The others looked at her, startled.
“Completely forgot about the old bugger,” Davenport said.
“You mean Benson?” said Gould, stopping in the doorway. “No idea where he went. But he can't be in the building, he'd show up on cameras. There's nobody else in the building, is there?”
Gould gestured at the screens.
“Unless he was in the conference room,” Davenport corrected. “Top floor. No cameras in there.”
Gould frowned.
“I didn't know that,” he admitted. “Do you know why?”
The security man shrugged.
“Forster told me it was so nobody could eavesdrop on the trustees’ meetings. All very hush-hush.”
“Well,” Denny said, “chances are the creep is long gone.”
Gould looked pensive.
“It might be worth checking,” he said, and left.
“Trying to keep himself busy,” said Davenport. “Hell of a shock seeing your little sister after, what was it? Thirty years. And she's hardly aged.”
Denny nodded.
“If Lucy was an adult we might've interviewed her,” she said. “But the poor kid will need a specialist’s help for years.”
Frankie sighed as she inserted the camera's memory card into one of the office PCs.
“We know what we saw,” she said. “Now it's done. Time to move on. No more nasties from other dimensions.”
“Just that familiar, desperate need to get some kind of work,” added Denny. “Any suggestions, guys?”
There was a long silence.
“Hey,” said Frankie, “I did get something!”
On the PC monitor some low-quality footage of their escape from the Phantom Dimension appeared. The others gathered around as Frankie wound the video back and forth. The familiar interference with electronic devices had left much of the film useless. But Frankie managed to find a few clear still images here and there. One, in particular, showed the All-Mother in her brood chamber, Lucy still attached to the creature's body.
“Nobody will believe it,” Davenport said flatly. “God, I'm having trouble believing it right now.”
“Not show-reel material,” Denny agreed, then something caught her eye. “Hey, stop! Wind back a couple of seconds!”
Frankie obliged, reversing a panning shot of the brood chamber.
“Stop there!” Denny said, pointing. “Can you clean up that part?”
Frankie tinkered with the software until the area indicated filled the screen. It showed the shadowy interior of the biggest of the dozens of niches. Denny pointed to a few dark patches.
“Could those be the remains of an eggshell?” she asked.
“Nah,” responded Davenport. “Just a few rogue pixels. No real detail there.”
The women exchanged a glance.
“He's probably right,” said Frankie.
Denny recalled the last pulse of mental energy she had felt from the Queen. There had been rage at the attack Denny had inflicted on her, certainly. But there had been something else, a hint of a different emotion.
Was it triumph? Or am I being totally paranoid?
“Yeah,” she said. “Maybe we'll never know.”
***
The conference room was full of Bensons. They were not quite present, however, or at least not all the time. The Bensons were shimmering in and out of view, shadowy figures on the edge of perception. Every chair around the table was occupied by a ghostly figure that, if Gould looked directly at it, became invisible. Other Bensons stood around the walls, or stalked toward the intruder. Despite the insubstantial nature of the throng, Gould felt himself pressed back against the door. Twenty or more pairs of deep-sunken eyes turned to regard Gould.
“Who … What?” He struggled to find a question, gave up, groped for the doorknob.
A looming, shadowy form glided toward him, grew more substantial, and reached out to touch him. Gould flinched but could not dodge the long, slender finger that flicked across his forehead. He felt a sudden, overwhelming sense of calm. He no longer wished to run away from the bizarre scene.
“Who are you?” he asked calmly.
“We are all Benson,” said the nearest Benson. “You have spoken to most of us down the years.”
“You're not human,” Gould stated. “You're not Interlopers either.”
There was no reply.
“Are you escaping your world, too?” he asked.
A few ghostly figures shimmered, almost vanished, returned.
“We are explorers, not refugees,” said the nearest Benson. “And we prefer to operate discreetly. Through human intermediaries such as yourself.”
“We knew some time ago that the Interlopers would cause problems,” said a second Benson.”
“They are primitive,” said another. “Their powers are few, as are their numbers, and the time disparity meant that they had to improvise hastily. They concocted a few specimens that could survive in this world. No great matter. Humans are good at hunting down outsiders. They will not survive.”
“What are you?” Gould demanded.
“You cannot understand our nature,” said a third Benson. “We occupy a higher plane of existence.”
“Did you come here because we eroded the barrier with your reality?” he demanded. “Are we a threat to your world, too?”
There was a chorus of gasps, a sound Gould assumed passed for laughter among the Benson-beings. His question was naive, apparently.
“What the Interlopers saw as a threat, we see as an opportunity,” said one. “So many busy life-forms, a world ripe for – development, as you would say.”
“But the Interlopers were a nuisance?” Gould asked. “A distraction?”
