraham Took: the leper who had ensured the future of the American nation.

  “How are the preparations?” Banks inquired. He looked up toward the rafters, eyeing the flock of raptors as they hopped about, chittering away, watching him intently from above. Abraham saw Banks open and close his fists in a nervous gesture. It was clear he was uncomfortable, even though he knew the raptors were incapable of harming him. That had been one of the conditions the senator had insisted upon when he'd funded their development: the raptors were to accept his command as equal to Abraham's own. It was a simple but effective security measure. Neither of them could order the raptors against the other. Nevertheless, Abraham smiled, enjoying the man's unease. He found people like Banks rarely liked to be reminded how dirty their hands really were.

  “The machine is ready. Another day, two at the most, and it'll be fully installed in the transporter. But we still lack the necessary supplies to properly operate it.”

  “The solution?” Banks asked, frowning.

  Abraham nodded. “No matter how many of these idiots I test, none of them have the blood type I need.” He indicated the two women with a wave of his hand. They were watching him, wide-eyed and terrified.

  Banks shuddered. “Can't you just synthesize some more from the batch you already have?”

  Abraham resisted the urge to cuff the senator around the side of his head for his naïveté. “I've told you before, Senator, it's not that simple,” he said, through gritted teeth. “If I can get enough blood I can dilute it, slowly, to create a vat of the stuff. But I need the base material to do it.”

  Banks exhaled slowly. He reached inside his coat for his cigar case and then stopped at a severe look from Abraham, who had told him before that there was to be no smoking inside his workshop. “Then you'll just have to step up the program, Abraham. More testing.”

  Abraham frowned. “We're already snatching three, sometimes four people a day, Senator. It hasn't gone unnoticed. Have you seen the newspapers? It's all over the front pages. And one of my raptors returned damaged last night, as if it had been in a firefight. If we increase the frequency of the abductions, we risk exposing ourselves.”

  Banks shook his head. “You let me worry about that, Abraham. I have the police in check. That transport is leaving for London in three days' time.”

  “Three days!” Abraham almost spat the words. “That's impossible!”

  Banks took a step forward, looming over the half-mechanical man. Above, the chattering of the raptors increased significantly in pitch. “Three days. Things are moving, Abraham. Events have dictated that we need to bring forward our plans. That vessel will be leaving whether you have the solution or not.”

  “But that's lunacy!” Abraham nearly screamed in the senator's face. “You can't be serious! Those things won't stop, you know, once they run out of people to devour on that tiny island. Not unless we can control them, or destroy them. They'll come for us, too!”

  “Then you'd better make sure you do as I say, Abraham, and increase the frequency of the testing. Get them all out there tonight, the whole flock of them.” Banks took a step back, straightening his back and pointing up at the raptors. He fixed Abraham with a firm stare. “Remember what you're doing here is in the interests of the nation. Remember that, Abraham. Whatever it takes.”

  Abraham gave a curt nod. Whatever the senator said, it would be madness to unleash those things on the world without the proper measures in place to prevent them from rampaging all over the globe. Yet something about the look in Banks's eye told him the issue was not up for discussion.

  It seemed his raptors were going to be very busy indeed.

  Abraham watched the senator's back as the man crossed the warehouse floor and disappeared through the door. Sighing, he turned back to the creature, watching with a smile as it discarded the now-exsanguinated corpse of the man and slumped back against the wall, momentarily sated.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  The party was in full swing.

  Gabriel rocked back in his chair and watched a group of men and women cavorting on the lawn. It was cold, and their breaths fogged in the crisp evening air. He could overhear a little of their conversation, just snatches and fragments here and there: “Oh, John, you do say the most peculiar things…” and “What made him decide to throw a party tonight? Tonight of all nights!”

  Gabriel couldn't help but laugh. It was as if they somehow fel
t obliged to be there, to flock to his never-ending party because, whatever else they chose to do, not being there was worse.

  The house was buzzing with people, faces he hadn't seen for weeks. He didn't even know most of their names. This was Gabriel's life, not his. He felt detached from it, like a guest in his own existence.

  He watched the partygoers as they moved unconsciously in circles through the house and grounds. They were all dressed up, sparkling dresses and sharp suits, peacock feathers and silk ties. They swanned around his property like they owned the place, draping themselves over the furniture, trying to make themselves look beautiful. Trying to find meaning, to prove their worth.

  That was the thing that struck Gabriel most of all, as he sat there in his favorite armchair, smoking and observing; that it wasn't escape they were searching for. He'd always thought that was the reason they came, that they were looking for distraction, trying to find a way out of the mundane, an escape from their ordinary lives. But, he thought now, watching a couple kissing furtively in the shadows of an oak tree on the lawn, he'd been wrong. They weren't looking for distraction at all. They were trying to find their place in the world.

  He thought he could understand that.

  For all her talk, Ginny seemed content to hang back and observe the revelers just as he did. She'd traded pleasantries with people, of course, but now, with the party under way, she was perched on the arm of his chair, her hand on his shoulder, drinking gin and watching the party go on around her.

  He wondered if this was what she'd intended. Was she disappointed? Perhaps she'd pushed for it because she'd thought it would make him happy. Or perhaps she was just searching for normality, too, like all the others. For her place in the world.

  He didn't know where things were going with Ginny. He still didn't know why she'd come back, what she wanted from him. For now, though, he was content to let things unfold at whatever pace she needed them to. He would find out soon enough. He hoped that by then he might have made some sense out of his own conflicted feelings for the woman.