by Joe Mahoney
Panic surged within me like an approaching tsunami. I opened my mouth to cry out, aware that I would drown. But I didn’t drown. Instead I breathed. And continued to breathe, though it was water I was breathing, and gradually the anxiety passed, as all anxieties do, and I found myself marvelling at this turn of events.
Shapes loomed before me, alien in shape and countenance, but beautiful in their variety and complexity. Glowing, pulsating creatures stared at me with gargantuan eyes, curious eyes, hungry eyes. Able to outmanoeuvre them all, I swam easily amongst them, admiring this lush, exotic, undersea world.
One slimy monstrosity with an immense maw drew too near. A part of me twitched and I shot forward through the water as though equipped with a jetpack. When my senses caught up with me, I found I was splayed out on the grassy ground again, drenched in sweat and gasping for air, where I lay trying to make sense of it all.
Had I gone through the gate somehow? Or had I experienced a psychotic episode, perhaps a result of stress and anxiety? I rolled over. Stones dug into my back. My eyes came to rest on the Necronian compound.
Some of Iugurtha’s soldiers were climbing groggily to their feet while others, still standing, started abruptly as if awakening. Still others swooned and fell. The Necronians were waving their wands ever so slightly, leaving a hypnotic trail of lights in the air. Many of Iugurtha’s soldiers had their weapons pointed but no one was firing. As I watched, more humans and T’Klee crumpled to the ground. A single weapon discharged. I heard it go off a second later. A Necronian fell, and a nasty suspicion began to form in my mind. I was climbing slowly to my feet when everything changed again.
This time I was mounted, reins in one hand and a sword in the other. It wasn’t a horse I was riding though. It was a rawk, one of the bison-like creatures native to C’Mell, and upon which the T’Klee depended for much of their food. A gun with a short, stubby barrel and a banana-shaped clip was strapped over my shoulders. Chain mail chafed against my sweaty skin.
I was riding through a gloomy forest, shards of sunlight glittering high above me through a canopy of leaves. Ferns, grasses and gigantic lilies rose as high as my knees despite my elevated perch, and I found myself fighting an urge to sneeze. Aside from that I felt fine, a marked departure from seconds before. The improvement in my health suggested that the gate had something to do with what was happening to me, except that it had been closed, and nowhere near me, and didn’t explain what was happening to the rest of Iugurtha’s soldiers.
Apart from the absurdity of finding myself a fish one minute and clad in medieval armour the next, everything that was happening to me felt, sounded and smelled real, from my helmet cutting into the back of my neck to the incessant chatter of birds and animals to the abundant vegetation making my allergies act up.
But it wasn’t real.
I was almost certain of it.
The raver had driven people in Ansalar insane by distorting reality. The Necronian Jacques had been able to make me believe it was changing its appearance. What if ordinary Necronians like Jacques were capable of doing more? What if—by working collectively—they were able to place their enemies within elaborate fantasies designed to place them in mortal peril? What if they could kill their enemies in real life this way? How would one escape from such a fantasy? I had no idea. But I would figure it out. Whatever nonsense the Necronians threw at me, I would prevail. I had no choice. I could not afford to die. Not with so many people to save.
So I rode on, and discovered that I possessed a certain facility with the rawk, which responded to my every subtle command without the slightest reproach, forging difficult streams, traversing steep hills and leaping deep ditches with the tranquil grace of a practising Buddhist. Why would I be equipped with such a cooperative mount in a fantasy that was designed to kill me? Was I wrong about my circumstances? Or was the rawk some kind of Necronian trick? Maybe it was designed to make me think it was on my side when in fact it was out to get me.
I considered ditching the beast—just to be on the safe side—but decided against it. I might need to make a speedy getaway and the rawk might turn out to be an ally after all. But I kept a wary eye on the animal just the same.
