by M. K. Gibson
The room I was in was cavernous and full of artificial light. I could not make out the ceiling, but it was at least twenty feet high. Best guess, I was still underground. Those markings Maz and I had seen in the earlier chamber were also present here. What he’d called “proto-Denochian.” All around were various models of computers and servers. The room looked like my father’s lab, my motor pool, and my workbench on an epic scale.
Great. I was apparently strapped to a bed in a mad scientist’s lab. How bad could that be?
If I had to guess, the lab I was in belonged to the mysterious “T” with the Slavic voice. But since I wasn’t dissected and obviously not dead, I reasoned they weren’t trying to kill me. In fact, I felt great. So I guessed they were trying to heal me. Maybe the sludge in the IV was actually a protein and mineral and element feed like I made for myself. I recall Grimm reporting that back on the communication I intercepted. A thought occurred to me. What if they were healing me up just to break me down? Grimm had put me through that mental and physical torture. Made me admit crap I didn’t even know was within me. What was his plan then? Do it all over again? Submit me to some arcane sacrifice? Screw that. I was feeling great now, and these manacles didn’t stand a chance. I went to break free yet again, and nothing happened.
Nothing.
Nada.
Other than my head and neck, nothing moved. I tried commanding my body to do my bidding and there I was, motionless. Huh. What did he do? More surprising was that my heart rate monitor wasn’t spiking. Just a constant, steady beeping.
From the distance I heard a loud clank, wheeze, pop, hiss, and electrical discharge zzzap. And the damned quirky thing was, the sounds were getting closer. Hell, what now?
I turned my heard toward the noise and past the bright industrial lights I saw an archway that led into the room. A huge archway. It had to be because it was soon filled by the ten-foot-tall mechsquatch from the night I met Father Grimm, after the ants. As it moved toward me, I saw that it was an incredibly elaborate and complex clockwork electrical frame. Roughly humanoid, it had six arms and three legs that worked in illogical harmony. Two giant Tesla coils were on its back, arcing power. Brass and copper tubing covered the contraption. Electricity crackled down the frame. It continued stomping toward me, deliberately and methodically. As it grew closer I saw that there were actually two smaller complete mechanized robotic frames within the larger, one that was about seven feet tall and a smaller five-foot one. A robotic matryoshka doll.
The mech came to a halt. With a pneumatic hiss the seven-foot one disembarked from the larger rig. Then, the five-foot popped free from the previous one and scuttled about. The small mech scurried over to me. Its joints moved fluidly, yet its motions resembled a toddler’s.
“Dobar dan!” came a chipper Slavic voice from the small mech’s external speakers. The creature was a robotic, barrel-chested humanoid, with four arms, two legs and an ultra-def panoramic camera for a head. The barrel chest split down the center and slid apart, revealing—I shit you not—a human head in a clear-fluid-filled jar. I meet the most interesting people.
I recognized the voice.
“Umm, hello. You must be ‘T,’” I said.
“Da,” the speakers said. The head in the jar didn’t move its lips. As the small mech moved, I noticed a series of wires and tubes plugged into the back of T’s head. I figured the camera and the speaker system was wired directly into T’s brain. If my dad was here, he would have geeked out. Hell, I was geeking out a little. This was some kind of ancient pre-cyborg. I couldn’t see any kind of power supply on T, nor on the middle rig. Only the coils on the main mech’s bulk.
Oh, no freaking way.
Slavic, obvious wireless power coils, “T”?
“Excuse me, but um, are you Nicola Tesla?” I asked.
“Da,” T said, as he checked some nearby computer monitor.
“Holy shit! You are awesome! My dad idolized you! Every time my dad would come up with a new invention he would say, ‘Bet this would make ol’ Nicky T proud. Fuck Edison!’” I exclaimed.
“Heh, da. Edison was asshole,” he said.
