Universe Vol1Num2

by Jim Baen's Universe

  She did not speak or even move as he let himself out. Jameson was tired but sleep eluded him. He had total faith in The Commission's magic geeks when they assured him that Karla couldn't possibly attack him. Yeah, right. They gave the assurances but it was his neck not theirs. How the hell had he volunteered for this? You killed suckers, as quickly and safely as possible, before they killed you. What you didn't do was have them over as houseguests. He listened intently but all he could hear was his heart, thump, thump, thump. Come to think of it, she could probably hear it too. Jameson checked his rail pistol was charged and rolled over.

  When he woke, it was mid afternoon. The flat was as silent as the grave. Jameson winced; the metaphor was unattractive. He put his robe on and knocked gently on Karla's door. There was no answer so he pushed it open. The room was just as he had left it, the bed unruffled. There was no evidence that she had ever been in it. Where the hell was she?

  He found her in the lounge, sitting cross-legged on the floor, in the darkest corner, to the side of the window. He almost drew the curtains; cursing himself gently, he turned on the light instead. She had a book open on her lap. She must have been reading in the dim light. He made a note that her night vision was extraordinary.

  Reading was a good sign. It suggested her mind was functioning. "What attracted your interest, hmm, the complete works of William Shakespeare. You like the Bard, then."

  Jameson had read English Lit. at Cambridge. He had obtained a good rowing blue and a poor third class degree. Two sorts of people went to Oxford and Cambridge in Jameson's day. The first group was state school geeks with oversized brains; they generally got firsts. The second group was the public school educated sons and daughters of the cream of society, that is the thick and the rich. They spent three years networking and clubbing, and got thirds. It was very unfashionable to get a second since it implied that you were too geeky to enjoy the social life and too dim to cut the academic mustard.

  He had kept his course books after graduating. Many of them were still unopened, but they filled the spaces on his shelves nicely. His Shakespeare, however, was well thumbed.

  "What are you reading? The Sonnets? You have a taste for romanticism, then." She did not answer but it was important that he keep communicating with her so he took the book from her hands and read from the open page.

  "In the old age black was not counted fair, or if it were, it bore not beauty's name; but now is black beauty's successive heir, and beauty slander'd with a bastard's shame."

  He flicked down the page. "Thou art as tyrannous, so as thou art, as those whose beauties proudly make them cruel; for well thou know'st to my dear doting heart . . . Thy black is fairest in my judgement's place, in nothing art though black save in thy deeds, and hence this slander, as I think, proceeds."

  "The Dark Lady Sonnets!" he said. Jameson had a soft spot for these poems. His one attempt at amateur dramatics had been a part in Shaw's play based on the Dark Lady of the Sonnets. His girlfriend of the moment had played The Lady so he had been persuaded to play the Beefeater. He had a scant dozen line of dialogue. The only one he could remember now had been something like "Halt, who goes there?" The girlfriend had dumped him right afterwards for the smooth bastard who played the romantic lead, young Will Shakespeare, himself. But Jameson's interest in Shakespeare had been awakened and had never quite died.

  "He was so young," she said "but his words hung in the air."

  "You were there?" he said. "You heard the Bard?" Jameson gazed at her in astonishment and increasing excitement. The rational side of his mind insisted that coincidences like this did not happen. But the romantic part whispered that it was not impossible.

  "Are you really that old, Karla? Could you have met Shakespeare?" he said, doubtfully.

  "The poet's words were like quicksilver, like fire in my head," she said, "and he loved me."

  "He loved you?" said Jameson, in astonishment. He paced the room, excitement mounting. Could she lie in her current state? Why would she lie? Do suckers fantasise? He knew so little about her kind. Mostly, he just killed them.

  "I wish I had paid more attention to Gimpy Harris' lectures," Jameson said. Gimpy Harris was Professor Auberon Harris, an eminent Shakespearean scholar. Jameson had slept off several hangovers through his lectures.

  "What did Gimpy say about the Dark Lady?" Jameson ticked the points off on his fingers. "She was older than Shakespeare. She was probably not an aristocrat. He called her black because of both her colouring and the wickedness in her heart. She was devious and unfaithful. Loving her was wrong in some way. The Bard was almost vicious in his denunciation of his love for her and the damage it would do to his soul."