I had no idea what to look for, only that I needed to find a way out of this fantasy, a way back to Ridley and the others. I found nothing of the sort. Instead I came across a series of increasingly puzzling objects. A swing-set rusting in the middle of a swamp. A broken crib high in the branches of a birch tree. A bungalow surrounded by a white picket fence with no gate. A suspension bridge bridging a tranquil meadow. An ocean liner lining a dry lakebed.
Cresting a hill, I caught a whiff of a terrible scent alongside which excrement would have smelled perfectly delectable. I was forced to turn away until my stomach settled. The rawk raised its head and snorted gently. I heard a rustling before me, and reined up beside a knotted oak to have a look. Peering through the tangle of branches I saw nothing out of the ordinary.
An instant later my heart skipped a beat as a mass of putrid flesh emerged heavily from the thicket, flattening several bushes and a tree. It was a Necronian, but the largest one I’d ever seen, larger than a bungalow. The pores of its skin were visible at twenty paces. It slithered its way to me leaving a disgusting trail of slime in its wake. A feeling of dread washed over me as its single eye settled upon me with a saturnine gaze.
It addressed me in a pleasant baritone. “So good to see you again, Wildebear Barnabus J.”
My sword at the ready (I did not feel comfortable with the gun), I surveyed the monstrosity before me, careful not to look away lest it should pounce. “Jacques?”
“At your service.”
“But you’re dead. Aren’t you?”
“Parts of me are. But the rest is just fine, thank you very much.”
“You look… larger,” I remarked.
“You see what you want to see.”
“What does that mean? What’s this all about?”
“I think you know perfectly well.”
Tensing, I raised my sword. “So you’re going to try to kill me.”
“Not at all. I simply have a question for you.”
I had been riding a long time. I no longer felt the all-consuming weariness brought on by repeated use of the gate but I was tired, sore, and impatient. It made me reckless. “I’m in no mood for games, Jacques. If you’re looking to kill me, let’s just get on with it.”
I was being rash and Jacques knew it. The Necronian smiled, dimples like crevasses forming in cheeks the pallor of dead fish. We both knew that I did not stand a chance of defeating Jacques in this form (or, very likely, any other).
Jacques ignored my challenge. “I would just like to know how you did it, is all.”
“Did what?”
“Survived my little underwater fantasy. How did you know how to do that?”
“Darned if I know.”
Jacques stared at me with its big blue eye, never blinking. I detected a twinkle in that monstrous orb. “You know where we are.”
“In a forest.”
Jacques nodded. “The forest of your psyche.”
What did that mean? Right now we were completely surrounded by trees and shrubbery. How was that supposed to represent my psyche? It’s not like I was thinking about trees and shrubbery. Was I?
“Come on,” I said. “You’re doing this, not me.”
“I am exerting considerable influence over your primitive psyche, it’s true. But it’s your unconscious mind providing the raw material, your imagination suggesting the themes. I’m merely fleshing it out a trifle. It’s a challenge working with such an anaemic imagination, but one does what one can.”
I bristled. “If my brain came up with all this, I’d say I have a pretty healthy imagination. I’ve seen some crazy stuff in this place.”
“The usual dull human archetypes I’m afraid, noth
ing more. But don’t feel bad—your feeble mind is completely typical of your species.”
The Necronian was just trying to get my goat. I had a clever retort on the tip of my tongue when a small white animal cantered out of the woods.
“If a tad more literal than most,” Jacques added, flapping a leathery tentacle at the animal, which scampered away.
I stared after the goat incredulously. A coincidence? Or had I conjured the goat up along with the metaphor? A metaphor that, alarmingly, Jacques appeared to know I’d been thinking. Suggesting that Jacques was more than simply creating this illusion—it was penetrating my thoughts. Maybe the Necronian really was channelling my unconscious mind to create this imaginary realm. A realm obviously designed as just another attempt to kill me. But how?
Curiously, Jacques made no move to attack. Was the Necronian powerless to inflict actual injury here? It was deliberately insulting me—an attempt to destroy my ego? Did Jacques think it could kill me by provoking a suicide? Did it expect me to use the weapons I was carrying on myself?