Trapped underground by a sociopath immortal, tortured, and paralyzed aside, how often do you meet one of your idols? Wow. My mood seemed to have taken a dramatic upswing. Almost too much of an improvement considering what I went through in the last nine days. As I thought about it, it was impossible to feel bad. I looked over at the IV bags.
“So, Mr. Tesla, what are you pumping into me that makes me feel so good?” I asked.
“Oh, that. Da. Goof-juice. You know, you just been through the torture, da? Many days of starvation and mind games. Is bad for body and soul. Perhaps you now . . . idiot? Hmm. We make you happier when wake up, da. Is easier to have conversation and you adjust better. Limit PTSD.”
Hell, I had enough demons in my past from the wars to fuel my nightmares for all the lifetimes I had yet to live. What was one more?
Wow. What was in that stuff? No matter how this turned out, I had to get the recipe or a standing prescription. It made everything really groovy. Speaking of things that should be shocking me, but somehow seemed passé . . .
“So, why can’t I move? A paralytic?” I asked.
“Ne,” he responded. “I have had discussion with your Collective. We are in agreement; you need upgrades if they are to continue the living. Da? So, they shut you down for time being. When upgrades complete, they return you to proper mobility. Oh, and no ‘Mr. Tesla.’ Long time since that. T is fine. Or Nicky T. Da. I like. Sound like mobster. Put hands in air, give me your monies.”
Wait, what? Now that raised a spike in my mood. “You communicated with my Collective?”
“Da. Is what I said. Should be good to go in few hours. Best you sleep. Some pain you will be having,” he warned.
“Wait Mr. Tes-, damn, um T, you and Grimm aren’t torturing me anymore then?” I asked. Normally I consider myself a pretty bright guy. However, the last few days had kind of knocked me off my game. I was pretty sure I had just been tortured by the guy who co-wrote the book that put women to death during the witch hunts, besides being chummy with Hitler.
One of T’s arms grabbed a clipboard and held it to his camera.
“Ne. No torture on schedule. If like, I could hook your balls up to power coupling for giggles and shits?”
“Did you just tell a joke, Nick?”
“Da. Am funny guy in old age. You sleep now. Answers come soon.”
T flicked a switch on a device that controlled my IV flow and next thing I knew, I was back to the dreamless sleep I had missed the last nine days. Having no idea what is going to happen to you is strangely liberating. So I just went with it and passed out.
********
I awoke again in a strange room. This was becoming a habit. A bad one that was really starting to piss me off.
Pissed off? Well, no more happy juice, I guess.
As I opened my eyes to look around, everything was shades of reds, yellows, blues, and white. It was like the vision of the Predator in the classic action flick. Holy crap, was I seeing in infra-red? I could see the faint outline of rapidly cooling footprints on the cold blue floor. I shook my head a little and closed my eyes. When I opened them again it was like seeing everything in pale green. The room’s features were clear in dark luminescent tones. Night vision. I didn’t know what Nick did to me, but this was kind of awesome. I heard footfalls coming. The door opened. Light from the hallway poured in and my eyes burned from the light flare. I closed them tight until the pain receded.
When the pain was gone, I saw in normal vision. And what I saw was disturbing. Father Grimm sitting at the edge of the bed I was in, smiling.
With soup. Ugh.
“So,” I began with all the verbal skill of an introverted freshman at his first boy-girl dance. “What’s next?”
“You eat the soup, get up, get dressed and join me in my study. Down the hall. It is the circular room where I first encountered
you and your associate.”
“Wait, that’s it? Eat this fucking soup and get your ass down to my office?”
“Essentially.” Grimm said.
“You fucking tortured me.”
“And?”
“And?! For what reason?”
Grimm took a moment. “I needed you to come to the realization that no man is an island. I needed you to know what it was like to be weak and helpless for once. I needed you to know you only continued to live because another person took pity on you and allowed it,” he said. His tone was one of a professor giving a lecture.
“And you needed to starve me and torture me to do that?”
