Secret Histories 10: Dr. DOA

by Simon R. Green

  Roxie was keeping herself occupied, and enjoying herself immensely. She might look every inch the mercenary adventurer, but she still had command of all her witchy unpleasantness. Nothing the guards fired at her was even getting close, and she was having a great time turning weapons into snakes, scorpions, and lobsters that went straight for the genitals. Apparently, her sense of humour remained the same no matter who she was being. She gestured languidly, and a whole bunch of guards’ armour disappeared, replaced by flowery frocks, basques and stockings, and some quite distressing bondage outfits. At which point, most of the guards threw their weapons on the floor, stuck their hands in the air, and did their best to look like they were really very sorry. Some were clearly only moments away from bursting into tears. I thought Roxie was being quite restrained, for her. She hadn’t turned anyone into a toad, or a squelchy thing with its testicles floating on the surface. So far.

  “Stop this right now! All guards will stand down immediately!”

  The loud authoritative voice caught everyone’s attention. Those guards still standing immediately lowered their weapons and stepped back, doing their best to look like it was all nothing to do with them. I dropped the two guards I’d been about to slam together, and Roxie dropped the one she’d been punching in the face. Django Westphalion stayed where he was, curled up in a ball in a far corner. The newcomer with the imperious voice turned out to be a distinguished-looking young man in a white doctor’s coat. Handsome enough, in a bland sort of way, with a ready smile and a discerning gaze. His only striking attribute was a shock of pure white hair, quite at odds with his apparent age. He strode across the great stone chamber, heading straight for me and ignoring the various injured and unconscious guards along the way. The guard leader, who’d been keeping well back all through the fighting, fired off a snappy salute at the newcomer, and was roundly ignored. Roxie strolled over to join me, smiling unpleasantly. The newcomer planted himself in front of us and flashed his most accommodating smile.

  “Please, do accept my apologies, on behalf of the Institute. This has all been a terrible misunderstanding. You are our honoured guests.”

  Behind him, the guard leader looked like he couldn’t believe his ears. Clearly, he’d been told something very different. Those of his men still on their feet just looked relieved they didn’t have to fight any more. The newcomer gestured quickly, and the guard leader rounded up his men and led them away. Detailing some to help the injured and carry off the unconscious. It wasn’t quite a retreat, but enough of one to satisfy my pride. Roxie made a rude noise at their departing backs. The newcomer cleared his throat, just a little theatrically, to draw our attention back to him. He was all smiles, apparently entirely unperturbed by my armour or the stray magics still swirling around Roxie. If anything, he seemed fascinated by both. He extended a welcoming hand to me, and I armoured down so I could shake it. He watched my armour disappear with interest, and then pumped my hand enthusiastically. Roxie dismissed her magics, and he made a point of shaking her hand too. I looked at Roxie.

  “Who do you want to be here?”

  “Think I’ll go back to being Molly. She can be more frightening.”

  “I’ve always thought so,” I said generously.

  Molly Metcalf replaced Roxie Hazzard, and the young man laughed out loud, applauding delightedly.

  “Marvellous! Simply marvellous! Eddie Drood and Molly Metcalf! All in one day . . . I’m so happy to meet you both.”

  “Something of a first,” murmured Molly.

  Django Westphalion slouched over to join us, and glowered at me. “You’re on your own now, Drood. I was told you’re dying. Good. Hope they invite me to the autopsy, so I can spit on your insides.”

  He left the chamber as fast as he could without actually looking like he was running away. He chose a different exit to the one the guards used, confirming that he knew his way around Under the Mountain. The newcomer looked after him, sighed in a disappointed sort of way, and then turned back so he could smile at me and Roxie some more.

  “Allow me to introduce myself. I am Dr Melmoth, research scientist, and Head of the Science Division here at the Survivors’ Institute, Under the Mountain.”

  “Aren’t you a bit young to be in charge of things?” said Molly. “What are you, twenty-two, twenty-three? Or have you been trying out a youth serum?”