“I wasn’t paying much attention to you the last time we met,” Jacques said. “I am now. That means you can’t hide anything from me. I know you think I’m deliberately insulting you in an attempt to hurt you. I don’t mean to. I’m merely being candid.”
How much had my thoughts inadvertently revealed about myself? I struggled to rein them in whilst attempting to retain my composure. “You wield candour as a weapon.”
“You wield actual weapons.”
“I didn’t ask for these weapons. You gave them to me.”
“You will not be required to use them. Your unconscious mind gave them to you because you’re feeling defensive.”
“Do you blame me? You tried to kill me. You’re probably trying to kill me now.”
“Do you blame me?” Jacques countered. “Your friends are trying to kill me.”
“Your people invaded a planet that didn’t belong to them. They massacred its people and took the rest hostage. You said yourself it’s only a matter of time until you invade the Earth. Of course my friends are trying to kill you—someone has to.”
Jacques produced a gurgle deep in its belly. At that same instant the sky clouded over and the wind picked up. My blood ran cold—had I pushed the Necronian too far? I had only spoken the truth. Maybe Necronians couldn’t handle the truth. I checked my grip on my sword and felt for the gun hanging over my shoulder. I didn’t see how these metaphorical weapons could offer much protection in this made-up world but they were all I had.
“The truth,” Jacques said. “You know nothing of yourself nor of the universe. Yet you presume to know the truth. I can hardly blame you—you’re almost inconceivably young. Still, I can’t have you going around perpetuating lies and misconceptions. If it’s the truth you’re after perhaps I can enlighten you. Why don’t we start with this—that almost everything you believe about me and this war is predicated on shaky ground?”
When the ground literally began to shake with this pronouncement I wasn’t particularly surprised. But I was when the ground began to disappear, preceded by the forest, the leaves swirling off the trees in complicated geometric patterns before vanishing like smoke into thin air. Trunks, branches, and other shrubbery followed until the earth itself began falling away in huge clumps of dirt and sod. True to form, the rawk barely stirred as everything about us gradually disappeared.
“You think I’m evil,” Jacques said. “I’m not. We simply have different perspectives, you and I. How could we not? We were born in opposite corners of the universe, after all.”
Certain that this was Jacques making another attempt on my life, that soon I too would begin to disintegrate, I clutched the rawk’s reins with a death grip, but the dissolution of Jacques’ make-believe universe never touched me. When Jacques itself dissolved into particulate matter and then into nothing at all I found myself suspended alone in complete darkness. I could still hear the Necronian’s voice, though.
“Imagine being all alone. No parents, no brothers, no sisters, no friends, no enemies, no strangers, no pets, no wildlife, no insects, not even a single fish, no sentient life of any kind except you. Imagine existing like this for a thousand years. Try to fathom the loneliness.”
Panic enveloped me. Did Jacques intend to leave me here alone for a thousand years? For an instant I couldn’t breathe. But I wasn’t completely alone—I could still feel myself astride the rawk. Grateful for the beast’s company, I leaned forward, felt for and patted its bristly neck. It lowed softly—perhaps glad of my company too.
Belatedly I realized that the Necronian had been talking about itself. I was confused. Jacques was hardly alone. I’d seen dozens if not hundreds of Necronians on C’Mell. There had to be thousands more on board the Necronian ships in orbit, not to mention millions (if not more) out in space. Was this some new psychological gambit to weaken my will? Did Jacques want my sympathy? My pity?
Although the Necronian was nowhere to be seen its voice still reverberated in my head. “Not pity,” it said. “Understanding. You find me repulsive. You call me a Necronian, a name associated with death. I find that insulting. You judge me without knowing the first thing about me. You’re wrong. There aren’t millions of Necronians. There is only one. Me.”
“What? That’s crazy. I’ve seen hundreds of Necronians.”
“Every so-called Necronian you’ve ever seen has been me. I know you understand the concept. You’ve seen it before.”
