Shadowtrap: A Black Foxes Adventure

by Dennis L McKiernan

  “No, Henry, I would rather that they live. But with their souls intact. Yet I will say this”—Greyson gestured at the six comatose beings in the witch’s cradles—”better that they die now than live as reanimated things.”

  Stein turned to Toni Adkins. “Don’t listen to this superstitious fool. This is the only way they’ll get free.”

  Greyson clenched his fists and said fervently, “But wait, Toni, and think, for God’s sake: every time we’ve tried to intervene, something terrible has happened: first, Arthur Coburn died a horrible death, virtually ripping himself in two; then we nearly killed Alice Maxon by unplugging her from her rig, breaking the silver cord between her body and her soul, and look at what we accomplished—her alter is a ghost! and Lord knows what she herself has become; and then we tried to inject Timothy Rendell into VR to command Avery to set the alpha team free, but instead Timothy’s soul was ripped from him and now he, too, is trapped. That’s three disasters out of three attempts—did you hear me? three out of three!—and all because we presumed to interfere. Everything we’ve tried has been a catastrophe, and this will be, too, only worse, for not only will we lose six souls, we will also set six monsters loose on an unsuspecting world.”

  “Bah!” barked Stein. “I suggest you gather up your powders and potions, your gourds and beads, your feathers and drums, and dance your voodoo elsewhere, John.”

  With an inarticulate cry of rage, John Greyson lunged forward, clawlike fingers raking down Henry Stein’s face and grasping for his throat. Shouting, Drew Meyer and Billy Clay and Mark Perry grabbed the philosopher and pulled him away. Greyson looked about wild-eyed, then collapsed to his knees and wept into his hands.

  Breathing heavily and with a trickle of blood seeping down his cheek, Stein turned to Toni. “It is time for my final solution, no matter what any superstitious fool might say or do.”

  As Toni looked fretfully from Greyson to Stein, Mark Perry said, “I think Stein’s right: we ought to do what he says.”

  “This is no democracy, Mark,” snapped Toni, “and I’m not taking a vote. The decision is mine and mine alone to make.”

  “All set,” said Sheila, closing the panel and moving back from the modified CR.

  Stein looked at Toni, waiting. She glanced at the rigs then said, “If Avery hasn’t set them free by the time you are ready . . . then proceed.”

  Stein whirled to Drew Meyer. “Plug it in and start the countdown.”

  Billy Clay passed the power cord to Drew, and he inserted the plug into the nearest wall socket. Stein began keying switches, and display lights flickered on. Sheila and Billy started the calibration procedures.

  Behind Toni someone exclaimed, “Mother of Satan!” Toni turned; it was Kat Lawrence, and she pointed at the main holovid.

  There on the dais, above the DemonQueen’s throne . . .

  49

  Dark God

  (Itheria)

  With one hand outthrust and shielding his face from the heat of the fiery lava and the other hand gripping the bronze tongs, Kane fished the gem out from the magma even as Rith called for him and Trendel to return to the throne room. He lifted up the jewel and gingerly tapped a finger to it, then again, then handled it, then tossed it to Trendel, the gem cool to the touch in spite of having been submerged in the molten stone. The seer held it up and peered through it, looking at the enscribed glyph:

  And he frowned in puzzlement as something nagged at the edge of his mind, but before he could capture the elusive thought, again Rith called. “Let’s go,” rumbled Kane, dropping the tongs back onto the anvil, and he and Trendel strode from the chamber of the demonforge to join Arik and Ky at the bard’s side, Trendel jamming the gem into his own pocket as he went.

  As soon as they arrived, Rith said, “Quickly, Lyssa is dying. We must yield up energy to save her, else she is foredone. But do not touch her nor step too close, for I think in her state of weakness she will drain you to death.”

  Ky glanced up at the dais where Lyssa had fallen, then she looked down at Horax the Bastard’s corpse and her eyes widened in a shock of realization. “Oh god, oh god, I killed Horax, and even though we save Lyssa, she will forever be a ghost.”

  “This is no time for guilt,” snapped Rith. She turned to start up the steps of the dais but stopped, for in the air above the throne a vortex of spectral darkness began to manifest—ebony and sable and obsidian, shadow and smoke, dusk and night . . . all endlessly spiraling down into an unfathomable jet-black abyss.

