Cryptic Spaces

by Deen Ferrell

  Belzar grew suddenly very still. “Where did you hear that name?” he managed to rasp. T.K. kept the pressure on the blade. “I heard it from you, Belzarac—and from Hannuktu. Yes, it’s taken a long time for me to find you, but find you I did. You were stupid and careless to use your real name.”

  “Those are names long dead,” Belzar managed in a hoarse grunt, blood trickling down his neck.

  “You murdered my father. You are responsible for my brother’s death. Now, your henchmen have murdered the only other father I’ve ever had. Tell me one good reason why I shouldn’t slit your throat!”

  “Ah!” Belzarac coughed. “Tainken Keilhar! The child princess that didn’t die.”

  “No. She didn’t—and you’re running out of time. One good reason, Belzarac!”

  “First, I didn’t murder your father,” the man spat, barely able to speak. “Second, those aren’t my men.”

  “What do you mean?”

  The man was silent. T.K. eased up ever so slightly on the knife. “I was…hired to rob your father, not kill him. He never took the pendant off. I tried to bluff him and snatch it. He had a hidden dagger. We scuffled. It, it was an accident. Habus saw. He...” Belzar was barely able to get the last word out. He gasped for breath. T.K. realized that she had unintentionally increased the pressure on the knife again.

  “Finish!” she demanded, barely slackening the knife’s pressure. Belzar coughed.

  “He, he was the brains. He ran. I followed. Your brother…followed. You…You must have followed. Thought I saw…in the shadows. You must know the rest—about my leg.”

  Belzar feigned a collapse on the side of his bad leg. Using the temporary distraction to perfect effect, he twisted away from T.K.’s knife arm, swatting the arm with his cane so that the knife sliced superficially at his neck. He spun back around, delivering a roundhouse kick to T.K.’s gut, followed by a slam onto her shoulder with his cane. The blow drove T.K. to the floor. Belzar rocked on his legs, fighting for breath and wiping blood from his neck. He towered over the crumpled form on the floor, his cane poised, watching for movement. When it was clear that T.K. was in no shape to counter-attack, at least not immediately, he slipped his free hand into his coat pocket. There was a click and he withdrew his automatic pistol. He aimed it at T.K. as she rolled onto her back, one arm guarding her face. Belzar forced a crooked smile.

  “As for your other father,” he croaked, “If you’re talking about the Captain of this cursed ship, you can thank Gates and his mysterious boss for that—a tall man, always wears a trench-coat. He calls himself ‘Belzy,’ or ‘Beelzebub,’ or some such rot. I wouldn’t let Gates know you’re alive if I were you. He seems to like to see things die.”

  “Why are you here?” T.K. managed.

  “I came to get something Habus took from me—something that’s rightfully mine!”

  “That you stole from my father?”

  “Perhaps. Anyway, the artifact doesn’t seem to be here and that idiot and his muscle have killed or lost anyone who could have helped us find it.” The man stared down, breathing heavily. “If you weren’t such a risk, I might want to keep you around. Perhaps your father taught you how to use the pendant?”

  “I wouldn’t help you even if I did know what that pendant is. I only know you killed for it.”

  “I’ll kill for it again,” Belzar confirmed. He looked down, his eyes blazing. “Will you die today for it, Tankien Kielhart, Princess of the people who never were?”

  “What is Habus doing with it?” T.K. calculated that this may make Belzar hesitate, and she was right. He raised an eyebrow.

  “Well, that’s the million dollar question, isn’t it? I can’t say. I only know he took it from me and left me high and dry—left me in that stinking cave all alone. Well, not alone. I was there with the beast, now wasn’t I?”

  “We’re both after Habus.”

  The man’s fierce eyes studied T.K.