  He thumbed through the Dark Lady arc with a new eye. "Then will I swear beauty herself is black, and all they foul that thy complexion lack."

  "So shalt thou feed on death, that feeds on men, and death once dead, there's no more dying then."

  "Read in one way, that could have come straight out of the Necronomicon–the Book of The Dead," whispered Jameson. Oh this surely was not possible.

  "For I have sworn thee fair and thought thee bright, who art as black as hell, as dark as night."

  "He's talking about the undead, the creatures of the night!" said Jameson, belief starting to overcome scepticism.

  "In loving thee thou know'st I am forsworn . . . For I have sworn thee fair; more perjur'd I, to swear against the truth so foul a lie."

  "Oh my God, it's all here. The Dark Lady was a black-haired vampire, the undead who feed on death so that they never die, a creature of the night. His soul was foresworn for loving her." Jameson was stunned. He had read these passages a hundred times and seen them simply as the record of an unfortunate love affair. That was the problem with Shakespeare. There were so many ways to interpret the words, depending on the reader's mindset.

  He knelt down beside her and pushed the hair out of her eyes. "What do you remember, Karla? What secrets are locked in your head? Gimpy would have sold his soul for an hour with you." That might have been literally true but Gimpy would still have paid the price.

  "It's been so long," she said.

  "Do you understand what was happening to you, Karla?" he said. "You were regressing fast. Soon, you would have been completely animal. Then you would have made a fatal mistake. Well, you are going to be kicked out of it now."

  ****

  Jameson gunned the Jaguar up the North Circular. London's north western inner ring road is a driver's delight. Large roundabouts connect stretches of urban duel carriageway, offering a constant challenge. Karla was a particular temptation as speed thrilled her and she urged him on, not that he ever needed much encouragement.

  The player had selected Franz Ferdinand. "You see her, you can't touch her. You hear her, you can't hold her."

  Tonight he was barely getting into his stride when a large Ford attached itself to his tail. Jameson dropped a gear and accelerated away from it. The Ford followed and deployed hidden blue flashing lights and a familiar bee-boo noise.

  "Damn, I seem to have picked up the only patrol car in London. Let me do the talking," Jameson said.

  "You want her, you can't have her. You want to, she won't let you."

  He pulled over, killed the player and lowered the driver's window. "Who do we think we are then, sir, Michael Schumacher?" Only London's Metropolitan Police could make the word "sir" sound so deeply insulting.

  "No, Officer. I think I'm a diplomat. My passport." Jameson handed it over. The bobby examined it with his torch. It was a perfectly good passport that declared Jameson to be an attaché of the Republic of Hamrandi. "As you see, I have diplomatic immunity to prosecution."

  "Where's Hamrandi, when it's at home?" the guardian of the law asked.

  "Africa," said Jameson succinctly.

  The policeman sniffed, eloquently. "Amazing how diplomats from the poorest countries have the flashiest cars. And what about her? Is she a diplomat too?"

  "No, Officer. She's just a c
olleague. And as she is simply sitting there she doesn't need to prove anything, does she?"

  The policeman shone his torch at her. "Would you mind removing your sunglasses please, madam?"

  She just looked at him.

  "Take your glasses off, love," said Jameson.

  Karla removed the shades. Her eyes flashed metallic green in the torchlight. She hissed at the policeman, who jumped.

  "Amazing what women can do nowadays with coloured contact lenses, isn't it?" said Jameson, cheerfully.

  The policeman was so rattled that he failed to reprimand Karla for not wearing a belt. Nevertheless, he rallied manfully. "Yes, sir. You may be a diplomat but keep your speed down, or we will find reasons to keep pulling you over and making your life miserable."

  "Absolutely, Officer. I shall certainly be more careful in future," Jameson assured him.

  "See that you do." With that parting shot, the guardian of the law reasserted his dignity and strode back to his motor.

  "We had better be more circumspect for the rest of the evening," said Jameson, propelling the Jag at a sedate pace.

  "Slow," said Karla, succinctly. She had improved immensely in the last fortnight and now even initiated discourse. But she was still not one would call a sparkling conversationalist.

