by Brian Lumley
And believing that he understood his Khiff’s motives, Guyler came out from his hiding place and went lurching toward the unsuspecting Shania . . .
Having fled back to the dais and climbed its steps, Simon Salcombe had scanned the littered floor of the great cavern for any sign of his grotesque pursuer. Not as simple a task as it might sound, for she was just one of several of the walking dead, and they were milling with a crowd of some dozens of dazed but living survivors and walking wounded. But just a moment ago he had spotted her where she came on . . . and then had shouted aloud his relief as a Mordri henchman, dying in a pool of blood, used his final ounce of strength to lift his machine pistol and empty its magazine into the dead girl’s legs. Down she had gone into the splintering remains of her lower limbs; following which she was only able to crawl, dragging her shattered legs behind her. And many an obstacle to block her way.
Salcombe was left with no time to savour the respite, however, for Wolf had sniffed him out and at once knew his foreign nature: that he was of the same sort as that female whose touch had caused him so much pain. Well, and so was or had been Shania, but where she radiated good these creatures stank of evil!
Now he came snarling up the steps of the dais—harassing Mordri Two, trying to trip him—but at no time getting within range of his deadly hands; no, for he’d learned better than to do that! And Salcombe whirling, staggering, his body and limbs and thoughts flying in all directions, so that he wasn’t fully in control of any of them. But still he controlled his Shing’t touch, and if he could only get hold of this skittering, snarling . . .
He lashed out with a foot to Wolf’s black muzzle, sending him yelping, skidding, almost flying from the rim of the dais. And as the animal teetered there, so Salcombe reached for him. Wolf saw the alien’s long-fingered hand descending, snapped at his wrist, and tasted something metallic between his jaws. Then the linked strap on Mordri Two’s localizer came apart and Wolf took the device with him as he went toppling from the dais.
Landing on all fours, and having realized what the localizer was—knowing that Shania had one, and how she used it—Wolf turned to race away, instinctively bounding high over one of the deadly energy conduits. In midflight he felt a wrenching pain in his mouth; his jaws cracked audibly, snapping open from the shock as the localizer reacted to the proximity of an energy source that was infinitely more powerful than its own. And the device fell out of Wolf’s mouth.
The blast that followed hurled Wolf head over heels, left him sprawling and dazed but otherwise unhurt. As for the localizer:
As Salcombe had informed Gelka Mordri, his device’s power cells had been in need of recharging. So that when its sensors had detected a Shing’t power source, the localizer had automatically attempted to ascertain the source’s compatibility. This had been the initial contact that had driven Wolf’s jaws apart, causing him to drop the thing. But when the localizer had come down on the energy conduit . . . that had been the equivalent of trying to charge an electric torch battery from a small town’s power grid! And all that remained of the localizer was a glittering cloud of dust, swirling over the greenly pulsating glow of the energy field . . .
From the dais Simon Salcombe had seen what happened. Now he howled his rage—and simultaneously realized his impotence! Until now there had existed a possibility, however remote, that Gelka would reduce the energy screen and thus allow her Two and Three to board the vessel using their localizers. But one thing was certain: now that the vessel was powered up, and time being so short, she would not be amenable to switching the screen off in its entirety!
Now without his localizer, the only way Salcombe was going to board the vessel was via a manual hatch—which was also out of the question. Even reduced to a minimum the screen was utterly impenetrable by any physical object—and that included him!
His mind went in several directions, each one bringing him up against a dead end. His dead end!
Except . . . perhaps there was a solution even now.
His plan would involve persuading Mordri One to reduce the power to the energy screen, of course—that was an unavoidable necessity, and it might not be easy—but if he could convince her of its benefits . . . After all, Gelka would not want to go on alone, would she? What, the lone survivor of her once dedicated Three Unit? Surely not.
So why not a Two Unit?
But the plan, the plan!