  The Foxes drew weapons and backed away, especially Kane, for it seemed to them all as if they were looking into a bottomless pit.

  And then, emanating from the centerpoint of the slow-turning whorl, there came a towering androgynous voice:

  “I am the Nameless One, the Dark God, and I am sore displeased that you have banished My acolyte, the DemonQueen.” The spectrum of blackness slowed a moment then resumed its spin. “For such an affront to Me, I will slay you all, beginning with this undead abomination you name Lyssa.”

  “No!” cried Arik, raising his silver sword and starting up the steps. But the endless whorl spun faster and a wave of darkness billowed forth from the bottomless abyss to smash into Arik and hurl him backward to crash to the marble floor.

  “Fool! Who are you to challenge Me?”

  As Rith and Ky knelt by the stunned warrior’s side, Kane stepped forward and raised his spear and bellowed, “I challenge you, Dark God, Nameless One, coward! Bah! Just who or what do you think you are?”

  “Foolish mortal, you ask who I am, what I am? Then I will show you, but only you. Then you will know.”

  At that moment the Dark God vanished and so, too, did Kane.

  Desperate to find advantage, Trendel looked for something—anything—that would aid them. Powerful magic was needed, yet he was not trained to cast fire or lightning or such; instead his were the skills of a seer: finding, seeing, runes, glyphs, and—

  Glyphs! Perhaps! Perhaps I can tap into some kind of power! Even as he thought it, Trendel snatched the gem from his pocket and frowned in concentration, then cast a spell on the mysterious glyph within the jewel. Surprise filled his eyes, and again an elusive thought plucked at his mind, but then the throne room was filled with hoarse screams as the Dark God and Kane reappeared, unremitting horror in the warrior-healer’s eyes as he shrieked and shrieked in madness and collapsed to his knees and curled tightly into himself, burying his face in his hands but screaming still.

  Ky ran to him and tried to give comfort, but he paid her no heed as he howled in ceaseless terror.

  Arik struggled to his feet, and Rith stood as well. And they gripped their weapons and faced the dark spectrum and prepared to fight.

  But Trendel glanced at the red gem and called out above Kane’s muffled shrieks, “By your truename I command you to cease!”

  “Puny mortal, I am the Nameless One, none knows my truename.”

  “I speak it now and it is—it is . . .” Something pressed at Trendel’s mind, some knowledge deeply buried, a hidden ritual forgotten until now.

  “Fool!”

  “I speak it now and it is AIVR!”

  Momentarily the Dark God’s whorl stilled, then began turning anew. “Again I name you a fool, for now you must give up your own truename to me.”

  “Tr-Tr—” Once more the buried knowledge of the rite burst forth in his mind. “No, not Trendel. My truename is Rendell!”

  “Rendell.” The Dark God laughed. “Now I have you, mortal; you have given me your own truename and you cannot complete the rite, for the hidden word of power is known only to Me.” The whorl spun faster as if readying another black wave.

  Trendel clenched his fists and hesitated, knowing that all their fates hung in the balance, hung on a single word. Again buried knowledge surged into his consciousness. “Socrates!” he shouted. “Socrates is the hidden word of power!” The whirling totally stopped, and Trendel’s voice rang with authority. “And now I command you, foul AIVR, Nam
eless no more, release us from this place and return us where we belong!”

  And it seemed as if the entire world—the entire plane—screamed in agony: the castle, mountain, plains, sky, rings, stars, aethyr, the whole of creation bellowing in pain and rage and anguish and frustration. The dark spectrum began whirling again—faster it spun and faster, until it became but an obsidian blur. The castle began to shake, the floor to rumble, the juddering increasing in violence until pillars began to topple. Intense light burst forth from the gem, burning Trendel’s hand; he jerked in pain and cast it down to skitter across the marble, and a great crack split through the floor in its wake and clove the dais in twain. A wrenching jolt ripped through the palace, and where the crack had been a yawning crevasse fissured wide to swallow the gemstone. The blazing jewel tumbled down and down, searing bright rays stabbing forth as it plummeted into immeasurable depths. And from the bottomless pit there came a shattering explosion, rocking the entire world. The throne toppled into the chasm, and then the dais fell, carrying Lyssa down with it. “Lyssa!” cried Arik, and reeled forward as the floor lurched and heaved.

