“The Black Stars just seemed on the lookout for prey on the ground below them,” she pointed out. “I got the feeling they were dumb. Vicious, but dumb.”
Zoffany looked up from her clipboard for a moment, her pen poised.
“A Martian landing at a random point on Earth might get exactly the same idea about us humans. Depends on who you run into first.”
“Especially if your imaginary Martian looked, smelled, and tasted exactly like an enchilada,” Denny added. “Which would seem to be our problem with the Soul Eaters.”
Zoffany gave a short bark of laughter as she finished filling in her form.
“Doc,” Denny went on. “I wanted to ask something. I'm still having nightmares about being engulfed, swallowed, or whatever, and I wondered …”
Denny hesitated.
Maybe popping pills isn't so smart, she thought, as a new concern struck her. Meds can impair your concentration when you're awake.
“Yes, you're right,” Zoffany said, looking Denny in the eye. “In my opinion, there is still a link between you survivors and the creature. That's why these nightmares keep recurring. In a sense, you're still inside it. Part of you did not escape, if you'll excuse the imagery.”
Denny stared at the researcher, open-mouthed.
Holy crap. On some level, I knew this all along, but it took a near-stranger to make it clear.
Zoffany looked puzzled at Denny's reaction.
“Sorry,” she said. “Isn't that what you were going to ask?”
***
Sallie Murray called her neighbor to report the death of Fenton. She tried to avoid saying too much, merely that she had discovered the body. When Jackie came to recover her pet, Sallie showed her the corpse, which was now almost covered in snow. This was followed by an hour of confusion, tears, anger, as they both tried to come to terms with the loss.
“But what could have done this?” Jackie kept asking. “It couldn't have been a fox, could it?”
Sallie produced a steady supply of tea and sympathy, and suggested badgers. Or perhaps a pack of wild dogs. Jackie called the police, and the RSPCA. Sallie deterred her from also contacting the local newspaper.
No need to make more fuss than necessary, she told herself. I have nothing to hide, nothing at all.
After the uniformed men and women had come and gone, after the still-tearful Jackie had gone home, Sallie felt guilty, furtive. She tried desperately to recall when she had last seen Zoe and Ben play with Fenton. It had not happened for at least a week, perhaps longer.
And then she reflected on the fact that the dog had known – as dogs often do – when the children got home from school. She remembered the way Fenton had bounded up to them as they walked along the track from the road. She tried to visualize that happening yesterday, just after dark. Sallie pictured the amiable creature running up to her children. But then the vision darkened, and she could not imagine what could have happened next.
What led to a disemboweled corpse of a good-natured family pet?
From sheer habit, she put on some coffee, went to the fridge to get the milk. On the door of the fridge was a selection of drawings by Zoe. One was a family group, with all four members labeled. The writing was childish, but controlled, not the lopsided scrawl Zoe was producing lately.
Forgetting the coffee, and trying to put Fenton out of her mind, Sallie got her laptop and tried to make sense of a single, puzzling fact.
'How does handwriting work?' she typed. It seemed a stupid question, but, in her stressed-out state, she could not think of a better way to phrase it. A list of links appeared. She scrolled down, up again, unsure how to assess the merits of the data on offer.
I don't want to become just another nutcase looking at crazy websites, she thought. But I'm on the verge of becoming just that.
She learned a lot in the next couple of hours. Handwriting was a far more complex skill than she had realized. It was not something you can simply learn the way you'd learn a fact, like when a battle happened or who was the king on a particular date. No, it was to do with muscle memory, like the skills of a top gymnast, or a musician. It was, in a way, as singular a feature as a fingerprint. And of course, over time a normal child's handwriting became more disciplined, distinctive, grown-up. All the experts agreed on that.
