Or maybe he was just trying to figure out whether the alligator was a hairbrush.
But no, the child’s hairbrush was on her bureau, and a wastebasket was at the foot of her bed. The black-clad stranger collected both items and headed back for the stairs, a wastebasket in each hand, hairbrushes in each wastebasket.
“Stop him!” Johnston called to the airmen in the family room.
The pair blocked the foot of the stairs, and the pale stranger stopped and simply stood, as if waiting for them to step aside.
“You aren’t going to let him go, sir?” the lieutenant asked.
“I don’t think so,” Johnston said. “Not yet, anyway. He’s got what he came for, I’d say—but why does he want them?”
“Trash, sir?” one of the airmen at the foot of the stairs asked. “He just took the trash?”
“And hairbrushes,” the lieutenant said.
“What good would that be to anyone?” the airman who had accompanied the officers asked.
“Maybe he’s gonna use voodoo on someone,” the airman who hadn’t previously spoken suggested. “Get some hair and nail-parings for the voodoo doll, y’know?”
“God knows this guy looks like a zombie!” said the airman beside him.
The others smiled, but Johnston looked at the back of the stranger’s head and seriously considered it.
It was true, this guy did look like a walking corpse.
Jewell and Thorpe had said that there was a universe on the other side of the basement wall where magic, or something one hell of a lot like magic, really worked.
Maybe this fellow was a zombie. Maybe his master had sent him after hair and fingernail clippings.
He didn’t smell like a corpse; there was an odd, meaty, slightly sweet odor clinging to him, all right, but Johnston had smelled corpses, and this odor was definitely not the stink of a dead body.
Maybe, if he was a zombie, the odor had something to do with the magic that had brought him back from the dead.
“Put him back on the couch,” Johnston ordered.
The airmen grabbed the stranger by the arms and hauled him into the family room. He didn’t resist, didn’t protest, just went along as if it didn’t matter in the slightest what he did, or what happened to him.
The lieutenant’s theory that the man was autistic did seem to fit—but so did the idea that he was a zombie.
“Come on,” Johnston said. “I want to see the basement.”
* * * *
“So that dead woman we found on Beckett was Shadow, and an Earthman is running the show in her world now,” Albright said.
“If Hall is right about what she picked up from Thorpe, yes,” Bascombe replied.
“But Thorpe’s a renegade—we can’t trust anything she says,” Markham pointed out.
“She’s a telepath, and she was talking to another telepath,” Albright said. “I can’t lie to a telepath; can she?”
“And this doesn’t account for Thorpe’s brief appearance in normal space in an unnamed system a hundred light-years from Beckett,” Bascombe pointed out.
“That could have been anything,” Albright said, waving it away. “It had to be Shadow sending her through, for some reason, and Shadow’s dead, so what does it matter?”
“It might,” Bascombe said. “Somehow.”
“I doubt it,” Albright replied.
“Suppose we wait before we leap to conclusions,” Markham suggested. “Under-Secretary Bascombe has sent a scouting party into Shadow’s universe, after all; why don’t we wait and see whether this man Best can confirm Shadow’s demise?”
“And if Shadow is dead?” Albright asked. “What do we do about this Earthman who replaced her?”
“Why don’t we just wait until we hear from Best?” Markham answered.
* * * *
Johnston crossed the basement, ignoring the card table, radio, folding chairs, and video set-up—which, of course, had run out of tape at the crucial moment.
He stared at the bare concrete wall; it appeared perfectly ordinary in the light of the bare bulbs overhead. Johnston glanced up at the lights, then turned his attention back to the wall.
“There’s no opening now,” he said. “I wonder how he expected to get back?”
“I don’t know,” the lieutenant said. “I don’t know how the hell he got in here in the first place.”
“You didn’t see any opening here?” Johnston asked, gesturing at the blank wall.
“No, sir—not a thing.”
Johnston frowned. He put out a hand, not knowing what he was looking for, and attempted to tap the wall.
