Night Fall

by Simon R. Green

  CHAPTER THREE

  Heads of State

  Howard stood in the centre of the Ops Room, watching the screens. Usually that helped him feel like Head of Operations: the man in charge, protector of his family, and master of all he surveyed. But not today. His family, his world, and everything he believed in were under threat and under siege. He could feel it, even if there was nothing to see on any of his screens. The Nightside crashing out beyond its boundaries had changed everything. And something that ground-breaking didn’t just happen; someone had to be behind it. An unknown enemy was out there somewhere, planning and plotting, and Howard was watching for him.

  He was deathly tired. He’d been on his feet for fourteen hours now without a break, and no end of his shift in sight. He was here for the duration. His head ached, his back was killing him, and his feet weren’t talking to him. He realised he still had a cup of tea in his hand. He sipped at it and pulled a face. His mind had been busy with so many other things, he’d let the tea get cold. He put the cup down on the nearest workstation and stretched his back slowly. It didn’t help.

  He couldn’t complain; he was still better off than his operators, sitting endlessly at their workstations studying the screens before them. Frowning with concentration for fear they’d miss something important. At least he could move around the room, change what he was looking at, close his aching eyes for a moment without worrying he’d let the family down. Howard sighed quietly and glanced at the big clock on the wall.

  “Listen up, people,” he said, quietly and calmly. “It’s time to run our regular hourly scan. Standard procedure, concentrate on what you’re doing, get it right. Start at the outside and work your way in.”

  No one actually said anything, but Howard could feel a mood of resigned irritation in the Operations Room. They’d been running the scans every hour on the hour ever since they came on duty, and no one had turned up a trace of anything even slightly out of the ordinary. But it had to be done. The automatic systems were supposed to alert the Room to any significant change the moment it happened, but Howard couldn’t trust the systems any more. They hadn’t warned him about the Nightside. So he would see the scans were run, every hour on the hour, until the Matriarch personally assured him the crisis was at an end.

  “Start with the really long-range sensors,” he said, soothing his people with calm, familiar words. “Fire up the existential engines and the maybe machines, and let’s see what’s stirring in the Darque Latitudes.”

  His people went to work without a murmur, searching for any signs of trouble in the supernatural realms, that uncertain area between death and life. First up on the floating holographic displays were the usual shifting views of poltergeists. Dark, raging shapes like living thunder-storms, beating endlessly against the barriers that kept them out of the material world, searching for a weak spot so they could force their way in. Not for the first time, their behaviour reminded Howard of a spoilt child throwing a tantrum.

  Next, the Ops Room looked for ghosts. An endless sea of faces filled the display screens. Overlapping and superimposing, silently shouting faces wracked with loss and horror flickered on and off like interrupted signals. Howard never let it get to him. The chances of seeing someone he knew were vanishingly small. What mattered was that none of them were manifesting anywhere near Drood Hall. Some were just images caught in Time, trapped in repeating loops; others, the last fading vestiges of a personality, as its psychic fingers were prised off the edges of the waking world by the relentless pull of the hereafter. Real ghosts, the spirits of the dead returned to haunt the living, were fortunately very rare. When they did occasionally turn up at the Hall, the family wasted no time in sending them on to their reward. Because otherwise they could be a real pain in the arse. No one can hold a grudge like a ghost.

  Next, the operators checked for the possessed, the undead, and all the other things that tried to insist they were alive when they clearly weren’t. No trace anywhere in the Hall grounds, or the surrounding country-side. Checking for such things was just a formality; Howard could trust the automatic systems to catch them because their physical presence alone should trigger any number of really loud warnings. And if any did manage to get into the grounds, the weapons systems would blast them into confetti before they could stagger two steps towards the Hall.

  The holographic displays changed yet again as the operators checked for signs of attack from other dimensions, adjoining realities, even other timetracks. Again, any such incursion should trip all the major alarms, but Howard had reached the point where he didn’t trust anyone but his own people, and even then only when he was standing over them. One by one the operators signed off, confirming what Howard was seeing on the displays. Everything was quiet, nothing out of the usual. Nothing to worry about.

  Till the next scan.

  The displays cleared, to show shifting scenes of the Hall grounds. Nothing was moving apart from a few grounds staff here and there, tending to the lawns and fighting the flower-beds. The gryphons and the peacocks were patrolling their usual areas, ostentatiously ignoring each other. Howard watched the precog gryphons carefully, but they didn’t seem bothered by anything. And the peacocks were blessedly quiet, for the moment. The damned things were so over-sensitive they’d been known to sound off if the wind changed direction. But they did make excellent living alarms.

  Howard murmured in one operator’s ear, and the young woman’s fingers darted across her keyboard. The scenes changed again. Swans drifted majestically on the artificial lake, with no sign of the undine. The hedge maze was quiet, and the standing stones watched the boundaries. The disguised entrance was shut down, and Drood Hall stood firm and strong against the world. As it should. All protections and defences were in place, the seen and the unseen and the really nasty hidden surprises. The only excitement was up on the roof, where all manner of magnificent flying machines were still busy landing and taking off. Howard smiled slightly as he watched the landing-pad crews running back and forth, frantically waving their little flags and shouting themselves blue in the face at anything that tried to jump the queue. They’d never been worked so hard before and were loving every minute of it. Let them have their moment. It wasn’t often they got to feel important.