Sebastian.
“One being, many vessels,” Jacques confirmed.
One consciousness guiding an entire species. Necronians communicating with one another telepathically, their consciousnesses merging, all adding up to one big Necronian named Jacques. Incredible.
“I see you understand,” Jacques said.
I understood all right. I understood all too well. I understood that there was now only one to blame for the destruction of the T’Klee home world, one entity to blame for the invasion of C’Mell, one consciousness to blame for the attempted genocide of an entire species. And its name was Jacques.
“Still you judge me,” Jacques said, “but I’m not surprised. I know better than to expect much from such an insignificant fragment.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Only that you are merely one of a sad assortment of detached organisms in almost perpetual conflict with one another, existing on such a ludicrously primitive level that I’m forced to suspend virtually all intellectual capacity to render myself even remotely able to communicate with you. It’s no great surprise to discover you capable of only the most superficial understanding of my actions. To expect more would be like expecting an amoeba to understand why a human ties its shoelaces. No offence.”
“None taken.” I’d been compared to worse. “Why are we even talking if I’m so insignificant?”
“Because as insignificant as you are, you’re about to make a decision of some significance.”
“So I’m not as insignificant as all that then.”
“You are enjoying a fleeting moment of significance,” Jacques agreed.
“What kind of decision?” I asked.
“Whether to give me the archive cleverly concealed within your brain.”
I assumed Jacques was talking about the knowledge that Iugurtha had placed in my brain to support the operation of the gate. This was unfortunate. Although it had become increasingly clear that Jacques was capable of reading my mind, I had been hoping that the ability had its limits, and that Iugurtha had concealed that knowledge deep enough within my mind to evade detection. Alas.
But what did Jacques even want with that knowledge? The Necronian already knew how to operate the gate. Unless it only understood the gate on its most basic level, like someone capable of operating a complex piece of machinery but who had never actually read the manual. Like me, actually—even
though I possessed the instructions to the gate in my own brain, I had barely skimmed the surface.
“Such a fragile vessel to contain so much information,” Jacques said. “Reckless. Irresponsible, really.”
“How much information are we talking about?” It would have to be a fair amount to allow me not only to use the gate but to survive in every possible destination.
“Only the accumulated knowledge of hundreds of civilizations.”
“Hundreds of civilizations,” I repeated slowly, attempting in vain to grasp the enormity of it.
“Sounds impressive, doesn’t it?”
“Seems a tad excessive just to operate the gate,” I remarked.
“That’s because you have it backwards. The archive does not exist to support your quaint little quantum portal. The portal is merely one possible feature of the archive—the tip of the iceberg, if you will. The archive itself contains much, much more.”
That surprised me but it made sense. Jacques was after much more than a mere quantum portal. I recalled the binder that Sarah had shown me containing a portion of the knowledge that Casa Terra had brutally extracted from my brain via Mind Snoop. All that information jam-packed into my head, of all places. So Iugurtha had not just put it there so that I could control the gate. I thought about Schmitz, who could also operate the gate, and who knew how many others before him. For all I knew dozens had possessed copies of the data now crammed into my cranium. All attempts to conceal this so-called archive from Jacques? If so, Iugurtha had failed. And just my luck that Jacques would come across me first.
Not wanting to provide Jacques with additional targets, I suppressed this line of thought as soon as I could.
“Others have borne the archive, it’s true,” Jacques said, “but only one can bear its essence. The others are all dead now anyway, or might as well be. It’s just you now.”
An unsettling sibilance arose around me, suggesting the presence of an unseen mass, a horde of hard, chitinous creatures lurking with dark intent. Gradually I became aware of a glow in the distance. The rawk stirred and started forward, its unshod hooves clip-clopping on some hard surface. The sinister sounds I was hearing morphed into a more familiar soundscape: traffic on wet asphalt. Despite the familiarity of those sounds—or perhaps because of it—I began to feel deeply uneasy.
