by E. R. Mason
Markman sprung awake. He scanned the small bedroom. There was no one. Something was wrong. The hairs on his arms were standing and his pulse was racing. He groped on the floor for his clothes and managed quickly to pull on the wrinkled jeans and shirt, stuffing his bare feet roughly into his athletic shoes as he did so.
The house was quiet. He went softly to the adjacent bedroom and retrieved his Berretta. The upstairs was deserted. Little was visible out the living room window. The glare of streetlights obscured most of his view.
The basement door was blocked open, as it had been the past few days, and the lights were still on downstairs. The cellar was vacant, and the trunk lid entrance stood open. He stared down into the bottomless trunk. Lights came from the SCIP lab and the sounds of the operational mirror-door were droning upward. She had said it would be turned on at eight o'clock. Why was there this feeling of panic? Was he overreacting from all that had happened? He tucked the handgun in behind his back and climbed gently down the rungs of the ladder into the well that serviced the lab, and peered around the cramped corridor.
The SCIP mirror shone. No one was in sight but the present view was narrow. She would not have gone into Dreamland alone; he thought, not now of all times. He eased carefully down the short, rough hallway, and became aware of his reflection in the SCIP mirror too late.
"Ah, good of you to join us. We were just about to come up and get you," said an unfamiliar male voice. The greeting was followed by an ugly laugh from a second, also unfamiliar source.
Markman entered the lab. Two sinister-looking men stood on his right. Both had dark hair and very dark eyes, and their skin looked naturally tan. One of them, the one who had spoken, was dressed in a very expensive black suit, with a plain, black tie that was too narrow. A bodyguard stood next to him in a European-styled trench coat that hung open. In his right hand, he held a semiautomatic pistol with a silencer attached. It was pointed at Markman's chest.
"See, boss, there he is. I swear I shot him twice back at his place, but here he is, an' he don't have a scratch."
"Shut up, please, Mr. Kurn. Come in, Mr. Markman. It's quite amazing we haven't met sooner, although my associates seem to think they have previously had some dealings with you."
Across the room, near the Drack columns, Cassiopia, dressed in a soft pink robe that could have passed for an evening gown, was held captive next to the robot. Clutching her from behind, was a third, ominous figure, a tall man, with shaggy, dark hair and dirty-brown skin. His face was scarred and his large nose had been broken but had healed improperly. He wore an open trench coat, identical to his counterpart. Cassiopia's face was locked in horror, tilted slightly upward, away from the shiny blade that was being held against her delicate throat. Markman's thoughts ran quickly to the bulge of the Berretta pressing against his back.
"Mr. Markman, how impressed I am by the efforts of your novice police organization here. It is surprising how difficult they have made it for us these past few days. One would not expect our simple disposals to have caused such--interest."
A change came over Markman. His eyes narrowed slightly and a stillness formed around him. He said nothing. His inner resolve went unnoticed by everyone in the room, except Cassiopia. She had seen the change one other time, at the carnival in Dreamland.
The man continued haughtily. "My name is Zebib, Mr. Markman. I am a collector of sorts. Before you and I begin negotiations, would it not be fair to assume that you might be carrying a weapon of sorts about you. I'm sure you don't mean to be rude. We can, after all, still be considered guests can we not?" He waited for an answer. None came.
"Tsk, tsk, tsk, Mr. Markman, where are your manners? Certainly you wouldn't want the young lady's most attractive evening-wear to be stained, would you? My associate Mr. Ahmed has been known to slip unnecessarily when he should not have, much to my regret, mind you."
Markman clenched his teeth and considered the odds. They had called each other by name. It confirmed their intentions to most certainly kill both him and Cassiopia sooner or later. But now was not the right time to move. The chance had not yet come, but it would. He slowly began to reach behind to surrender the Berretta.
"Please, Mr. Markman, the left hand, that is, since you chose the right. And place it on the floor carefully. Such a small room. We mustn't have any ricochet. We wouldn't want anyone to be killed by accident."
Once again Ahmed laughed a dirty laugh, fidgeting with the knife as it rested against Cassiopia's throat.
Markman slowly drew the Berretta and bent at the knees to place it gently on the floor, never taking his eyes off the enemy.
"That's much better, now please slide it over here so that Mr. Kurn can put it in a safe place."
"How did you get in here so easily?"
"Really, Mr. Markman I would not have expected such a question from you. You disappoint me. Surely you know that mere locks are only intended to keep honest people out. And let me mention that we will not be bothered by anyone. No one saw us arrive; no one will see us leave. I have an aircraft waiting to leave in one hour, so we have almost that much time left to complete our transactions here. Which brings us to the point, Mr. Markman. You have something that belongs to me."
"I have no idea what you're talking about. What is it that you think we have that is so important to you bastards?"
Zebib did not take offense. "It's nothing really. Just a small, silver box, important only to me. I have been pursuing it for some time, and hopefully, you will consider my personal presence here a somewhat special favor. Rarely do I involve myself in these types of matters. I hired one of your local citizens here to retrieve this particular item, but somehow he met with an unfortunate circumstance. You may have heard of him. His name was Smith, Beauford Smith. Such a tacky southern American name, don't you think?" Zebib paused to light a cigarette he had removed from a gold case inside his jacket pocket.