  The last of the operators finished their scans, and the Operations Room fell silent. Everyone looked to Howard, and he nodded briefly.

  “Well done, people. Scan complete. There shall be Earl Grey and chocolate hob-nobs for all.”

  A single alarm sounded, harsh and strident. Everyone’s head snapped around as they turned to look. Howard stared. It wasn’t one of the regular alarms. He moved over to stand behind the operator as she stared in horror at the flashing light on her workstation. Howard leaned in beside her, steadying her with his presence. She shut down the alarm and concentrated on her screen.

  “What is it, Angela?” Howard said quietly.

  “Something is heading straight for us,” she said. Her voice was calm, but she had to work for it. “Something that doesn’t fit any of our usual criteria, and it’s coming from a direction I can’t even identify.”

  “Any idea what it might be?”

  “No! I don’t know . . . I can’t get a fix on it, or track it.”

  Howard straightened up and looked around the Ops Room. “Everyone link their stations to Angela’s. This has top priority till I tell you otherwise.”

  He went back to stand in the centre of the room, so he could watch everything at once. The holographic displays weren’t showing anything. Whatever was on its way, it wasn’t coming from any of the usual trouble spots. A quiet murmur of troubled voices ran through the Ops Room as the operators conferred, trying to work out what it was by ruling out what it wasn’t.

  It’s not heavenly or infernal.

  It’s not coming from the higher or lower dimensions, the shimmering plains or the broken lands.

  Could it be interplaneta
ry, some new form of warp drive?

  Someone’s been watching too much television. The early-warning systems would pick up anything like that the moment it entered our solar system.

  I can’t get my head around how it’s moving. Like it’s travelling sideways across Time and Space.

  Hold it; has anyone thought to check whether someone’s signed out the old Armourer’s Bentley?

  First thing I thought of; it’s in the garage, being searched for hitch-hikers after its last other-dimensional trip.

  Whatever this is, it’s coming right for us. Like a bullet from a gun.

  Howard picked up the red phone and was put straight through to the Matriarch. That was what it was for. She answered immediately.

  “Yes?”

  “This is Howard in Ops. Someone or something will be arriving here at any moment. We have been unable to identify it.”

  “You don’t think the Hall’s protections will keep it out?” said the Matriarch. Her voice was as calm as his. They might have been discussing the weather.

  “We can’t be sure,” said Howard. “This is so different, it might slip past our defences because they won’t see it as a threat. Whatever it is, it’s travelling fast, and it’s coming at us like the wrath of God. I strongly recommend you send armoured Droods out into the grounds to meet it.”

  “I’ll inform the Sarjeant-at-Arms,” said the Matriarch. The line went dead.

  Howard put the phone down. He felt a little easier, now he knew the Sarjeant-at-Arms was on the job. He looked around the Ops Room and was pleased to see everyone steadily watching their screens. It was one of the strengths of the Droods that when emergencies occurred, everyone could be relied on to do what was necessary, quickly and efficiently, just as they’d been trained. Howard moved unhurriedly among his people, leaning over shoulders to peer at their screens and murmur the occasional encouragement. They were all doing everything they could, even though it wasn’t getting them anywhere. All they could be sure of was that something was getting steadily closer.

  “Has anyone thought to check for an energy signature?” said Howard. “You know Molly Metcalf likes to change the signature on her teleport, just to mess with us.”

  “It’s not her,” said a young man, scowling at his screen. Howard had to concentrate for a moment to remember the man’s name.

  “How can you be so sure, David?” said Howard.

  “Because I’ve got every signature she ever used on record, and this is nothing like them.”

  “It’s almost here!” said another voice, and everyone stopped what they were doing to look at the displays.

  Out in the grounds, nothing was moving anywhere . . . apart from the company of armoured Droods streaming out the front door, led by the Sarjeant-at-Arms.

  “Excuse me, sir,” said David. “Why hasn’t the Sarjeant armoured up?”

  “Cedric always likes to leave it to the last moment,” said Howard. “He says, because it makes the enemy under-estimate him. More likely because he’s a show-off.”

  There was a brief murmur of laughter, quickly cut off as Angela raised her voice.

  “It’s here! It’s right on top of us! There. Screen Three!”

  Everyone turned to look. Some actually rose to their feet to get a better view. There was no opening of a dimensional door, no prising apart of Space and Time by unnatural energies, not even a bright flash of light. Just a single figure, suddenly standing on the grassy lawns, staring calmly at Drood Hall.

  “Oh hell,” said Howard. “It’s John Taylor.”

  A babble of voices broke out. No wonder they hadn’t been able to identify the unexpected visitor; Walker of the Nightside had never come to Drood Hall before, in the whole history of the long night and the Drood family.

  “Quiet please, people,” said Howard, and his barely raised voice cut across the uproar. The operators who’d stood up quickly sat down again. Howard addressed the room without once taking his eyes off Screen Three. “Keep scanning, people. I want to know how John Taylor got into the grounds, past all our protections and defences.”