“Torture? Hunger and sleep deprivation hardly counts as torture. What I did to you had a purpose. And, I assume, was nothing compared to what you have already been through. You claim to have lived through G-Day and subsequent wars. So did I. I know what mankind lived, fought, and suffered through. I too was there. I do not apologize for my actions. Cease seeking it. If that is what you want from me, you will not find it.”
I opened my mouth to yell some kind of unique, obscenity-laden rant, but then I stopped. He was right. The first Demon War was literal hell on earth. We suffered and fought over and over. Loss after loss.
The first war lasted years. We lived without electricity. Without heat. Without food. We found ways to survive, to fight back. But horrible ways.
Dark, inhuman ways.
Yeah, I’d suffered worse than what Grimm had done to me. And in the weirdest way, what he’d done to me had been a kindness. He’d forced me to say some things aloud I hadn’t said since way back then.
I looked away from Grimm. “How is Maz?” I asked, changing the subject.
“The demon still lives. For now. He has been asleep the entire time.”
I nodded my head, relieved to hear my friend was OK, although I had no idea what this meant for his position as a bishop. Maybe he could lie and say he was on an assignment? Unfortunately, that was Maz’s problem. I had this crazy mage to deal with.
“You know, I’ve seen some pretty damning evidence that places you at some pretty horrible periods in time with some pretty horrible people.”
“Yes.”
“Do you deny it?”
“No. I do not.” Grimm said, standing. “What you need to know is that for good things to happen, good people cannot surround themselves with the like-minded. Change must happen at the heart of the darkness, not on the bright and sunny fringes. I have always been in the darkest of places at the darkest of times. And yes, usually with the darkest of people. I often take good people into dark places to accomplish what I must. But to do so, I must know who they are. Who they truly are, inside. Now, if you wish to know more, do as I requested. Eat your soup and then join me in the study.” Grimm turned to leave.
“I thought I came here tonight to find the Devil,” I called out to him as he left the room.
“What makes you think he has not already found you?” he answered over his shoulder, walking away from me.
I thought about what he said. All of it. He was right.
My suffering, I guess, was necessary. In his own messed up way, that was his vetting process. And considering he set me up to be attacked by mechanical ants, then later cut my throat, being hung on a rack for a nine-day diet wasn’t so bad.
Or at least that was what I would tell myself and my nonexistent therapist.
Thinking about Grimm, I guessed it was easy to condemn the actions of evil while safe in the light. It takes courage to march in the dark and take the light with you. Most events in history that resulted in good outcomes came not by proclamation or declaration, but by the blood of those willing to do what was necessary in the coldest, hottest, meanest, and darkest of places.
I sat up in the bed and stretched. No pain whatsoever. My clothes were gone, but I was clean and the weight I had lost, as my body fed upon itself to keep me alive, was back. That sludge Nicky T was pumping into me must have been pretty hearty.
I ate the soup. A creamy tomato bisque with chunks of meat and the right amount of pepper. When I finished, I placed the tray and bowl on the nightstand. I found a folded pile of clothes on a dresser along with my coat and all my gear.
Well, mostly. It was obvious someone had tinkered with my tech bracers and my pistols. T, probably. The gear seemed to be in working order, but I would need to run a diagnostic when I returned to my lair.
I caught a glimpse of myself in the dresser’s mirror. I had about an extra twenty-plus pounds of mass. Not fat, just mass. My musculature was bigger and a bit more dense than usual. Something told me that the conversation Nicky had with my Collective went well. I would need to ask him about it. They had already altered my eyes to see in different spectrums. I wondered what else they had done to me. I felt great, more energetic. Maybe they gave me a complete upgrade.
After I put on the clothes set out for me—a pair of jeans, my boots, a synth replica of my vintage black Social D t-shirt, and my density coat—I headed toward the study. I walked into the circular-stepped room and it reminded me a lot of Connor MacLeod’s trophy room in the old movie Highlander. Only on a grander scale. The room was lit by candles again, as well as the glowing glyphs and sigils. I got a better look at the bookshelves. They were stacked with row upon row of books from all ages, in all languages and subjects. This truly was a repository of the old world’s literary knowledge. It reminded me of my movie collection. I immediately began to assess the value of the objects in the room on the open market.