Fighting his panic, Salcombe focussed his teetering mind. His localizer was lost, disintegrated, that was true . . . but it wasn’t the last available device of its sort in this place, now was it? And so, sweeping the floor of the cavern with his eager eyes, Mordri Two searched for Mordri Three. And why not? For it seemed to Salcombe that his plan was only right and just. After all, it was Guyler Schweitzer who had brought all this trouble down on their heads in the first place, wasn’t it?
Now then, where was he? Ah yes, there he was. But . . . what was the lunatic doing?
Shania Two was kneeling beside a very badly wounded man, applying her healing version of the touch, when Mordri Three came up behind her. At the last moment she sensed his presence—would have detected it far sooner if she wasn’t so intent on what she was doing—but too late now as she came upright, began to turn, and felt his spindly arms closing around her and his paralysing power beginning to freeze her in place. She could and did fight it, yes, but they were equal in this respect and only cancelled each other out, held each other in stasis.
Where physical strength was concerned, however, Schweitzer had the advantage: the strength of a lunatic. Numb from head to toe, Shania couldn’t break loose. And:
I have her! Mordri Three told his Khiff, totally unnecessarily, as he managed to position Shania between himself and the oncoming Scott St. John. What now?
Now we deal with her Khiff, that one answered.
Her Khiff? said Mordri Three anxiously. But why her Khiff? And what about me? This man has a fire weapon!
Her Khiff empowers Shania Two, the other replied. Even as I empower you. As for this man’s fire weapon: have no fear. He won’t risk burning this Shing’t bitch . . . he loves her! When I have dealt with her Khiff, and when he comes to her assistance, then you may use the touch upon him.
Yes, I see, said Schweitzer. But . . . how may we deal with her Khiff?
I shall see to that, said the other. Now be on your guard, for the man is here.
Seeing that his Khiff was right, Schweitzer clasped Shania more tightly yet, exposed her throat by yanking on her hair and pulling her head back, and shrilled at Scott, “Come no further, or else I shall harm her!”
Scott skidded to a halt less than ten feet away and aimed his weapon to one side lest he inadvertently apply pressure to the trigger. And from there he stared in horror as Schweitzer’s Khiff emerged in all its semisolid loathsomeness, bloating out of the mad creature’s ear. It resembled a diseased second head, like a bubble of grey-green, blood-tinged pus from a huge boil, and its small crimson eyes were wicked as sin where they fixed on Shania. And then without pause, Schweitzer’s Khiff extended a pulsing pseudopod toward her ear!
Scott paced forward, but Shania said: No, Scott! Stop! He is attempting to lure you within reach. Also, his warped Khiff is trying to force its way into my mind, but my Khiff will now block its efforts—at least for a while.
And indeed her Khiff came out onto her shoulder—a beautiful thing in its way, the opposite of the other’s ugliness—and fended the pulsing member off.
Scott stared at Schweitzer, at his silvery hair in a comb that was ragged now, and glared his hatred, his loathing. Then what Shania had said registered, and repeating her, he made it a question: For a while? What do you mean?
With my localizer dead my Khiff is weakening, she replied. And if Mordri Three’s Khiff wins, then I could become as warped and evil as he is!
Scott was torn two ways. If he rushed forward, Mordri Three would be sure to use the touch; and Shania, held captive, would not be able to heal him. But on the other
hand, if he did nothing, Shania’s sanity was in jeopardy.
He was stalled and cried out, “What can I do?”
Standing close by, and having heard the deadspeak thoughts that accompanied Scott’s words, a dead man replied, Call up the others, Necroscope.
“What others?” Scott stared at the scarecrow thing.
The trapped ones, said that one. The devolved ones. Those who are lost to the eternal darkness of the black disk, on the dais there, under that great blasphemous cross!
And because deadspeak, like telepathy, frequently conveys much more than mere words, or even thoughts, Scott knew exactly what the dead man meant . . .
48
Scott turned to look at the black disc atop the dais, and asked the devolved ones, Can you hear me?
You and no one else, came the answer from at least a dozen trapped souls. Now that you are near to us, we who for long and long heard nothing hear you! Yes, and we feel your warmth.