  “No!” cried Rith. “There’s nothing you can do! We’ve got to get out!”

  A great slab of the ceiling crashed down, choking dust billowing upward. Arik groaned and cast one last look at the black abyss and the Dark God shrieking madly and spinning wildly above, and then turned and helped Ky get screaming Kane to his feet. Through the halls they scurried, marble smashing down all about, tapestries falling, lintels crashing, arcades collapsing behind them as they ran, dragging shrieking Kane after, the big man’s eyes wide but seeing nothing as he screamed in endless horror. They fled into the courtyard just ahead of floors and ceilings and domes and turrets and towers crashing down. And as the castle fell inward, the mountain split in two, green lava belching forth. High above in the shrieking sky, great purple rings burned furiously, while unnumbered pustulant stars exploded simultaneously, rings of ebony light swelling outward like limitless black ripples in a vast malachite sea to act and interact and rebound. The burning lavender moon whirled up across the demonic heavens, the blazing moonlets following after, fire bellowing wildly as they were completely consumed. The black sun spun up over the horizon, a great bloated thing swelling and swelling to explode in a colossal blast. The green sky turned into a yellow-orange inferno, the very air aflame. And countless vast cracks shattered wholly through the world, cleaving it asunder, hurling the Black Foxes into the flaming aethyr. And then with a mighty detonation the entire demonplane blasted apart.

  50

  Three, Two, One . . .

  (Coburn Facility)

  Thirty-five . . . thirty-four . . . thirty-three . . .

  “Oh, my God, my God,” cried Toni, as turrets and spires and domes crashed down ’round the Foxes.

  Thirty-one . . . thirty . . .

  “Lord Vishnu, protect them,” fervently prayed Alya Ramanni.

  The mountain split in two and green lava vomited forth.

  Twenty-seven . . . twenty-six . . .

  “What’s happening?” asked Kat Lawrence as pustulant stars detonated beyond purple rings ablaze.

  Twenty-four . . .

  “They could all be killed, Kat,” answered Toni. “Just as Arthur Coburn was.”

  The furiously burning lavender moon whirled across the shrieking sky, moonlets aflame racing after.

  Kat jammed a cigarillo into the corner of her mouth and chewed furiously as the Foxes ran for their lives and the swollen black sun spun up over the horizon and exploded.

  Twenty . . . nineteen . . . eighteen . . .

  “Henry!” Toni called. “Hurry up! Else they’re all dead!”

  The green sky turned yellow orange and burst into fire.

  Fifteen . . . fourteen . . . thirteen . . .

  “The CR is nearly charged,” shouted Billy Clay. “We are in the last of the countdown now!”

  Suddenly innumerable cracks shattered the demonworld into countless hurtling fragments.

  Nine . . . eight . . .

  “Stop it! Stop it! Oh, stop it!” sobbed Greyson on the floor, “Don’t do this evil thing!” but no one paid him any heed, and weeping he scrambled on hands and knees toward the wall as with a mighty detonation the entire demonplane blasted apart.

  Six . . . five . . . four . . .

  “I’ve got brain patterns! I’ve got brain patterns!” shouted Grace Willoby.

  Two . . . one . . .

  “Henry, stop!” screamed Toni.

  Zero! Stein glanced up at her, then pushed the button.

  Nothing happened.

  Greyson sat giggling against the wall, his eyes vacant and staring, the CR power plug in his hand.

  Eric Flannery opened his eyes as medtechs swarmed about, working to free him from the gimbaled rig.

  “Did Alice make it? Oh, God, please let Alice be back.”

  But all he heard was Caine Easley screaming and screaming and screaming and . . .

  51

  Uncertain Future

  (Tucson)

  Some eleven weeks after the funeral, Hiroko Kikiro, Meredith Rodgers, Eric Flannery, and Timothy Rendell sat at a corner table in one of the many dining rooms of Casa Molina, the family-run restaurant—really an old adobe house converted generations past by the Mexican forbears of the current proprietors—located in the Presidio area of Tucson.