  “Yes, which means we’re probably both after the pendant. Now, it looks like it’s slipped through my fingers again. I’ll find it, though, and when I do, I’m going home. Sorry, there’s only room for me and mine on my return journey. A Princess would mean complication. I will, though, have revenge for both of us before I go.” He took a rattling breath. “Now, my not-so-young princess, I have to kill you.” Extending his gun arm slightly, he pointed the barrel at T.K.’s head. “Believe me, it’s better this way. If Gates were to find you…”

  The sentence was never completed. A sudden arc of movement ended in a rain of shattered glass. Liquid slapped to the floor smelling of alcohol. Belzar dropped the gun, falling limply forward. Antonio shuffled into the light, swaying slightly on his feet, holding the neck of a shattered whisky bottle. The pungent odor of the liquor filled the room. He forced a weak smile.

  “Trouble with the boys, senorita?”

  T.K. nudged Belzarac. The man was out cold. She scrambled away from him, finding her knife and pausing long enough to return it to the sheath at her ankle. “Thanks,” she said, pushing slowly to her feet, nursing her bruised shoulder. “Where’d you get the bottle?”

  Antonio shrugged. “It was hidden in the springs of his bed. H.S. once told me he always hides something in the springs of his bed.” He tossed the jagged neck to the floor. “I did not expect a bottle, though. H.S. doesn’t drink. Perhaps the alcohol was poisoned—a double weapon, no?”

  T.K. started to respond, but paused, holding up a hand for silence. Muffled voices came from far down the corridor. “Belzar? Belzar? Mouse says he thought he heard gunfire.” Feet shuffled in their direction. The voice called out again. There was a tense silence.

  “Quick,” T.K. motioned toward the closet. “He was inspecting the closet when I jumped him. Its walls are made of metal of some kind.” She kept her voice to barely above a whisper. They pushed quickly to the closet and quietly closed the door. “Is there a lock?” Antonio whispered as T.K. let go of the knob. There was a sound of bolts locking into place. The knob began to glow a bright orange. “Look,” T.K. said, “the knob spins like the dial of a safe.” She had moved the knob slightly to a point where it had seemed to click.

  Voices and footsteps grew louder from outside the closet. They couldn’t be more than a few yards away. The knob began to turn on its own. T.K. stepped away from it.

  “I, I didn’t do that.”

  “No, but you seem to have triggered some sort of automated program.”

  The knob stopped and changed direction, then stopped again. The door became quiet. Antonio moved forward. “It’s the entrance,” he said. “We’ve found the entrance to the gateway. That’s why James Arthur is no longer here. ” Outside in the room, excited shouts erupted. Debris was being flung about in an apparent attempt to search the room. “The ventilation shaft!” someone cried.

  T.K. gripped Antonio’s arm “How does it work?” she whispered. “Where will it take us?”

  “I don’t know,” Antonio croaked. “If we triggered some automated function, perhaps to one of our facilities? But the door has been dented. There is even damage to the doorknob. It could be dangerous.” He was studying the doorknob, which still glowed. Something slammed against the outside of the door. Bullets pinged off the metal walls.

  “Antonio,” T.K. said, hearing the chaos outside the closed door growing. “You must know how to work this thing! We need to get out of here!”

  “This is…a new design,” Antonio croaked, exasperated. The door became suddenly cold, as if it had turned to ice. Antonio touched it and felt at first a sluggish pull. He grabbed T.K.’s arm and opened his mouth to warn her, but before he could, an intense jerk yanked them both forward, exploding outward. Antonio felt an odd disconnectedness, as if his soul were spread across a smothering blackness. Then, with a crack, he was yanked together again. He was falling. He glanced around and caught a momentary glimpse of T.K. splashing beside h
im into a pool of briny, odorous water. The water stung his eyes and throat as he plunged below the surface. He struggled back up, rocketing out of the water with his arms flailing, gasping for breath. The water seemed to glow with strange phosphorescence. T.K. burst up a few yards away. He tried to clear his vision.

  “Where—” he started, dazed and wild-eyed. T.K. cut him off.

  “No! NO!” She wiped her eyes and turned in the water. A faint glow filtered down from the black, slimy walls as well. “Not here!” she shrieked, an edge of panic in her voice. “Quick—follow! We’ve got to get out of this water fast!” She took off swimming, slicing crisply through the dim pool. Antonio had finally gotten his eyes dried and focused. They seemed to be in a cave of sorts. He could see a narrow rock shelf a few yards ahead. T.K. was frantically swimming toward it. She called to him over her shoulder. “Swim, Antonio! No time to explain. Just swim! Swim as if your life depended on it, because it probably does!”

