Wyrmhole

by Jay Caselberg

  No, things didn’t happen to Jack by chance. So, why Pinpin Dan? He tugged at his bottom lip as he considered. None of the possibilities was very attractive. Not a single one of them.

  FOUR

  "I want your girlfriend," said the White-Haired Man.

  Jack looked up at the escarpment where the figure stood. The man was tall, thin, angular, the long white hair forming a nimbus around his high-cheekboned face. Behind him sat a structure, like a hut, cobbled together from iron girders and bits of old railway track. It hunched like a brown and gray beetle, partially obscured by the man's body. Funny that there should be railway track. The railways didn’t run any more, hadn’t done for years.

  "But I don't have a girlfriend," said Jack.

  The wind stirred the man's long brown coat around his boot-sheathed calves. He narrowed his eyes. "Where is she?" he said.

  Jack swallowed. "I've already told you. I don’t have a girlfriend."

  The man's eyes held a glint of hardness. There was something wrong about the eyes, but try as he might, Jack couldn’t work out what it was. The man waved his hand and slowly the ground beneath Jack's feet trembled and rose. Jack thrust his arms out to retain balance.

  The man was grinning now as Jack rose toward him, a slight, sinister grin.

  "No!" said Jack, fighting against the chill in his chest.

  He pushed himself away from the figure, willing himself awake. This is a dream, he told himself. It has to be.

  He forced himself up through the layers of consciousness, floating. The White-Haired Man's face became less distinct, dissipating in the ether.

  "I will find her," said the man.

  And Jack woke, the last words echoing inside his head.

  He'd dozed off after scanning the personnel records for what had seemed like hours. It was bad enough that he did this stuff for a living without his subconscious throwing things at him from a tangent. The dream had nothing to do with what he was working on. At least he didn’t think it did. He pressed his lips tightly together. He just didn’t need this.

  He looked down at the handipad on the low table in front of him. The personnel records still sat open. He'd gotten maybe two-thirds of the way through them, and still there was nothing to trigger a connection. Even the names Johnson and Mitch had been constructs of his mind, populating the second-sight dream with shreds of familiarity. Nothing to go on there. All he was left with were the snakes. He slotted the card back out of the handipad and holding the small, flexible sliver up to the light, turned it around and around in his fingers, as if he could see through the mysteries it contained to some sort of truth, buried deep within.

  oOo

  When his visitor arrived, Jack had progressed no further. He was still playing with data cards, sliding them one over the other and watching the colors while he thought. The two cards had been delivered in the space of a couple of hours, one Pinpin Dan's, the other containing the personnel records of the Dairil III mining crew and yet they too were unconnected. Separate, unconnected incidences. But nothing in Jack Stein’s life was unconnected. There was always a trailing network of threads. All he had to do was tie them together and find out how.

  The actual records had told him little. Each of the missing crew had a good share of shady history, lists of trouble and close scrapes with the company — just the sort to be attracted to a far-flung mining operation where the pay was reasonably good and they were out from under the watchful scrutiny of company authority. Not one of the crew had any past connection to underground organizations or fringe political groups as far as he could see. Their past records of employment were a checkerboard of short-hop contracts and drifting from company to company. Jack wouldn't really have expected anything more. He slotted the data card back in and started scanning the records one more time. There just had to be something there.

  "Visitor," said the wall, interrupting his concentration.

  "Who?" said Jack, thumbing off the handipad and sliding the data cards back into his pocket and out of sight. He wasn’t expecting anyone else, apart from the little clerk from Outreach, but it paid to be sure. The wall lost its drab tones as colors bled onto its surface, painting a picture of a short rotund man standing outside his door, shifting nervously and checking the corridors to either side. It was Gleeson all right.

  "Let him in," said Jack, then, calling out, "I'm through here."

  Gleeson entered the room just as his simulacrum faded from the wall. Jack waved him in the direction of a chair.

  "So what is it you have to tell me, Mister Gleeson? And, let’s face it, I can't go on calling you Mister Gleeson. Have you got another name?"

  Gleeson took a seat and licked his lips nervously before speaking. "Um, Francis," he said.

  "So, Frank," said Jack.

  "No ... Francis," said Gleeson. He scanned the walls, hesitating.

  "Francis, then. Look there's nothing to worry about. This place is as secure as anywhere else in this place. You can talk. You seemed pretty sure you had some information for me when we last spoke. So, let’s stop playing games. What is it you were so eager to tell me?"

  "Have you had a chance to look through the personnel records?"

  Jack nodded, restraining the urge to lift his hand and feel for the card in his pocket.

  "Gilbert Ronschke?"

  The name had been one on the list. "Yes, what about him? I didn't see anything particularly interesting, anything particularly special about him. Should I have?"

  Gleeson hesitated again. "But Gil was ... is special. It was supposed to have been Gil's last contract. He had enough put away to start his own ...”