His hand vanished into seemingly-solid concrete; astonished, he staggered, thrown off-balance. Both hands went out, grabbing at concrete that wasn’t there, and he stumbled forward, through the wall.
He caught himself just short of going down on one knee and stared at the blaze of shimmering, shifting color before him. The cool, dusty air of the Browns’ basement was suddenly thin, sharp, clean, crackling with electricity and redolent of sweat and cold meat; he felt suddenly heavy, the way he sometimes felt the loss of buoyancy upon climbing out of a pool.
He couldn’t see anything but colors, as if he were trapped in some incredible light show.
None of them, Jewell and Thorpe and Deranian, had mentioned anything like this inside the portals; they’d said the transition was instantaneous. If he’d gone through a portal, shouldn’t he have come out somewhere?
“Hello?” he said.
* * * *
As he settled back on the dark wood of his throne, Pel had the uneasy feeling that there was something Susan was not telling him.
He didn’t know what it could be; he believed her when she said she didn’t remember being dead, and he believed her explanation of why she had tried to shoot Shadow, but he was sure there was something that she was not saying about her recent experiences.
Did she know something about why the fetch was taking so long? He didn’t see how she could; after all, he was the magician, not her. He was the one who could turn a dead body into a fetch, or bring it back to life entirely. He could sense everything that touched magic, through all the world, and she was just an ordinary human being—a lawyer.
What could she know that he didn’t?
He was trying to think of some way to ask her when a man stumbled out of the portal.
Startled, Pel let his partial suppression of the matrix’ visual manifestations slip. He could still see perfectly well, of course, but anyone else would be blinded by the barrage of light, color, and shadow.
He thought for a moment that the fetch had returned, and wondered why he had been startled, but then he got a better look at the new arrival.
It was a man of medium height, middle-aged, a few pounds overweight, and wearing the uniform of an officer in the United States Air Force.
He was unquestionably alive, and not a fetch. He was staring blindly into the matrix glare, eyes watering.
“Hello?” he said.
Pel was in no mood for new complications; for several seconds he considered magically shoving the stranger back through the portal, or even just flash-frying him—burning him to ash would actually be much easier, since it just meant unleashing a little wild energy, where pushing him meant directing controlled energy while maintaining the portal.
But burning him would be murder, and Pel was astonished that it had taken him so long, a good three or four seconds, to realize this.
Besides, this man might know what had become of the fetch, and where the hairbrushes and wastebaskets were.
“Hello,” Pel said, letting the matrix amplify and distort his voice into an echoing roar. “Who the hell are you?” he demanded, as he began fighting down the matrix glow.
“Major Reginald Johnston, U.S. Air Force,” the stranger said, squinting through glare. “And you, I take it, are Pellinore Brown?”
Chapter Nine
“I want my fetch,” Pel said. “And those hairbrushes, and stu
ff.”
“No problem,” Johnston said. “You keep the portal open, and I’ll send him right through.” He reached inside his uniform jacket. “Let me leave my card—if you or Ms. Nguyen comes back to Earth, I’d appreciate a call.”
Pel blinked at him, at the proffered business card—the little white pasteboard rectangle seemed weirdly out of place here in Faerie, in Shadow’s throne room, lit by the light of the great matrix.
He accepted it, not with his hand, but with a tendril of magical energy. From Johnston’s point of view the card simply sailed through the air to Pel of its own volition, but Pel could see the strands of magic supporting it, the twisted shape of the air that carried it to him.
“And if there’s anyone you’d like me to contact—your firm, perhaps, Ms. Nguyen?”
Susan didn’t reply; Pel glanced at her sharply as he picked the card out of the air.
“Sure, tell them she’s okay,” he said.
Pel remembered that he had two sisters, a mother, and some friends back on Earth who might be worrying about him; he was about to mention that when Johnston spoke again.
“While I understand why you’re staying here, Mr. Brown,” Johnston said, “why is Ms. Nguyen? You aren’t holding her against her will, are you?”