And my kids' handwriting suddenly changed to the point where it's barely recognizable. As if, she thought, they were trying to disguise their writing by making it really bad. Or they had somehow lost the knack. But why both Zoe and Ben? What could undermine that skill in both of them at the same time? Makes no sense. No, it's as if they're not really my children at all…
Her runaway thoughts hit a solid brick wall of incredulity. But no matter how she tried to suppress the nightmarish thought, it returned. She started another Google search, this time finding it less of a struggle to choose the right phrase. Soon, a host of links sprang up. Half an hour later, she had a name for what might be a form of madness possessing her.
'Capgras Syndrome, also known as Impostor Syndrome. The belief that someone we know well, often a family member, has been replaced by a stranger who looks and sounds just like them. Sufferers can become angry, even violent, if it is put to them that they are deluded.'
“I'm a very deluded woman,” she said aloud to the empty kitchen. “A normal person doesn't suddenly stop loving her own kids. It's me that's gone wrong, not them. I'm mentally ill.”
She looked over at her reflection in the window, a startled-looking face reflected against the backdrop of whirling snowflakes.
Chapter 2: Impostor Syndrome
“Sorry I'm late,” said Frankie, a little out of breath. “There was some kind of accident on the Underground. Schedule’s all messed up. Much British complaining.”
“Oh,” said Denny, feeling a tinge of apprehension. “Not another bomb scare?”
She glanced around the restaurant. Nobody seemed to be particularly tense or excited, and most were looking at their phones.
“Nah,” Frankie said, sitting down in the seat opposite her friend. “I think somebody fell under a train. Or jumped. They found a body, anyways.”
“Oh God, how awful,” Denny said casually, handing over her menu. “No hurry, it's not like they're busy.”
I'm getting kind of blasé about mangled corpses, Denny thought. Not a great character trait, but there it is.
They were grabbing an early lunch in a small, relatively cheap eatery in central London, not far off the tourist trail. But it was a dismal winter morning and only a handful of tables were occupied. Piped pop music made it unlikely that they would be overheard. But Denny still lowered her voice and leaned forward when she wanted to discuss work. They had decided to meet at a series of random public locations to minimize the risk of being bugged by the Romola Foundation. As a result, they had discovered some nice pubs and coffee shops, but also had some lousy meals.
“So, you been cleared by the foundation?”
Frankie nodded without looking up from the big, laminated menu.
“According to Ted Gould and his minions, I'm a hundred per cent human. Who knew? I should ask him for a certificate. There's a few people back home who really need to see it.”
“Gould's not so bad,” laughed Denny. “He's just a bit uptight and pretentious, maybe. But he's been through a lot.”
“I know,” Frankie replied. “Must have been hell to hear so many abductees had returned, then be told none of them is his sister.”
“Hey,” Denny said. “Let's not dwell on the bleak stuff. This is old pals having lunch. You ready to order?”
Frankie nodded.
“I think I'll have a salad. I used to love spaghetti and meatballs, but now …”
Denny shuddered, thinking of the mountainous, tentacled monstrosity that had come close to absorbing them.
“We're a long way from the Phantom Dimension now,” she pointed out.
“Are we?” Frankie asked, looking up now. “I thought it was right next to
us, wherever we are.”
The simple remark made Denny freeze, staring at the other woman.
“God,” she said. “It never really struck me before. I mean, I was kind of thinking of it as another planet, you know? Like, somewhere on the other side of a Stargate or something. Only without, well, all the pyramids and stuff.”
“Not according to Ted Gould,” Frankie pointed out. “He was very keen to explain his theories. No matter how much I yawned and looked at my watch.”
Denny had to laugh. Frankie was back to her old, irreverent self.
“So what did Gould say about the Phantom Dimension?”
Frankie shrugged.
“A lot of scientific terms I didn't understand. Einstein got a mention, and that Hawking guy. He tried to illustrate something by folding up a piece of paper. Oh, and apparently we're supposed to believe in a multiverse now – lots of universes lying alongside one another. Or stacked on top of one another. In a higher dimension.”
Denny frowned. Like most people, she had watched a few science documentaries, but often the effect of cosmic speculation was to make her feel small and stupid.