  Jameson pulled into the rear car park at the Brent Cross shopping centre, leaving the motor tucked well away in a dimly lit corner. He opened the passenger door for Karla and handed her out. As he wanted her to behave like a lady, he elected to treat her as one. She took his arm, as he had trained her. He had put a lot of effort into training her and the more he tried the faster she learnt. He escorted her to a shop that had one dress in the window, a dress with no price tag. Simpsons was a ladies outfitter, not a dress shop.

  "Are you up to this, love? You will have to maintain control out of my sight. Can you do that for me, Karla?"

  "I can do it," she said.

  "Mr Jameson?" said the personal shopper. "We are expecting you." The lady—Simpsons does not have shop assistants, they have ladies—looked somewhat askance at Karla's tattered leathers.

  "My friend," Jameson gestured at Karla, " has just flown back from a spiritual odyssey to Nepal. Her luggage is believed to have been rerouted to Bangkok via Istanbul. While the airline looks for it, she will need daywear, business wear, an evening outfit and something suitable for bike riding; she favours leathers. I expect you to make appropriate suggestions as she is somewhat out of touch, fashion wise. Charming place, Nepal, but somewhat rural." Jameson indicated Karla's outfit, which spoke for itself.

  "Does sir require an account?" said the lady. By way of answer, Jameson laid a Coutt's Classic Card down on the counter. Coutt's were the Queen's bank. Liquid assets of one hundred thousand pounds were required to open an account.

  "Charge it to that," Jameson said.

  "Madam will require underwear to match?" said the lady. From the look on her face, she was estimating her commission on the sale.

  "I would imagine so," said Jameson, vaguely. He retreated hastily from what was clearly becoming a male no-go zone.

  ****

  The lady raised a hand and a younger version materialised at her elbow. "Madam will need luggage to carry away her selection. Go round to V&J and pick up a set."

  She seized Karla by the arm and led her determinedly into the racks. Karla gave him a look of desperation over her shoulder so he smiled encouragingly. Jameson, preparing for a long wait, took out a packet of Dunhill. One of the staff frowned at him and pointed to a sign indicating that the whole arcade was a no-smoking zone.

  Cursing Blair's nanny government, he trooped out to the car park and joined a small huddle of pariahs camped around the main entrance. The rebellious "enemies-of-the-Blairite-state" sucked on their burning weeds and stomped up and down to keep warm. He flirted for four cigarettes with a charming girl from Hackney, any difference in social class submerged in their common exile. They were the dispossessed in the new politically correct society.

  Reluctantly, for the young lady from Hackney was a very nice girl who had admitted to certain interesting fantasies regarding Jaguar sports cars, he dragged himself back to the shop to see how the wardrobing of his pet creature of the night was proceeding. The personal shopper was standing outside the changing area talking to Karla, who lurked within where Jameson couldn't see her.

  "Madam wears it well. The gentleman wished you to have eveningwear and that is eveningwear. Look, he has returned. Why not show him?" She reached in and hauled Karla out into the shop.

  The personal shopper had dressed the Dark Lady in a wisp of a little black dress with matching strappy sandals and clutch bag. "I feel ridiculous," muttered Karla, sulkily.

  "You look fabulous," said Jameson, simply. "We'll take it."

  Karla elected to wear her new black leathers out of the shop. Jameson let her have her way as he thought she had received enough fashion shocks for one night. She was definitely starting to look mutinous. Jameson insisted on carrying the luggage. He was intellectually aware that she could carry him and the luggage with one hand but, dammit, a gentleman carried the bags for a lady. And back there in that shop, she had looked every inch a lady.

  Four youths hung around the Jaguar. "Nice wheels, mate," said the largest. "We've been looking after your motor for you to make sure it don't get damaged. Might still get damaged unless you pay us a pony."

  "Sod off," said Jameson, succinctly. "Or I'll set my girlfriend on you."

  The youths straightened up and closed on him. Jameson ran through the options in his head. Karla was well fed so shouldn't be hungry. The magic spell would probably force her to intervene if the yobs attacked him. That could rapidly get out of hand. Perhaps better to have a more controlled situation. It would be a good test of how well he could control her and how well she could control herself to please him.