  “On it,” said Angela, her voice calm and composed again. “Our scanners aren’t picking up anything. As far as they’re concerned, he isn’t even there. How is that possible?”

  “It’s John Taylor,” said Howard.

  “Is he really a threat?” said David. “I mean, he’s just one man. How dangerous can he be?”

  “As dangerous as he wants to be,” said Howard.

  * * *

  • • •

  Standing in the middle of the wide, rolling lawns, John Taylor looked interestedly around him. He’d heard about the magnificent Drood grounds all his life, but he’d never expected to see them. They spread away like a great green sea, under cloudless blue-grey skies that made a pleasant contrast to his world of endless night and neon-lit streets. And the Hall itself was quite staggeringly huge. For the first time, John understood how big the Drood family was. They weren’t just a clan; they were an army. An advance guard of armoured Droods was already heading straight for him, plunging across the lawns like so many animated golden statues. With a very familiar figure at their head. John looked back at the Hall. People in the long night would never believe he’d actually been here. He wondered if there was a gift shop; perhaps he could pick up some postcards and a few T-shirts.

  The armoured Droods were moving inhumanly quickly. John considered them thoughtfully, wondered if he should be impressed or intimidated that such a show of force had been turned out in his honour, and opted for neither. He was Walker of the Nightside; it was up to them to be impressed. He looked casually at the gold pocket-watch in his hand, as though he was just checking the time of his arrival, then put it away. No point in letting the Droods know it contained a portable Timeslip. They’d only try to take it away from him. He struck a casual pose and waited calmly for the Sarjeant-at-Arms to reach him.

  A robot gun rose up from its underground bunker and targeted him with its long barrels. John looked at the gun thoughtfully, and it hesitated. John could almost hear the Hall’s security people screaming at the gun to stand down. Don’t shoot! That’s John Taylor! God knows what he might do! He didn’t smile. A calm exterior under extreme provocation just added to the mystique.

  The robot gun sank sullenly back into the ground, and the grass closed over it. John looked around unhurriedly as a pair of gryphons came lurching across the lawns. Seriously ugly creatures, with a definite air of hunger about them. John reached into his jacket pocket and brought out the bag of special treats he’d brought with him. Martian meat balls, left over from the last time Martians from an alternative timeline had invaded the Nightside. For months afterwards, Martian meat had been top choice in all the best Nightside restaurants. These particular morsels had been wrapped in smoked red weed and soaked in the juices of human adrenal glands. Quite possibly the least requested bar-snack in Strangefellows’ history. John had made a point of collecting some from Alex before he left. Alex had been glad to get rid of them. He claimed some of them had started moving around when he wasn’t looking. John had heard of the Droods’ gryphons and thought Martian meat balls might be one of the few snacks no one had tried bribing them with.

  And sure enough, the gryphons loved them, nuzzling at his hands with their soft mouths every time he stopped to see if they’d had enough. When the bag was finally empty, John put it away and scratched the gryphons cautiously between the ears. They seemed to like it. They sank down on either side of him and leaned heavily against his legs, just to make it clear he wasn’t going anywhere. Apparently even bribery had its limits. John didn’t mind waiting.

  The armoured Droods finally arrived, spreading out to surround the infamous John Taylor. The Sarjeant-at-Arms looked him over carefully. He still hadn’t put on his armour. The two men nodded to each other. Two very dangerous men, who both knew better than t
o start something they didn’t have to.

  “Hello, John,” said the Sarjeant.

  “Hello, Cedric,” John said cheerfully. “Haven’t seen you in Strangefellows for a while.”

  “I’ve been busy. You know how it is.”

  “Unfortunately, yes.”

  “To what do we owe the honour of this entirely unexpected visit, John?”

  “I’m here to speak with the Matriarch.”

  The Sarjeant looked at him carefully. “And why would you want to do that?”

  John looked back at him calmly. “You know why.”

  The Sarjeant-at-Arms shook his head slowly. “You should have informed us you were coming. There are proper channels, and procedures.”

  “You should have told us you were entering the Nightside,” said John.

  “You’d better talk to the Matriarch,” said the Sarjeant.

  John smiled brightly. “That’s what I thought.”

  The Sarjeant glared at the gryphons. “Get out of here, traitors. Undone by simple bribery. Anyone would think we didn’t feed you at all.”

  The gryphons lurched away, entirely unembarrassed by his tone. The Sarjeant indicated the way to Drood Hall with a sweep of his arm, waited for John to set off, and strode along beside him. The armoured Droods went with them, still surrounding John at what they hoped was a safe distance. Because this was Walker of the Nightside, after all.

  * * *

  • • •

  John strolled along, taking his time and refusing to be hurried. Apparently completely at his ease, he studied his surroundings with happy curiosity, as though he were at the head of a parade, or a state head on a diplomatic visit. The Sarjeant strode along, looking straight ahead and saying nothing. After a while, John looked at him.

  “Is it true? You can summon any weapon you want out of nowhere?”