  “Oh no,” Melmoth said cheerfully. “I just acquired a morbid fear of death at a much younger age than most. Hence the hair. As a result, I determined to do something about it and became a highly motivated boy genius. The Survivors snapped me up at the first opportunity.”

  Melmoth had a flighty, almost giddy air to him, for someone who claimed to be so traumatized by death. Presumably a coping mechanism. He took in the expression on my face, and chuckled understandingly.

  “Fear can be a marvellous motivator. Particularly when there really is something to be scared of. As you’d know now better than most, Eddie. No need to tell me about your little problem. I’ve been briefed.”

  I had to raise an eyebrow at that. “Really? Who by?”

  “The Wulfshead Management,” said Melmoth. “They vouched for you, or you wouldn’t be here. We don’t allow just anyone into Under the Mountain. Not without knowing as much as possible about them in advance.”

  “You know the Wulfshead Management?” said Molly.

  “Well, not personally . . . but the Institute has had dealings with them. Hasn’t everybody? Now then, I want to reassure you, Eddie, that you’ve come to the right place! Oh yes! We’ve heard about Dr DOA, and his singular poison, but we’ve never had a chance to examine one of his victims while they were still alive. Oh, we’re all really looking forward to seeing what we can learn from you, Eddie! Though I have to say . . . everyone here is frankly amazed and just a little flattered that the Droods should hold our research in such high regard. That you would come to us in your hour of need.”

  I heard a question in his voice that I had no intention of answering. It wouldn’t help anything for him to know that to us, the Survivors were just a name in an old book. Better to be diplomatic; especially where my family’s reputation is involved. Let the world think we know everything. Because mostly we do.

  “Can you help me?” I said bluntly.

  “Of course, of course! Place your trust in us, Eddie, and I promise that you won’t be disappointed!” Melmoth grinned broadly, rubbing his hands together in anticipation. “We do love a challenge!”

  “Yes,” said Molly. “But can you help him?”

  “We specialize in hopeless cases, Ms Metcalf,” Melmoth said almost reproachfully.

  “What is it you actually do here?” I said. “You understand there isn’t a lot of information about you, out in the world.”

  “Of course, of course, just as it should be.” Melmoth shot me a knowing wink, bouncing lightly on the balls of his feet in his eagerness to impress me. “Our work requires security. And privacy. We deal in the one thing everyone wants, after all—more life. Basically, Under the Mountain is one big research installation. Into all the problems that flesh is heir to. Research into every form of illness or physical breakdown. How our bodies sustain us, and why they fail us. We are interested in everything there is to know about life. We’re looking for the cure, you see.”

  “The cure?” said Molly. “To what?”

  “To everything!” said Melmoth. “To death itself!”

  “Okay . . . ,” said Molly. “How’s that going?”

  “We’re making progress,” said Melmoth. “Oh, and thanks awfully for bringing Django back. We have a whole new bunch of really interesting tests to run on him. And he’s always so hard to get hold of.”

  “Will he enjoy these tests?” I said.

  “I shouldn’t think so, no,” said Melmoth. “He didn’t enjoy any of the others.”

  “Good,” I said. “You do realise he’s
not actually immortal? That’s just the family name. He’s only very long-lived.”

  “Well, that’s a good start, isn’t it?” said Melmoth. “It’s his ability to change his shape that we find so fascinating. Complete control over his physical structure, right down to the cellular level. Flesh that can adapt itself to any number of changing conditions! If we could only learn to duplicate that . . .”

  “How’s that going?” said Molly.

  “We’re working on it,” said Melmoth.

  “How long have the Survivors been working on this cure for death?” I said.