  Antonio couldn’t make out what was going on. “You know this place?”

  “Listen to me!” T.K. screamed. “Something comes into this cave, something—”

  Her eyes grew large as Antonio heard a faint splash behind him. “Swim!” she screamed.

  Antonio felt a shiver run down his spine as something large and rubbery slapped against his leg. He tore at the water, fighting to close the gap between himself and T.K. Out of the corner of his eye, he glimpsed an enormous dark coil slice up out of the water. He kicked harder. “Hurry!” T.K. screamed. “Faster!” She had already dragged herself onto the ledge and stood, knife in hand.

  Another black coil rippled the water barely ten yards away. Antonio lunged for the shelf and felt a hand grab his shoulder. T.K. bent low, helping him onto the rocky ledge just as an ugly, angular head burst up to tower over them. Antonio rolled onto his back and tried to push further onto the ledge. The beast rose higher, hissing and dripping water, its gaping mouth at least five feet across. A foul stench washed over them as it pulled its fangs wide in a trumpeting roar. T.K. screamed back. Her eyes burned with an animal intensity. She brandished her knife with speed and skill. The yellow slits of the beast’s eyes narrowed as it jerked its head back and struck.

  26

  Pink Shores

  Willoughby felt hands lifting him. His limbs were weak and his head was spinning mercilessly. His throat burned. They put him on some sort of stretcher and wheeled him out. Out where? The air was cool. There was a breeze that smelled…that smelled of ocean. Voices were shouting. Willoughby leaned suddenly over the side of the stretcher to retch again. His throat began to throb. He wanted to look around, to figure out where he was and who was with him, but his eyes could not focus beyond one or two feet away. There were men with yellow jackets and a woman with a white frock and short hair. He thought he saw Sydney once, trailing behind, also escorted by someone in a white frock. He was loaded onto a vehicle. He noted a neat, black “O” on the pocket of one of the yellow jackets and relaxed. Wherever they were, Observations, Inc. was aware of it. They were safe! The release of tension in his body allowed him to drift again, his consciousness ebbing away and the cold, dark of oblivion returning…

  He was again falling through the void of light. Numbers streamed by, various strings slowing into visibility. A particular string interested him. It was slightly darker than the rest. He reached out to touch it. The numbers were all prime numbers, repeated in a mirror loop. As soon as he touched the string, the numbers disappeared. He was in free fall in deep space. A long, rectangular plane fell in front of him, mirroring his fall as if it were connected to him in some way. It had a reflective surface made of crystal or glass. He stared into the surface and saw himself staring back, but the reflection felt wrong—alien in some way. He noted tiny strands of number strings sparking to existence around the edges of the reflection. They began to climb in circular spirals around the image’s fingers and hands and arms. The number strings climbed up the images’ legs and encircled its chest. The features of the face began to age and change. The frame of the reflection grew taller and leaner. The eyes became swirling threads of number with jet-black pupils in the center. The number strings melted into the image’s skin.

  Willoughby stared in horror. He was looking directly into the face of the man he had seen at Antonio’s—the tall man with the trench-coat. The face smirked. “Even now, you are changing. You can’t run from what will be. Already, Willoughby, you begin to see we are connected!”

  “No!” Willoughby cried, kicking out at the crystal. It pivoted, its top, right corner slamming into his injured shoulder. Willoughby cried out in pain…

  “There,” a soothing voice cooed in his ear. “It’s over.”

  Willoughby felt sweat on his forehead. A gentle hand wiped it with a wet rag. He was breathing heavily, lying on his side. His clothes had been removed and he was covered by some sort of pajamas that left his injured shoulder bare. He saw a white-clad nurse taking a silver basin out, making a face that told him that whatever was in the basin was nasty. He saw a few blood-soaked cotton swabs sticking over the edge of the basin. A young, dark-skinned man in a scrub suit stood just on the edge of his line of sight. The man seemed to be pulling at something.