  "You have been very patient tonight, Karla, so I give you these four. No killing or maiming but other than that, have fun. Oh and Karla." She looked at him. "No feeding."

  "Really," said Karla, happily. "I can play with them?"

  "Sure," said Jameson. "Have a ball." He hoped he wasn't making a terrible error.

  "Hold on a min—" a yob started to say.

  Karla grabbed him, picked him up and heaved him horizontally across the car park.

  "No," said Jameson, in genuine anguish. "Mind the Jag." Too late, the yob crashed into the wing, leaving a dent.

  The gang leader produced a knife and ran at her. He thrust viciously at her face. She caught him by the wrist and twisted. Something broke with a crack. Karla kicked his legs out from under him and rabbit punched him as he fell. The last two made a run for it, but she was on them, like a cheetah running down rabbits. She grabbed them, one hand on each neck, and crashed their heads together. Then she tossed them casually aside.

  The leader groaned and rose to his knees attracting her attention. He would have done better to have stayed down. She moved over to him. Jameson noticed that she slid like an ice dancer. She really was extraordinarily graceful, a beautiful man-killer who moved like a tigress. Karla hauled the leader up by the front of his denim jacket. Blood ran down his face and neck. She stared at it in fascination, opening her mouth to reveal long canines. He fainted dead away, becoming limp in her grip.

  "No feeding, Karla. Remember," Jameson said softly.

  She licked the blood from his face and shuddered. "No feeding," she repeated, retracted her teeth and dropped him.

  Lights appeared.

  "Oh no, not plod again," said Jameson.

  A "jam-sandwich" pulled into the car park and made its way unhurriedly towards them.

  "Well, well," said the Keeper of the Queen's Peace, emerging from the police car. "If it isn't the diplomat from . . . where is that place?"

  "Hamrandi," said Jameson.

  "Hamrandi," repeated the bobby, with satisfaction. "The attaché from Hamrandi."

  The gang leader revived and groaned. "As I leave a
nd breathe, Chippy Jones," said the policeman, with a grin. "The North Circular's answer to The West Side Boys. Working the old 'guard your wheels for you mister' were you, Chippy?"

  The policeman applied first aid with the back of his hand across Chippy's face, knocking him fully awake.

  "We was attacked," said Chippy.

  "No, attacked eh, how shocking," said the bobby, looking utterly unshocked. "Have you been beating up the local wildlife then, ambassador?"

  "Not him, her!" Chippy wailed.

  "The young lady." The bobby laughed. "She hammered you! All together Chippy, or did you line up one at a time, like gentlemen?"

  "She ain't yuman," said Chippy.

  "What would you know about being human, Chippy?" said the policeman, scornfully. "Do you want to press charges, sir?" he asked Jameson.

  "Against this shower?" said Jameson. "I can't be bothered."

  "You had better be off then." He looked at Karla, thoughtfully. "Interesting bodyguards you Hamrandi people use. Good night, sir."

  ****

  Jameson noticed that Farley was nervous, very, very nervous. He fidgeted, he sweated, he adjusted his laptop and he adjusted his tie. He was an analyst not a field operative. His job involved collating, analysing and interpreting data. He planned operations and briefed the agents. He might have worked for an insurance company or been the bloke who determined the optimum failure rate of light bulbs to maximise profits but, amongst other things, he was a financial expert.

  The Commission still had people who hung out in Gothic cemeteries and ancient temples but in London, you followed the money trail. Farley had antennae sensitive to the smallest sniff of bad money on the move around the merchant banks and clearing houses of The City.

  Often, the Commission's analysts found illicit transactions that had no paranormal interest at all. But that was all right too. The Commission could always use additional funds and the original owners of the loot were in no position to complain.

  Jameson knew that Farley had briefed too many field teams for the danger aspect of the work that the agents did to bother him. He had acquired the essential knack that all staff officers need, of emotionally disconnecting himself from outcomes. He did his very best to prepare field operatives for their task but if it subsequently went pear-shaped and people died–well, he had done his best. But Jameson was willing to bet that Farley had never sat on a sofa next to a demon, hence the nervousness.