  Hiroko had packed up her art gallery in Santa Fe and had moved to Tucson to be near Caine Easely, the big man currently confined in the mental wing of the Catalina Crest Retreat.

  After her engagement to Timothy, and following Hiroko’s example, Meredith was currently in the process of opening a rare bookstore—Scrolls and Tomes and First Editions II—in the elegant foothills north of town.

  Eric, a native of Tucson, had spent most of this time thinking of the future and visiting Caine every day and keeping the others informed as to his progress. The big man had finally stopped continually screaming some twelve days after he had been extracted from the rig, and just five weeks past he had begun to feed himself.

  Timothy had been working long hours with the others at Coburn Industries to try to discover what had gone wrong.

  And slowly the weeks had passed.

  And now they sat in a dining room in Casa Molina to discuss the uncertain future, given what they had become.

  “Chugga, chugga, vroom,” growled Hiroko as she drove her blue-corn tortilla chip through the picante sauce then lifted it to her mouth and crunched off a corner, her black almond eyes dancing as she glanced at her three companions.

  Eric took another swig of Simpatico and held it a moment in his mouth, the cold beer soothing the jalapeño burn on his tongue.

  Meredith sat with the fingers of one hand entwined in Timothy’s. “I don’t see how you can even eat those things, Arik. They’re like little green thermite bombs.”

  Eric looked at her and smiled. “After you’ve lived here awhile, Rith, you get acclimated.”

  “Ha!” Meredith raised a skeptical eyebrow then turned to Timothy. “Tell me, O seer”—she picked up one of the small peppers—”just what would happen if I did pop this burner in my mouth?”

  “Let me look,” said Timothy. He frowned a moment in concentration, then said, “Oh, hell! Mark Perry is just about to walk in.”

  Eric groaned. “At lunchtime?” He quaffed another mouthful of beer.

  Hiroko made a face. “Does anyone want to talk to him?”

  Eric waved his bottle in a negative gesture.

  “Then sit still,” said Hiroko, and deep shadow gathered about the foursome.

  Moments later, they heard footsteps, and Mark Perry stuck his head in the doorway of their room and looked about, then moved on.

  “I wonder what he wants?” growled Meredith in the darkness. “Another deposition?”

  “Shh,” hissed Timothy, “he’ll hear us.”

  “No he won’t,” answered Meredith. “I took care of that.”

  Timothy
grinned in understanding.

  “Damn lawsuits,” growled Eric. “Picking over Arton’s bones. I’ll be glad when they get it settled and let him rest in peace.”

  Timothy shook his head. “The receivership of Coburn Industries won’t be settled for years . . . perhaps not in the lifetime of anyone sitting at this table.”

  Hiroko groaned and scooped up another chip of salsa.

  A minute later they saw Perry pass back by their door and in that same moment a waiter bearing a platter piled high with food came into the room and looked confusedly about. He was just turning to leave when Hiroko dropped the shadow. With a start the waiter juggled the platter, dishes clattering. Then shaking his head he moved to their table.

  Soon the four of them were digging into delicious carne secca wrapped in Mama Rosa’s handmade flour tortillas, washing it down with beer.

  “How’s Caine?” asked Timothy, pointing a fork at Hiroko.

  She nodded enthusiastically and chewed. Finally she swallowed then said, “He’s good. He recognized me. Told me what he’s been up to.”

  Meredith smiled. “More miracle cures?”

  Hiroko grinned. “Oh yes. A broken arm, a bleeding ulcer, and the like. He’s driving the Retreat staff mad trying to figure out just what’s happening. But so far, they haven’t caught him at it.”

  “I’ll say something to him tonight, caution him,” said Eric. “Hell, they’d study him like a bug under a microscope if they ever found him out.”

  Hiroko agreed. “I warned him this morning, but it never hurts to remind him.”

  “Any prognosis from that psychiatrist of his?” asked Timothy.

  Hiroko shrugged. “No change. She still believes that he will be years in therapy.”

  “I don’t think so,” said Timothy. “My casting said that he’ll be completely sane in, let me see, in another four weeks or so, assuming of course that he follows the main probability sequence and nothing happens to send him spinning off onto one of the alternate paths.”