  Jack cut him off. "What are you saying, Francis?"

  "You see, it’s just that Gil is a friend of mine. A very close friend."

  Jack looked across at the little man and considered. "I see."

  Gleeson chewed at his lip and wrung his hands. Either he was hamming it up, or the little man really was worried. "Gil was supposed to be home by now. You see a lot in administration, Mister Stein. Particularly, for a company like Outreach. A lot you're not necessarily supposed to see. I asked my own questions, made my own inquiries, did research you see? And I'm from inside the company. It’s impossible. You've got to help me, Mister Stein."

  "But Francis, the company's employed me to do exactly that — to find out what’s happened to the crew. Why would you need to come to me? I'm sure the results of my report will be made available to those who need to know."

  "You don't understand. It’s like a wall of silence has been drawn over the whole thing. I know there was a previous investigation, but whatever they found out has been hushed up. They’re even trying to pretend that the investigators found absolutely nothing. Now there's pressure. Pressure from outside and from inside the company to give a proper accounting, but I believe there are certainly those within the company who don't want anyone to find out what really happened. I believe you've been hired to give such an accounting, one that won't lead anywhere, one that's inconclusive, but one that will stand up to scrutiny. I also believe there are individuals within the company who know precisely what did happen out there and not only are behind it, but are behind the attempts to keep it quiet."

  Jack sat back. Something uncomfortable was working in his guts again. If what Gleeson said was true, than his sense of being played by Warburg was closer than he had first suspected. But so far, he had nothing tangible to support the feeling, nothing more than the squirming feeling and Gleeson's statement. Psychic investigation was fairly fringe, but it had earned itself some credibility over the last few years. They simply couldn't believe that Jack would fail to find anything. He had to be careful though. Gleeson could be unstable, could be anything.

  “So,” he said. “If there’s been an investigation, what’s happened to the report?”

  Gleeson sighed. “Nothing. I’ve looked, but I’ve found nothing. And you have to understand … my position … if I were to ask too many questions…”


  "Tell you what, Francis. If what you say is true about why I was hired, then I want to do some finding out of my own. I don't particularly like being taken for a fool."

  "But what can you do that no one else can?"

  "Let me worry about that. I'm going to help you, but first, I'm going to have to ask you for a little bit of help too."

  Gleeson gave him a puzzled look. "What can I do?"

  "You say you and this Gilbert Ronschke are close friends."

  Gleeson paused and looked back down at his hands. "More than friends," he said quietly.

  "Then you might have something of his that you can lend me."

  Gleeson looked up. "I don't see what —"

  "Part of what I do is to use the images prompted by physical objects to provide clues to whatever it is I'm investigating, but I need actual physical contact with these things. Things, objects, gather the energies of the people who own them or use them, kind of like a personal imprint. I can do things with those energies, use them to guide me. Sometimes it’s a direct insight, or sometimes it will be a series of clues that appear in a dream. Sometimes it just prompts my instincts. All I need is something small. Something Gil felt an attachment to."

  Gleeson thought for a moment. "Yes, perhaps there is something."

  "It can be anything, a treasured article of clothing, a holo, a piece of jewelry, anything like that."

  "Yes, I’m sure I can find something. And I should bring it here to you?"

  "No. I'd rather come to your place if that's where it is. It will help me get more of a feel. Those energies can be found in people’s places too." Unfortunately, Jack had little control over the way those impressions would manifest themselves. He waited for some sort of reaction. If Gleeson was prepared to play along, then there might be some legitimacy to his claims.

  Gleeson stood and started to walk around the room, touching objects, peering into the shelves. "I still don't see what you can do," he said, almost inaudibly.

  Jack watched him as he paused in front of the shelves. There was a defeated slump to the man's shoulders. He was chewing at one thumbnail.

  "I know some of it may be hard for you to believe, but you're just going to have to trust me for the time being," Jack said.

  Gleeson just stood where he was.

  Jack continued. "There's something else you can do for me as well."

  Gleeson turned slowly. "Yes," he said and sighed. "Anything. What is it you want? I just have to know what happened."

  "Answer a couple of questions."

  He nodded and crossed back to the chair and sat, still clearly ill at ease. "What do you want to know?"

  Jack thumbed on his handipad and turned it so Gleeson could see. He keyed up the rough sketch of the ring symbol he'd made. "Does this mean anything to you?"

  "No, nothing," said Gleeson, with a quick shake of his head.

  "Nothing you can remember in company records — a logo, something like that?" Another shake of the head. "Well, perhaps its name — Ouroboros. Does that mean anything to you?"

  Gleeson thought for a moment. "Sorry. No, it doesn't mean anything. I could have a hunt through records though, see if I can come up with anything."

  Jack grimaced. He’d been sure there was a link. If Gleeson was really involved and had been conducting his own investigation, then the little man would surely have come across it in his search through the records. He had one more idea.