  “Afraid you’re asking the wrong man,” said Melmoth. “I’m a relative newcomer to the Institute. They offered me the best-equipped laboratories in the world, and no problems with funding, and I couldn’t say yes fast enough! I believe the Survivors, as an organisation, have been around for decades. There are scientists who’ve spent their whole working life Under the Mountain. There’s nothing like knowing you’re engaged in the Greatest Work of Our Time, to attract the best minds. Of course, it helps that we deal in pure science here; no moral or ethical restrictions to get in the way of whatever we decide is necessary. We pride ourselves on being very open-minded. It is, after all, the final result that matters. Putting an end to dying will justify everything we’ve done.”

  “But you must have human subjects to experiment on,” said Molly. “How do they feel about these . . . moral ambiguities?”

  She didn’t sound too pleased with what she’d heard so far. Molly didn’t have much use for morals or ethics herself, but she believed everyone else should. There’s no one more judgemental than an ex–supernatural terrorist. If Dr Melmoth recognised the open disapproval in Molly’s voice, he didn’t seem to care.

  “They’re all volunteers,” he said. “Sometimes for the money, more often because there’s something wrong with them, that the world can’t put right. Or it’s a friend, or family, and then they volunteer their lives in return for the Institute’s helping those they care about. It’s all so very public-spirited and uplifting! We treat all our subjects with the utmost care, Ms Metcalf. They are part of the Great Work.”

  “What successes have you had?” I said bluntly, trying to bring him back to Earth.

  “What have you got that you can show us?” said Molly.

  “Why don’t I give you the unofficial tour of the Institute?” said Melmoth. “How would that be?”

  “Unofficial?” I said.

  “Well, we don’t get enough visitors for there to be an official tour, you see,” said Melmoth. “I think it best if I just . . . walk you round. Show you what there is to see. After all, we have nothing to hide! Nothing! This way, please.”

  “Given how many secrets you must have, and how strict your security is, and that you greet your visitors with a whole bunch of armed guards . . . I have to assume there are some things you don’t want the outside world to know about,” I said. “Why are you being so open with us?”

  “Because we want you to trust us enough to place yourself unreservedly in our hands,” Melmoth said earnestly. “We help you so you can help us. Lots of people here would just love to get their hands on a Drood. The things we could learn from you . . . while we’re helping you.”

  “There is a limit to how much of myself I’m free to discuss,” I said. “My family’s security must always come first.”

  “Always?” said Molly. “Even when you’re dying?”

  “I’m still a Drood, Molly,” I said flatly. “I have duties and responsibilities. Some secrets aren’t mine to share. I won’t risk the safety and security of my family, just for a chance to save my own skin. Anything, for the family. It’s not just a T-shirt.”

  Molly shook her head. When she finally had enough control of herself to speak, her voice was low and bitter. “Even now. After everything they’ve done to you . . .”

  “Well,” I said, “that’s families for you.”

  “Everyone here will be very grateful for whatever information you feel you can provide,” said Melmoth. “Now, if you’d care to come this way . . .”

  * * *

  He led us out of the stone cavern, hurrying on ahead with great enthusiasm, almost skipping along. He plunged into one of the un-signposted openings in the cavern wall, and just like that, we were walking along a gleaming steel corridor. The change in atmosphere was dramatic, like jumping straight from the Past and into the Future. The curving steel walls were entirely featureless, with no visible seams, as though the whole corridor had been extruded in one piece. It stretched away before us, lit by glowing half spheres set into the curved ceiling at regular intervals. Molly strode along at my side, glaring suspiciously about her. Making no secret of the fact that she didn’t trust Melmoth or our new setting. But then, to be fair, she felt that way about most people and most places. Melmoth just scurried along ahead of us, not even glancing back to see if we were keeping up. He hummed tunelessly to himself, hands thrust deep into his coat pockets, as though he didn’t have a care in the world. And this from a man supposedly so traumatized by the very thought of death that his hair had gone white.

  We finally emerged into a massive cavern, big enough to hold a dozen cathedrals. High above, an artificial sun illuminated a great concrete plaza, surrounded by huge concrete arches leading off in a dozen different directions. All of them entirely functional, and not in any way decorative. Just there to serve a purpose. The sheer size and scale were intimidating.