  “He’s awake, doctor,” the soothing voice from behind him said. The voice was female—obviously another nurse. “Good…Just a few more stitches and you’ll be good as new,” the doctor said in a low mumble. His voice carried a sort of colonial British accent. “Are you in pain?”

  “Yes,” Willoughby managed. The blinding pain he had felt in his dream had been steadily subsiding, but it was still there. He felt another wash of cool liquid over the wound. The pain deadened further. The doctor, still holding the suture, watched as the nurse dabbed the shoulder with what felt like a sponge. “Is that better?” he asked. Willoughby croaked something that sounded like “uh-huh.”

  “Good,” the doctor said, then went on with his sewing. Ten minutes later, he sighed. “Forty-eight stitches.” He tied the final stitch with a pinch and snipped off the excess thread. He then began to bandage the wound. “That was a sizeable bullet. You’re lucky. It could have been much worse. You had enough Sevoflurane in your system to put down a baby elephant. That alone could have killed you. You were lucky to have smart friends. I’m not sure how they knew to force water down you, but it allowed you to clear some of the nasty stuff out of your system. Funny thing is, though—the Sevoflurane may have actually helped to slow internal bleeding from the bullet. It may have kept you from acute shock.”

  “Sevoflurane? What is it? They put something on the rag.” Willoughby managed groggily. He was trying to remember who had forced water down him.

  “Yes. It can be crudely administered with a rag, which, as I understand it, is how they gave it to you. It’s a common analgesic, but can be deadly enough when administered poorly or in overpowering doses.” The doctor gave him a curt smile. “I’m Doctor Kensington, by the way. I’m the corporate physician, so I get the best of all worlds—the past, the present, and of course, anything I can get my hands on from the future. Nothing surprises me, but I will say I rarely get to work on one so young, and this is the first time I’ve dealt with Sevoflurane poisoning. But you’re out of the woods now, and I have other patients to see. I’ll be back early tomorrow to check in on you and change that bandage.” Offering a slight pat on Willoughby’s good arm, the doctor turned to leave.

  “Wait,” Willoughby said. He tried to sit up further, but dull pain shot through his shoulder when he tried to move it. He could tell that the place where he had been shot was heavily bandaged. “Where am I? Is this a hospital? How is my shoulder?”

  The doctor turned back. “You are in Bermuda, and don’t worry—you did not travel in time, only space. This is not really a hospital. It’s more like a maintained villa. Your shoulder is torn and we had to dig out residual matter from the bullet, but it should heal nicely now. I would take it easy
with that arm until the stitches come out.”

  Willoughby let his eyes flick around the room. “Where am I? What time—what day is it?” He had a vague recollection of throwing up a lot into a basin. It seemed that Sydney had been there. He couldn’t see any basin now, though. In fact, the room looked almost like the President’s Suite in some high-brow resort. The furnishings followed an early colonial theme with island-inspired art covering the walls. A sheer crimson curtain fluttered at an open window a few feet from his bed, and a single French door stood open just beyond it. The door seemed to lead out onto a balcony or veranda. Outside, Willoughby heard the sound of waves breaking onto the sand. The doctor smiled at him.

  “It’s late afternoon. You’ve been with us about a day and a half. You were brought straight here after your escape from the Absconditus. You’ve been very sick, Willoughby, hovering in and out of consciousness.”

  “Sydney? Dr. O’Grady?” Willoughby croaked.

  “Sydney, I believe, is right outside the room. She’s pestered me for an update on your progress about every fifteen minutes. Dr. O’Grady is in his suite next door.”

  “What about Antonio, James Arthur, the Captain, T.K…”

  The young doctor frowned. “I’ll tell H.S. you’re up and asking questions next time he calls. He’s due for a visit, I believe, sometime tomorrow. He told me he would be here two or three days this time.” The man gave a nod, turned, and exited the room. The nurse, a young, dark-skinned woman with her hair pinned down behind a crisp white nurse’s cap, came back into the room. She walked straight to him, fluffed the pillows at his back, and helped him get another drink of water. “You can easily lean back now. Are you comfortable? Is there anything I can get for you?”