“No!” Pel snapped. He frowned and glanced at Susan again.
She wasn’t moving; she was just standing there, watching the two men.
“She’s free to go,” Pel said. “If she wants to go back to Earth, she can.” He hesitated, then added, “I admit I enjoy her company here, though.”
“Ms. Nguyen?”
Susan shrugged, and Pel felt a surge of anger. Why was she doing this? She was acting like a zombie; this Major Johnston would think that she was drugged, or hypnotized.
“Answer him,” Pel said.
“I’m fine, Major,” Susan said. “Thank you for your concern.”
Johnston was studying her from a few feet away, but then he shrugged, just as she had a moment before. “Whatever you like,” he said. “Mr. Brown, thank you for your cooperation. You don’t mind if I leave a man stationed in your house until you return to Earth?”
“Not at all,” Pel said, not really concerned. That was on Earth; he wasn’t going back to Earth until he could bring Nancy and Rachel with him.
“Um…if you don’t mind my asking…”
“Yes, Major?”
“Have you had any contact recently with the Galactic Empire? I mean, since you reached this place?” He gestured at the throne room.
Johnston had explained about the investigation, about questioning Amy and Prossie and poor Ted, but the inquiry still somehow struck Pel as odd—a major in the U.S. Air Force, in uniform and on duty, talking about a Galactic Empire?
Pel had gotten accustomed to the reality of this strange new world he had found himself in, this not-quite-a-story of wizards and spaceships and monsters where he had inadvertently become master of an entire universe, but it still seemed bizarre and somehow wrong that it could interact so freely with the normal, everyday world of Earth. An Air Force officer didn’t belong in Shadow’s fortress, and shouldn’t be worrying about the Galactic Empire.
But here Johnston was, with a serious question.
“No,” Pel said. “Why do you ask?”
Johnston hesitated. “I’m not sure whether I should be telling you this, but…what the hell. The Empire sent a scouting party through their space warp recently—four men climbed down a ladder in Ms. Jewell’s back yard, and were taken into custody.”
“What did they want?” Pel asked, puzzled.
“I don’t know,” Johnston said. “I’d like to find out.”
“They won’t say?” Before Johnston could answer, Pel remembered his stay at Base One. “No, they won’t, will they? Bunch of pompous idiots.”
Johnston smiled.
“Okay, well, I don’t know anything about it,” Pel said. “It isn’t really any of my business unless they come poking around here, but if I find out anything I’ll send a message through. This isn’t America here, but I’m still a U.S. citizen, I guess—I sure don’t owe the Empire any favors!”
Johnston nodded. “Thank you, Mr. Brown. That’s all we ask.”
“Yeah, well,” Pel said, “I ask for my fetch back.”
* * * *
Best sighed and leaned back against the tree.
Two hundred miles to Shadow’s fortress—that was going to be a damned long walk.
He would have to walk, though—the locals didn’t seem to have any other means of transportation. They knew what horses were, but seemed to take his questions about buying one as nonsense—apparently only the hereditary nobility rode on horseback. And oxen were just for plowing, as far as he could see.
Oxen would be impossibly slow, in any case.
Well, maybe he wouldn’t have to travel the entire distance to find out what was going on; surely, news and rumor would spread. So far he hadn’t picked up anything useful, but he and his men were still out in the sticks.
At least, he thought as he looked around at the muddy, malodorous little yard where he’d traded an hour’s labor in the fields for a meal and directions, he hoped they were still out in the sticks.
* * * *
Pel watched as Johnston stepped warily into the portal and vanished, back to Pel’s own basement back on Earth.
Someday, when he had Nancy and Rachel back, when he got tired of playing with the matrix magic, got tired of this medieval mess of a world with its stone walls, its goddess worship, its open sewers, Pel would want to step back through just such a portal. He wondered if he could do that with one of his own creation.