Scott turned again to the fretted dead man. But what happened to them? How did they come to this?
It was of course the Mordri Three, said that one, who have the power to reduce living matter to a black, lifeless solid in the shape of that disc. These poor souls “transgressed” against Mordri rules. Now they pay the price—now they are truly dead—incapable even of communication with their fellows, with us, by reason of this hideous, stony entombment! This knowledge was had from others who witnessed the way in which their colleagues were . . . reduced.
And they can help me?
I can’t say, said the dead man, slumping to the cold stone floor. But if anything remains of revenge in this place, surely . . . they . . . deserve it? With his work done, he fell silent and lay still.
Looking at the disc on the dais, speaking out loud, Scott said, “If you’re able to help me, then help me. I call you up!” As before, his words were deadspeak. And they were answered.
It was as if a great sigh filled the cavern, but that was only in Scott’s metaphysical mind. In the more solid, physical world, however, a sighing wind had stirred the air, and caused those who were still able to look up and seek its source.
On the dais, the black disc was dissolving, crumbling, and breaking apart. A swirling cloud of black dust rose up. Taking the shapes of men, it swirled, spiralled, and the dust figures mingled, passed through each other, came out on the other side unimpaired or only slightly so, reforming like miniature, colliding galaxies. And with their dusty, insubstantial arms reaching, their sighing turning to a shriek of rage in Scott’s mind, as one they swept toward Guyler Schweitzer.
He saw them coming and in his terror released his hold on Shania. His Khiff withdrew its probes and shrank back into him. The whirling dust figures closed on him as if to suffocate him, and barely in time he used his localizer to make a jump to the dais, which was as close as he could approach the pulsing grav-ship.
Gelka, take me in! he screamed. And when Mordri One failed to answer him—mad creature that he was, to the very last—he tried to hurl himself across the space between the dais and the alien vessel. He struck the screen and his localizer exploded, throwing him up and back onto the dais, and onto that circular stain where the disc had been. Broken and crippled, Guyler lay there under the cross, until the devolved ones came for him.
They surrounded him, swarmed into him—into his gaping mouth, straining nostrils, his every orifice—and told Scott: Now, Necroscope! Now return us to the darkness. For other than pain there’s no longer anything here for such as we are become.
With Shania in his arms again, Scott understood what they intended and said, “Your work is finished here, but know this: you will never be forgotten.” And then, nodding his gratitude, he let them go, saying, “Be as you were.”
The dust that they were at once began to settle, and the broken form of Guyler Schweitzer settled with it. Both him and his loathsome Khiff—caught up in the devolution, separating into scarlet pieces that broke down in a moment, their liquids like fruit in a blender—turning as black as the dust of the vengeful dead as the disc reshaped itself and they became part of it . . .
Simon Salcombe, on his way across the floor of the cavern, had seen everything. Mordri Three was dead and his localizer disintegrated. Now there was no possible way he could gain entry to the enabled ship without Gelka’s help, and he had nothing with which to bargain. Shania Two would be in possession of a localizer, true, but the man with her was armed with a fire weapon! Also, there were forces at work here that were beyond Mordri Two’s far less than coherent powers of understanding.
Still, he must do what he could, try “reasoning” with the creature he had used to call his One. And keeping low, moving as close to the ship as he dared, Salcombe used his mentalism to cry, Gelka, don’t leave me! Reduce the power and let me in. We can go on together! I can still be your Two, your Mordri Two!
And she answered, What, I should risk my own life to save yours? You insubordinate creature!
But, Gelka—
We searched for a god to defy him, she cut him off. Well, and perhaps we have found one . . . or if not a god a POWER that serves a god. I mean this man who calls up dead things. And he does it not by the use or misuse of any sort of Shing’t touch—which as we employed it was cold and brought only terror to its victims—but by the love they feel for him, the debt of gratitude they feel they owe him. And, Simon, if that isn’t akin to godliness, then tell me what is.