Father Grimm was at the center of the lowered dais. With him were T and an unconscious Maz in a chair. He wasn’t strapped down, just asleep in the chair, with an IV. Good. At least they had kept him healthy. Also, the bodies on the hospital gurneys we had previously seen were present. T and Grimm were checking vitals and working with odd scanning equipment. It appeared they were trying to solve something. Like an old medical TV show.
“So, what’s the prognosis, doctor? This guy not make it through Grimm’s welcoming ritual?” I asked aloud. Might as well start this, whatever it was, with some gallows humor.
“Doctor,” T addressed me.
“Doctor,” I addressed him back. Obviously Nick was a Spies Like Us fan. I knew I was going to like him. Father Grimm just looked at us with no expression, yet his mask spoke volumes. He was not amused. So what else was new?
I looked over at Maz. “So, when will he wake up?” I asked.
“Soon. The spell I placed on him will wear off shortly. Please keep him in line upon his awakening. As far as he will be concerned, no time will have passed. I have no love for the demon kind. I will not tolerate improper behavior,” Grimm said. I simply nodded.
“What is wrong with them?” I asked, referring to the bodies.
“That is what we are attempting to discern,” Grimm said as he read diagnostic reports.
“I figured that,” I said. “Any leads?”
“Ne,” Nick said. “They sleep, and no wake. Brain scan is inconclusive. Life signs normal. They should be awake, yet, coma. Interesting, da?”
“Yeah, da. Where did you find them?” I asked.
“Various places around New Golgotha.”
I paused a moment, something tickling my memory. “I saw something on the news about this the other night. It’s been happening a lot now, right?”
“Yes,” Grimm answered, still involved in his examination. “It is a growing trend I was turned on to by Ricky. And this isn’t the first time.”
“When did you see it before?”
“London, England. Whitechapel, 1888 was one of the times,” Father Grimm said without looking up.
“Heh, Whitechapel?” I asked. “You Jack the Ripper too?”
“Yes. I was,” he said.
“What? Really?”
“Yes,” Grimm said while he continued working.
“Why did you kill those women? Why the From Hell letters?” I asked, shocked.
“Those women, those w
hores, were witches. Members of an ancient coven I’d been tracking for very long time. They were attempting dark and horrid rites. What the rites were, I am to this day unsure of. However, the victims, their johns, were left behind in catatonic states like this. Alive, but not. So I attempted to learn what they were doing. When they would not talk, I had to bring down their coven. I wrote the letter so the police would think it was the work of a madman and approach it as such.”
“How long have you been killing people?” I asked, a touch disgusted.
“How long have you?” he asked.
I began a smart mouth reply of defense. And stopped. I was no saint. I had killed. And not always righteously. When I did not answer, he nodded, his point proven. He continued.
“I have taken lives in the pursuit of stopping wicked men and women. I have killed over and over. Enough to create oceans of blood. All in the name of protecting the innocent. I do not care if you approve of me or condone my actions. But I will not abide your judgment. Above all, above every human on this planet, above every person who ever lived, I alone have the right to smite the wicked as if I were God himself.”
That was heavy.
“This,” he gestured to the bodies, “is why you are here. Rictus brought this to my attention. And since he is incapable of leaving his den of sin, I have need of an assistant. Someone capable. Someone long-lived who was not a product of this world to help me as I carry out my investigations. This epidemic has been growing and I need to find out why. Why now after all this time.”
“Why not just use T? He seems capable enough.” I nodded to the small mech with the head in a jar. Yeesh, how often do you get to do that in your life? T saluted me.
“Tesla is formidable. But he is not able to pass through the streets unnoticed, despite the growth and variety of cybernetic individuals. Besides, I require T to be here conducting his work in peace.”