"Mr. Smith was supposed to obtain the artifact from a local antiques woman who had resisted our most generous offers. It was my mistake. My initial offer was too generous. She became suspicious that the item was more valuable than first thought. She grew resistant at letting it go. Not wanting to involve myself further, I sent Mr. Beauford Smith to use other means at securing the item. Unfortunately there were complications. Both Mr. Smith and the antiques woman became unexpectedly …unavailable.”
Markman sneered. “Dead, you mean.”
Zebib ignored him. “Some sort of mix up occurred, and we completely lost track of the item. Believe me; I'm sure you can appreciate what we had to go through to finally track it down. We questioned the woman's only brother quite thoroughly, and he convinced us he knew nothing. You could ask him yourself, by the way. He's at the bottom of the river near a railroad trestle just outside of town. Honestly, were it not for the luxuries of diplomatic courtesy we might never have caught up to you. When the local police eventually spoke to Mr. Smith’s neighbors about his unusual demise, they visited your Aunt. To our good fortune she mentioned that an item matching the description of ours had been found in what remained of Mr. Smith’s residence and that she had given it to you. Through my personal diplomatic channels, we acquired permission to see that report. Otherwise we might never have found our way here."
"So, Mr. Markman, if you will kindly turn over what I have requested, my associates here will simply tape you and the lovely lady together and we'll be on our way, no further harm necessary. Diplomatic immunity has many advantages, you understand."
Markman eyed Cassiopia, then looked back at Zebib. "First tell your dog to get away from her."
Zebib paused, then made an artificially compassionate gesture to his accomplice. The man smiled and nuzzled his ugly face in Cassiopia's hair. He shoved her away and went to Markman, pushing him roughly against the wall near the entrance, pressing the point of the stiletto to his chest. Markman felt a sudden, cold, rush of pleasure. His captor had m
ade a classic mistake and was obviously not as adept with a knife as he should have been. The man was much too close to his intended victim. The knife could be removed now at any time, with little chance of physical harm. Were it not for the handgun pointed at Cassiopia, Markman would not have been able to resist the temptation.
Markman looked at Cassiopia and spoke to her reassuringly. "Give it to them, Cass." She stared back tearfully and went to the Drack control console, opened a small compartment within it and drew out the reflective box.
Zebib's eyes lit up immediately, and he commanded sternly, "Just toss it here, dear lady--right now."
Cassiopia rubbed at the front of her sore neck with one hand and made a barely adequate underhand throw with the other. Zebib grabbed frantically, caught the box to his chest, and held it there; his eyes closed in blissful gratification.
From the corner of his eye, Markman suddenly noticed a slight split had opened in the seam of the artifact. A soft, thin glow was escaping from within, but there was no time to consider it. He watched patiently for a chance to catch his captors off-guard. Zebib reopened his eyes. Death was in them.
"Mr. Markman," he said with a tainted smile. "I regret to say that it would be somewhat of a miscalculation on our part to leave you to identify us."
The man holding Markman immediately broke into a wide grin, showing his brown, broken teeth. He pressed Markman harder against the wall, expecting any moment the approval needed to bloody his blade.
Zebib again looked down at the silver box, and this time noticed the strange amber light accenting his open hands. He gasped and slowly turned up the small lid, gazing hungrily into the glowing, exposed interior.
A deathly silence fell over the room as he continued to stare down. Slowly, he looked up. A lifeless expression had come over his face. He began a soft musical chant, "no--no--no--no--no--no." It grew steadily louder and louder and soon became a desperate shout. His accomplices looked in astonishment, unable to understand what was taking place.
Zebib's hands and arms began to shake violently. The shaking grew more and more intense until his body was in convulsion. The box slipped from his grasp and bounced across the floor, skidding and spinning on its side with the cover still open. His eyes became bulged and bloodshot. Lost from the power of reason, he exploded into a state of mindless violence, knocking the gun from his bodyguard's hand--grabbing the bewildered man and shaking him as the room filled with insane screaming.
In the midst of the confusion, Markman's hands moved like lightning in a clapping motion to the wrist of his captor. The knife ejected from Ahmed's hand, slid across the smooth floor, bounced off the nearby wall and spun away. In the same motion, Markman grabbed the empty hand with both of his and bent it over at the wrist, breaking it. He side-skipped to the left and grabbed Ahmed's face with his right hand, hooking one leg behind and pushing him hard into the floor. His head made a deep thud against the tile, and his eyes winced and closed.
With ear-piercing screams, Zebib continued his rampage. He ran headlong into walls, knocking over anything in his path, seemingly blind in his fury.
Markman looked up and exchanged stares with Kurn, the stunned bodyguard who had dropped his gun. Both looked immediately to the weapon on the floor between them. With a frantic leap, Kurn went for it.