“So, this multiverse,” she said, “Gould thinks there could be more Phantom Dimensions? Sheesh.”
Frankie made a helpless gesture.
“Too much of a bad thing, I reckon. But he thinks all of them have a common origin. The Big Bang spawned lots of universes, maybe an infinite number.”
Denny struggled with the idea of multiple universes, tried to grasp at a familiar notion.
“So, there's like one universe where Hitler won the war? Is that it?”
“That's just what I said!” Frankie exclaimed. “He looked at me like I'd just belched in his face and said it was a 'trivial example'. Because he means parallel universes with different natural laws and stuff, not just different history.”
Denny gave up trying to grasp Gould's ideas second-hand.
“But what's that got to do with Interlopers walking around right next to us?”
They paused as a waitress appeared, and gave their orders. As soon as the waitress left, they resumed their discussion.
“So Interlopers could be walking among us, right now,” Denny said, “only we can't see them and they can't see us?”
Frankie nodded.
“That's how I guess it works. We could be inside a Soul Eater and not know it.”
“Don't!” said Denny, a little too loudly.
She glanced round, but the bland pop music had apparently covered her outburst.
“Hey,” Frankie said, quietly. “Let's count our blessings. Some guys weren't so lucky.”
Denny tried not to visualize the remains of the Soul Eater's victims, most of their bodies, being disgorged onto the alien desert. Little remained of them but their brains and spinal cords.
“Gould thinks the Soul Eater actually needs brains, preferably human, to function,” Frankie went on. “That's why it leaves the gray matter until last.”
Denny nodded, not trusting herself to speak. She wished she had not ordered a mushroom risotto. But they only had a limited amount of time until they had to report to the foundation. They needed to get their stories straight.
“Frankie,” she said. “We've held out on them over – the reason. The motive. Whatever we call it. We're still okay with keeping it to ourselves?”
Frankie shrugged.
“Knowledge is power,” she said. “That bastard Benson can't be trusted. I heard about what he did to the Lucy Interloper. Sure, it was a killer, but it had its reasons.”
And now that thing is in pieces in a freezer, Denny thought. She's right. There's nothing ethical about Benson and the rest of them take their orders from him.
“Will the other survivors blab, though?” she asked.
“I think they're too badly traumatized,” Frankie replied. “Remember, I was in touch with them for a while longer than you. Most of them were too terrified to think straight, thinking they'd been dragged into Hell or something like it. Maybe they did pick up some information, but it'll just be bits and pieces.”
“So we play dumb,” Denny declared. “We were sucked inside that thing, we escaped from it thanks to the talisman.”
The waitress returned with their orders, smiling as she placed the plates down, seeming to want to linger and chat on a slow lunchtime. The girl wore a crucifix, and Denny wondered if all such symbols could trace their original to the strange stones of the Phantom Dimension. When the waitress left, she suggested this to Frankie.
“Gould would love that,” Frankie grinned. “Him and his theories. Has he had any luck with the talisman?”
“Not that I know of,” Denny replied. “I think they're scared to monkey with it too much in case they break it.”
“Oh, they'll break it sooner or later,” Frankie declared. “Ka-blooey! It's what they do. Over-confident white guys in expensive suits giving orders to nerds in white coats. Between 'em they'll break pretty much anything.”
***
“X-Ray, ultraviolet, infrared, microwaves,” said Harriet Zoffany. “And yet we have bugger all to show for it.”
“Frustrating,” said Ted Gould. “But it obviously supports the singularity theory. It's impervious to scientific analysis as we understand the term. Therefore, it represents science we don't understand.”
“Which is to say,” said Zoffany, turning over in bed to face him, “that it supports the existence of magic. Which I am not going to put in my report to Benson.”
Gould brushed a strand of hair from the scientist's forehead, raised himself up on one elbow.
“Mentioning Benson in bed,” he pointed out. “That's a paddlin'.”
“Like to see you try and spank my arse, old man,” Zoffany retorted, with feigned pugnacity.