And again he cried out: But, Gelka—
And again she cut him off. We vowed that if we found such a one we would face him down and defy him. Very well, you shall have the honour. So face him down, defy him.
Gelka, have pity! Mordri Two was on his knees now.
Pity? she answered. Ah, no. For that, too, is the province of benevolent gods, and so beyond my range. But, Simon, think on this: if gods really do exist, then so must devils. And if that is the case then you will surely meet with them—in hell!
It was her final word on the subject. Then:
The ship’s drive throbbed more powerfully yet, and a beam of blinding light shot from its prow and up through the yawning hole in the ceiling, where only a moment ago the last stars had blinked out. For the sun was up, a scarlet blister on the eastern peaks, its light falling on Schloss Zonigen’s crag. And now the alien vessel lifted free of its cradle, surged forward, and began to accelerate as it climbed the beam.
Which was when Ben Trask and his people entered the cavern—in time to shield their eyes against the brilliant glare, the throbbing green, and the molten gold. Real gold! Because a long canvas cover on a shallow trench behind the vessel’s cradle had suddenly burst into flames, charring from the heat of the treasure lying beneath it: the precious metal that the Mordri Three had amassed to fuel their journey.
And now the beam of light issued from both fore and aft of the ship, the one guiding it out into space, the other speeding it on its way. And with a sudden rush of air the ship departed, leaving a trickle of dust from the ceiling, and a thousand bars of gold, golden statuary, and other once-precious items melting together in the alien furnace of the trench. But while the grav-ship was gone the energy screen persisted, defying interference with a scene that was set, a disaster that now seemed inevitable.
And as for Simon Salcombe: he was nowhere in sight. Under cover of the blinding glare, he had taken his departure . . .
“Too late!” Trask groaned, after all the horrors and the alien wonders of the great cavern had revealed themselves: the dying and the dead—especially the previously dead, all but one of them returned now to death—and that dazzling shaft of light spearing out into space, slowly converting the gold and powering Gelka Mordri’s vessel. “We’re too late. The ship has gone. And yet”—he stared at the precog Ian Goodly—“we are still here, still alive and kicking. So where’s your Big Bang, your ‘nothing’? Maybe it isn’t all over after all!”
Nearby, Shania was hurrying from one wounded person to the next, spending longer with some than w
ith others. She had heard what Trask said and answered him, “No, not yet. But soon. Gelka Mordri rides the beam to a far place. And beyond the solar system, five times farther than the radius of the blast, where she considers it safe, there she’ll send back a signal to transmute the bulk of the gold into Mr. Goodly’s Big Bang. After that . . . then she’ll ride the resultant massive gravity wave to her next destination, wherever that may be.”
“What?” Trask’s brow creased in a frown. “Beyond the solar system? But even at the speed of light . . . I mean, just how far is ‘beyond the solar system’?”
And Ian Goodly answered him, “Pluto is—I’m not entirely sure—but maybe six billion kilometres away on average? Which means that even at the speed of light it would take her, oh . . .”
“At least five and a half hours to get there,” said Scott, coming up on them, his math—or perhaps someone else’s, someone inside?—immediately springing to his aid. “And five times that would be—”
“Something more than a day,” said Trask.
“No, two,” said the precog. “One day for her to get there, and at the speed of light another for her signal to get back to this cavern.”
But Shania shook her head. “No, you can put aside all your laws of physics; they only apply to this level or parallel, and Gelka is harnessing the energies of a sublevel. She moves much faster than light, and by now many times faster.”
“How many times faster?” said Trask.
“Gelka will be at her true launch point in just a few minutes,” said Shania. “And it is the nature of the converter beam that her signal will return just as quickly.”
Looking bewildered, Trask said, “But at that kind of speed . . . why would she need a gravity wave?”
“Because by comparison what Gelka does now is at a snail’s pace,” Shania answered with a shrug. “While riding on a gravity wave . . . she can cross the light-years in seconds.”