  There was no one else about. Molly stuck close at my side as we stood just outside the tunnel mouth. I felt like a target. This would make a really good place for an ambush . . . by people who really wanted to get their hands on a Drood and know his secrets. Melmoth stopped some distance ahead and looked back as he realised we weren’t keeping up with him. He smiled brightly, and gestured for us to come forward and join him.

  “Please; there’s nothing for you to worry about! Come and take a look; this is what you came here to see . . .”

  He beckoned winningly for us to join him. When I went forward, I saw why he’d stopped. The concrete floor just ended, with no warning and no railing. Molly clung tightly to my arm as we both looked down. Past the drop-off, the cavern fell away farther than my eyes cared to follow. The cavern’s walls were lined with houses and habitations, buildings and science labs. Futuristic structures, huge inscrutable machines, and tall towers linked by a delicate spiderweb of walkways. Fiercely shining lights and flaring colours, and everywhere people, small as ants in an ant farm, just going about their business.

  A whole city, built inside a mountain.

  I could see clear traces of alien and future tech. Apparently, the Survivors had been gathering things they could use for some time and weren’t too fussy about the source. Because you couldn’t get anything like this anywhere reputable. That meant the scientific black market—Black Heir, and all the more-furtive areas of the hidden world. To acquire all of this, the founding Survivors must have gone shopping with pockets full of money, greedy as magpies for every bright and shiny thing they thought they needed. I made a mental note to inform my family. Some markets are forbidden because you can’t deal with those people, and some things not even a little bit people, without blood on your hands as well as theirs.

  I couldn’t help a small smile. Even as I was dying, I was still doing my job as a field agent. Molly, delighted with the view, was going Oooh! and Aah! a lot. I wasn’t so sure. Something about these brightly lit, crowded-together rooms and windows made me think of cells. The solitary spaces of religious thinkers, of scientists and their apprentices; perhaps even the cells of some giant organism. A single engine driving some Great Work incomprehensible to the individuals who laboured on it.

  I looked at Melmoth, and he looked eagerly back at me, waiting for a response.

  “Impressive,” I said. “Where do we go from here?”

  Melmoth’s face fell.
He’d clearly been hoping for more. “This way, to the elevators.”

  He turned away from the long drop, and strode off toward one particular archway. I had to pull Molly away from the view so we could go after him.

  “It must have taken some time, and a lot of resources, to build all this,” I said to Melmoth’s back. “So, who paid for it all?”

  “Is there anyone more afraid of dying than a rich old man who’s finally understood you can’t take it with you?” said Melmoth, not looking back. “We’re never short of donations, from all sorts of people in all sorts of places. Every one of them desperate for a chance to cheat the Reaper. We make the results of our research known to all our patrons, in regular reports, but you’d be surprised how few of them want to try the things we have to offer. They all want to live on, but only on their own terms.”

  “And you?” I said. “Given your particular problem with dying?”

  “I have the option to try anything I like,” Melmoth said easily. “We all have. Perk of the job. But, as with so many of our more than generous benefactors, I’m waiting for just the right option. As to how this installation was constructed, everything you see was brought in through the teleport mechanism and assembled in place. Of course, it’s not finished. We’re constantly improving and upgrading the Institute.”

  “Where did the Survivors get hold of such a powerful teleport mechanism?” said Molly. “They’re rare. I know where to look for a phoenix’s egg and a Maltese falcon, but I’d still have trouble getting my hands on a teleport mechanism that could do all this.”

  “It was a gift,” Melmoth said blithely. “From someone who wanted our services, but didn’t have the money to pay for them.”

  “Was this someone human or alien?” I said.

  He shrugged. “Who can say? We try not to ask personal questions. The point is, it often works out that way. We let word get out as to what we need, and people rush to press it into our hands, in return for what we know. People can be very generous when their backs are pressed against a wall with really big spikes on it.”