“So we're agreed, it's a paddlin'?” he laughed, and they wrestled for a while. But the precursor to a second round of lovemaking was never followed through. A sudden shouting and hammering on the adjoining wall froze them in mid-tumble. Raised voices were those of a man and a woman, at first. Then they were joined by another man, one with a hoarse, menacing voice. The first man went quiet, while the woman continued to complain.
“Dispute over a business arrangement, I'm guessing,” Gould said quietly. “Something tells me they won't be going to court over the contract.”
“God, these cheap hotels,” Zoffany moaned, stretching. “Well, no time for encores this morning, anyway. I need to risk that shower and get to my team meeting.”
“Fair enough,” Gould said, unhappily. “At least we know Benson won't be watching us in glorious Technicolor. Unless he's bugged every grotty knocking shop in the capital.”
“Don't joke about it,” she replied, sliding out of bed. “I wouldn't put anything past that man.”
Thanks to Benson, she thought, we meet in the grubbiest, most sordid places. We can't be sure of privacy in our own homes, let alone our offices or labs. And when people ask what I do, I say, 'Oh, I work for this quirky little charity that looks into the paranormal'.
As she was getting dressed, they resumed their discussion of the talisman.
“No way could we get it into any particle accelerator without legitimate paperwork, funding, the whole shebang,” Zoffany pointed out as she reapplied her lipstick in front of the room's brown-specked mirror.
Gould grunted in agreement as he pulled on his pants.
“Civilian facilities aren't secure, anyway,” Zoffany went on. “And the military would simply take over. And we can hardly send it out of the country.”
“Don't open that can of worms,” Gould warned. “Benson gets very touchy if you mention NATO or the Pentagon.”
“Classic control freak.” Zoffany finished her make-up, took a step back, tried to fix her hair. “Oh, screw it, I'm supposed to be a mad scientist, so I'll have Einstein hair.”
Gould stepped up behind her, tried to put his hands around her waist. Zoffany grabbed his hands and raised them to her breasts.
&
nbsp; “I wish,” she said, “we could reach some kind of permanent arrangement? Preferably before you get permanent brewer's droop and these puppies reach my navel?”
Gould gave a slight laugh.
“This can't go on forever,” he said. “It's obvious the situation is unstable, in both worlds. There's going to be some kind of showdown.”
Zoffany turned around, and held out Gould at arm's length.
“Showdown? Not the word I wanted to hear. Like crisis, invasion, apocalypse.”
Gould shook his head firmly.
“It's their disaster, not ours,” he said. “The Interlopers are desperate, trying to find a way to escape the end of their world. That doesn't mean they should take over our world. Or wreck it.”
No, she thought. But it doesn't mean they can't.
***
Was anything worthwhile ever decided at a goddamn team meeting?
After heaving a huge sigh, Denny looked around the conference table, saw only faces illuminated by the screens of phones. Zoffany glanced sideways at Gould. The latter's phone chimed, and a second later, Gould's face reddened slightly.
Oh, get a room guys, Denny thought, trying not to smirk.
She self-consciously began to turn off her own phone, then saw an email alert. It was from her mother. She hesitated, then switched off her cell.
Sorry, mom. Still can't really explain where I've been, who I'm with, or what the hell I'm doing. Mainly because I only understand half of it myself.
“Benson always late for meetings?” asked Frankie, to the room in general. “Some kind of mind game?”
“No,” Gould said, looking startled. “He's normally early.”
“He still has another thirty seconds,” added Forster, the head of security, looking up at the wall clock. “So strictly speaking–”
The door opened, cutting off Forster's remark, and a man entered. Denny took in an expensive suit, jowly features, watery eyes, and thinning white hair. The man had a confident manner but didn’t look as if he had even walked past a gym in years. She concluded that Benson was a typical corporate type. She felt slightly disappointed as well as relieved. She had been expecting a Bond movie villain, and instead Benson was just another old, white guy with a silk tie.
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