“Quite. You perceive the problem. The solution was to make it clear that the Interlopers were the only non-human beings in your world, that the Phantom Dimension was unique. We managed to guide your own research in that direction with little difficulty. You never really gave the many-worlds hypothesis enough attention. We have found it a most profitable area of study.”
The nearest Benson stood up, unfolding himself from the chair until his head almost brushed the ceiling.
“You needed a failed invasion, a threat that we could withstand,” Gould whispered. “So we would feel we had the measure of the problem. And now we humans can draw a line under it, and leave you free to do whatever you want.”
“A virtue made from necessity.”
More Bensons had arisen, and now two were striding languidly toward Gould. He backed to the door. Groping for the handle and found it was locked. He started to sidle around
“We have been experimenting much more carefully than the clumsy Interlopers,” said the closet Benson. “You are very confusing creatures. But we think we have found a way to tame you.”
A vast hand descended gently onto his head, fingers wrapping themselves effortless around his skull. He felt all emotion, all thought, begin to drain away. A rushing sound, like a great tide washing into a vast sea-cave, swamped his consciousness.
“No, please!” he shouted, pulling in vain at the arm above him.
Then he was standing in an empty room, winter sunlight slanting in through half-open blinds. A dozen chairs were pushed in under a long table. He walked over to the glossy expanse of pinewood, ran a finger over the surface. A thin film of dust obscured his fingerprint.
Empty for weeks, or months. I wonder where Benson's gone?
Gould shrugged, turned to leave. As he opened the door, he paused and glanced quickly round, half-expecting to see a silent cohort seated around the table. But of course, no one was there. The conference room retained its neglected air.
“We may never know,” he murmured to himself, as he shut the door and set off to re-join the others downstairs.
***
A trucker had just spent ten minutes cursing the narrow roads of a small English town when he saw the hitchhiker. At first, he was not sure if it was a man or a woman. The dark-clad f
igure by the roadside was tall, and wearing some kind of black uniform. When he saw it was a young woman, and one with a very pretty face, he stopped and let her run up to the side door.
“Where you going, miss?” he asked. “I'm heading west, over the border.”
The woman looked up at him, and smiled. The trucker felt an immense sense of well-being wash over him. It was as if he had been immersed in a warm bath of pure happiness. He realized that the hitchhiker was speaking, but found it impossible to concentrate on her words. He opened the door, and she climbed in.
“Sorry, where did you say you were going?” he asked.
“Up into the hills,” she said. “A remote corner of Wales. A nice little village where I can live in peace. But anywhere to the west will do.”
“Okay,” he said cheerfully. “I'm heading for Cardiff but I can drop you anywhere.”
As he steered the big ten-wheeler into the westbound lane he had a sudden vision of himself and the young woman having sex in the back of the truck. It was graphic, intense, and downright pornographic. It shocked him, not merely because it was against company rules, but because it was against his rules, too. He had a wife and kids at home and loved them. Why would I do anything to endanger that?
Rattled by the unwanted thought, he flicked on the radio. The news was still obsessing over the weird influx of so-called monsters. There was talk of alien invasions, parallel universes, and mad experiments in secret labs.
“None of them have a bloody clue, do they?” he remarked, re-tuning to a classic pop station. “I reckon it's all exaggerated.” He glanced over at his passenger, and again he was struck by how lovely she was. Her face reminded him of someone, a girl he had once known. She had married another man, broke his heart. He had not thought about her for years.
“Take a picture, it'll last longer,” said the woman, then smiled.
“Sorry,” he said, smiling back. “It's just that you remind me of someone I … somebody I once knew.”
“I get that a lot,” she said. “Hey, do you think you could take me off the main highway, up into the hills?”
No. Of course I can't, I've got a load to deliver.
“Of course,” he said. “We're coming up to a turn-off in a few minutes. Where do you want to go?”
The next morning a farmer found the truck at the end of a track, blocking the entrance to his field. He knocked on the side door, assuming the driver had gotten lost. When he got no reply, the farmer climbed up and tried the handle. When the door opened, a corpse tumbled out. Later the farmer recounted his shocking discovery to a local reporter as they stood near the scene.
“What I don't understand,” he said, “is how such an old guy could be driving a truck in the first place. He was so dried up and wrinkled, he looked like he could be a hundred years old. And–” The farmer hesitated, looked around at a few curious bystanders, and lowered his voice.
“… maybe you shouldn't print this,” he went on. “But he must have been a bit senile, or demented. You know? Because the poor guy had taken his pants off for some reason. Naked from the waist down. What a way to go!”
* * *
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Table of Contents
Prologue: Underground, London
Chapter 1: Over-ground
Chapter 2: Impostor Syndrome
Chapter 3: Fake News
Chapter 4: City of Illusions
Chapter 5: Revelations
Chapter 6: Closer Encounters
Chapter 7: Revelation, Two
Chapter 8: Pre-emptive Strike
Chapter 9: Survival
Epilogue: End game
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