Markman dove and rolled forward, coming upright in unison with him. Kurn stared in wide-eyed shock that his intended victim had appeared so quickly. He jerked the gun up to fire. Markman caught it like a snake striking its prey. He twisted the weapon around, using Kurn's own trigger finger to click off a shot through his shoulder. The erupting gunfire was chilling and fast and echoed through the small chamber at a painful volume that blended hideously with Zebib's screams. Kurn looked with disbelief at the wound in his chest and slumped to the floor still holding his weapon. Markman kicked it free of his grasp and let it go. It was of no further concern to the wild-eyed Markman.
Markman spun to look for Cassiopia and collided with Zebib, who bounced off and headed screaming for the mirror-door. Markman lunged after him. The groaning, crazed assassin tripped on the elevated ramp and fell through the surface of the mirror. Markman dove forward, catching him by one shoe, and was dragged partly through the mirror and into the void. There was a quick ripping sound and he found himself left with only a piece of torn shoelace. He watched Zebib fall backward deep into the void, kicking and waving mouth wide open, no sound to be heard. The contorted figure grew smaller and smaller, finally disappearing into oblivion.
Markman backed slowly out from the SCIP mirror and pushed himself wearily upright. The box lay open on the lab floor nearby.
A harsh, unexpected voice spoke, "What happened to him? Where's the boss?"
Markman looked up in disbelief. Ahmed had somehow gotten back up and again held Cassiopia. He stood behind her, one arm around her neck, the broken wrist dangling painfully at the end of it. With his other hand, he had leveled the point of the switchblade to the side of her throat.
"I asked you, where's the boss?"
Markman stared with contempt. "In hell about now, I'd guess."
"I won't underestimate you again, you son of a bitch. Pick up the gun."
"Why?"
"Just pick it up now, asshole."
Markman looked numbly at the weapon by the bloody body, and then looked again at the killer holding Cassiopia. The man made a quick, threatening gesture.
Markman took the necessary two steps, bent over reluctantly and picked up the gun. He stared back blankly.
"Now, put it to your head."
"What?"
"Put it to your head, pig."
Markman's eyes met Cassiopia's, and in that moment, he realized he would indeed do anything for her, even this. He raised the gun to his temple. Cassiopia screamed, "No!"
"Pull the trigger, asshole."
Markman considered his options. He had no intention of dying just yet. Were he to do as instructed, Cassiopia would just as certainly die and probably suffer greatly before she did. The only real question now was; in the second and a half it would take to cross the room and break the man's neck, would her wound be fatal?
"Pull the trigger, asshole, or I bury this knife in her."
The standoff continued.
"You think I'm kiddin'? Take a look."
A small stream of blood began to run down Cassiopia's soft white skin.
In a desperate attempt to save her, Markman lunged forward, keeping his eyes fixed on the glittering blade. Ahmed's hand clenched at the knife and he jerked his arm upright, intending to drive the blade into her neck. Markman strained forward with all his might, but the distance was too great. He knew he could not make it in time.
From out of nowhere, a silver hand shot out and caught the razor sharp blade, peeling it back, wrenching the killer's good hand and stripping him away from Cassiopia, throwing her harshly to the floor. Stunned, Ahmed stared wide-eyed at the robot as Markman arrived beside him. He ripped his hand free and immediately turned his attention to Markman, swiping his blade furiously. With animal agility, Markman avoided the blade's edge, twisting and spinning in time with the cuts.
Ahmed made a desperate lunge forward, thrusting straight for the heart, but Markman again sidestepped, blocked with the heel of one hand, and brought the other arm up and over, catching his attacker squarely in the face, ramming him over backward. His feet sailed up into the air and the back of his head bounced on the floor as he fell.
Dazed, he clutched at his stiletto and rolled awkwardly onto his hands and knees. He tried to stand but was flipped sideways off his feet by a sweeping kick.
This time he stayed down. Markman tensed and prepared for the next assault, but nothing happened. A small puddle of blood formed slowly from underneath the face. The tip of the man’s knife jutted from the back of his neck.
Markman stepped back and looked around. Tel stood motionless nearby, as though nothing at all had happened. His thoughts immediately returned to Cassiopia. He spun around to find her lying on her stomach on the floor, staring with a frozen stare into the open box, the amber light from it glowing on her gentle face, a twitch of wonder fixed there. From his vantage point Markman could see only the side of the strange box.
"Cass?"
There was neither movement nor response.
More loudly, "Cassiopia...?"
Hypnotized, she pushed up on one elbow, clutching the open container with her free hand, continuing to stare devotedly into it.
"Cass, are you all right?"
Markman was ignored. He started toward her but stopped when she climbed to her feet, still grasping the mystical box tightly, unwilling to ignore it. In a childlike tone, she said, "This is so beautiful..."
Markman thought to take her gently by the arm, but before he could, she spoke again, this time in a voice more pleading and resolved, "This has got to go back, right now."
Without warning, she made a dash toward the SCIP mirror.
"Cass, no, stop."
Before there was any chance to intervene, she plunged through the mirror. He raced up the ramp in time to touch the back hem of her robe as it disappeared into the silver. He stopped abruptly at the shimmering surface and yelled to the robot. "Tel, come."
The robot obeyed, though Markman did not take the time to wait for it. He shot through the mirror, and once more found himself in the unpredictable world of Dreamland.
Chapter 30