Probably not. He’d have to get Taillefer back here and have him do it.
This Johnston seemed like a sensible sort, really—not at all like the assholes running the Galactic Empire, Carson and Southern and the others, and not like the ignorant barbarians who made up most of Pel’s own empire.
Or maybe it was just a matter of cultural differences, since after all, Johnston was a fellow American, and whatever else the Imperials and the locals might be, they weren’t that. Maybe they weren’t really stupid; they’d just grown up with a completely different background. Pel knew that foreigners weren’t stupid back on Earth, despite what the bigots might say, and he supposed it must be the same with these people.
In any case, it was good to know something of what was happening back on Earth, good to know that Johnston was there, that there was someone to contact in case of emergency. Pel didn’t feel anywhere near as isolated as he had just a few moments before.
Of course, that assumed that Johnston had been honest, and Pel would have a possible indication of that in just a few minutes, when his fetch either returned or didn’t.
Johnston certainly seemed honest enough, and intelligent—he had figured out who Pel was readily enough, and he had asked about the Empire…
Pel frowned. What was the Empire up to? Why would they send men to Earth? The crew of Ruthless had said they were there to make an alliance against Shadow, but this new batch, from Johnston’s description, wasn’t doing anything like that.
The Empire seemed to be spying on Earth—but it was Shadow that had been the enemy.
Then wouldn’t they be spying on Shadow, as well? Or rather, since Shadow was dead, on him?
As that thought struck him he felt a sudden twinge, something in the matrix, somewhere…he took a moment to analyze the still-unfamiliar sensations the matrix transmitted.
It was somewhere outside the fortress, somewhere far away, but not too far—still on the near side of the world. When he tried, he could sense the world’s curvature, could feel the matrix reaching around to meet itself, as well as stretching up beyond the atmosphere and down deep into the stone below; compared with all that, this new thing was close by, but he knew it was miles away.
He’d felt it before, he remembered. He had felt the same odd twist in the matrix when Athelstan had first suggested dissecti
ng one of the fetches.
Pel suddenly made a connection.
The Empire probably was spying on him—and that’s what he felt. He guessed that they’d reopened the space-warp out in the forest where Christopher had crashed. They’d opened it when Athelstan made his suggestion. They’d opened it then and sent someone through, and now they’d opened it again—to get a report, maybe?
That was annoying; Pel didn’t like the idea of being spied on, and he didn’t much want to get involved with the Empire again.
But it didn’t matter. If Johnston sent back the fetch Pel could bring back Nancy and Rachel, and then he wouldn’t care what the goddamned Galactic Empire did.
* * * *
“I say we should send a telepath,” Albright said. “This dropping a ladder and waiting for messages is stupid. It’s a half-assed, asinine idea, relying on this when we could send a telepath and have instant reports whenever we want them.”
“Sir,” Bascombe said, “may I respectfully remind you that the only telepath to ever leave Imperial space went rogue, and is still loose? Do we really want to risk the loss of another?”
“Bascombe’s right, for once,” Markham said. “We don’t have enough telepaths to send one along with every single expedition. Especially since the freaks can’t even read minds once they’re there.”
“Well, damn it…”
“However,” Secretary Markham added, cutting off Albright’s objection, “I think we might be well advised to see if our mutant friends can pick up a link to Shadow’s world. They’ve read minds there before, haven’t they? Have we tried to follow Best’s actions from here?” He turned and looked at his own personal telepath.
“I didn’t work on that project, sir,” the telepath answered, “and I haven’t gone over it all consciously, but it’s certainly true that some minds in Shadow’s world can be read. Not very many, but more than on Earth. As for reading Captain Best’s mind, I couldn’t say whether it’s possible or not. I would suggest that the Halls would be best suited to make the attempt, as Carolyn Hall maintained contact with her cousin Thorpe for some time while Thorpe was in that universe, and Brian Hall has had considerable experience in interdimensional communication.”
The Reign of the Brown Magician Page 10