  "Yes, I think that would be useful if you can do that. See if you can find anything in the records that’s even marginally related. And, um, there’s one more thing. Does the company have a research arm? Something secret they're working on."

  "Of course. Always. Doesn’t every major corporation? I don't have anything to do with that area, but I can try and find out for you."

  "Good, how long will you need?" Jack asked.

  "Two or three days at most. I'll have to be careful about when and how I access certain records. They're fairly sensitive about those things. Usually, now, I’m pretty good at covering my tracks. It’s natural for someone in my position to be accessing these records, but most of the high-level stuff is tagged. I have to be careful not to leave a pattern."

  "Fine, do it. Meanwhile, can you leave me your address? I have one or two things I need to follow up in the morning, but if you can meet me at your place about midday tomorrow."

  Gleeson patted at his pockets. "I don't have a card."

  Typical. A man who spent his days working with data and records had none of his own.

  "That's okay. Just say your address. Record."

  The round-faced administrator spoke his address in clear tones. Jack nodded. He would get his diary to parse and transfer it later.

  "End record," said Jack. "Now, unless there's anything else you can remember…”

  "There is one more thing." Gleeson was still fidgeting. He sat clasping and unclasping his hands and he looked around the room as if searching for some sort of trap.

  "Well...?"

  "It's just ...” He reached inside his coat and pulled out a handipad. “... this."

  "Yes? It's a handipad."

  "I know what it is," Gleeson snapped at him.

  Jack looked at the little man speculatively. He hadn't expected that. Everybody had his or her little surprises. Gleeson continued more calmly after taking a steadying breath. "This is Gil's, or rather, it's something he had put away. I found it in the bottom of a cupboard. He told me to look after it if anything should ...”

  "Was Gil involved in something?"

  "I don't know. Maybe. I don't know. He just said I should take care of this."

  Jack hesitated and then reached across and took the handipad. "You say this wasn't his."

  "That's right. He had it shoved in the bottom of a cupboard under some old clothes. I knew it was there though. He seemed to think it was important. Maybe you can use it to find some sort of clue as to what happened to him."

  Jack flipped open the handipad and thumbed it on. Standard design. Nothing special about it. But then ... nothing. A blank screen and then a message: Enter Password. Who the hell passworded their handipad? Jack pursed his lips and thought. Gleeson said it wasn't Ronschke's and yet Ronschke had thought it important enough to hide, important enough to let Gleeson know about it. A handipad was a pretty innocuous thing. What exactly was it that Gleeson's companion had been involved in?

  "Can I hang on to this?"

  "If it will help you find Gil, of course. I intended for you to have it."

  "And you're sure he wasn't involved in anything, um, shall we say, suspect?"

  "Look, I told you I don't know. He might have been. But if he was, I think he would have told me."

  "Fine. I'll still need something of his though. I really don’t think this was his; I'm not feeling anything special from it."

  There was always the risk that when he picked up any personal object his inner senses would be filled with impressions. What he’d told Gleeson was true. Things, objects, seemed to accumulate the energies of those who owned or touched them. The longer something was in someone’s possession, the stronger the images Jack received. The handipad was doing nothing. That was a little strange itself. That blankness could happen with things that were new, or those that had been passed from owner to owner, never in one person’s possession for very long.

  "Yes, I already told you it wasn’t his." The impatient tone was back again.

  "All right, Francis. I heard you. That’s all I need from you for now. I'll see you tomorrow."

  Gleeson nodded and stood. As he reached the doorway, he turned. "You will find Gil, won't you, Mister Stein?"

  "I'll do what I can. Oh, and there is just one more thing, Francis. If I'm going to help you, you really are going to have to help me. The Outreach contract is about all that's keeping me going at the moment. This extra work is likely to start costing something pretty soon."

  "We ... I ... have some funds put away." Gleeson looked as if he had swallowed something s
our.

  What did the man expect? Did he expect Jack was going to do this stuff for free?

  "Good. I'll let you know how much I’m going to need."

  Jack waited until Gleeson was well and truly out the door before settling down with the mystery handipad. He tried typing in a few logical combinations on the password, but every single one came up a blank. He thumbed it off and sat back staring at it. Why had Gleeson brought it with him? There was something not quite right about the story. One: Gleeson had said he'd always known about it, as if he'd discovered it where it was supposed to have been hidden and he was not supposed to have seen it. Two: Gilbert Ronschke had told him about it and said to look after it, yet Gleeson knew nothing more. If they were so close, surely his partner would have confided in him – or maybe he wouldn’t have. Then there was the little man's aggressive tone when Jack had pushed him. And yet he'd barely pushed him at all. Clearly, Gleeson wasn’t quite everything he made himself out to be, but then people rarely were.

  oOo

  The White-Haired Man was back. Jack couldn't tell where they were; the surrounding images felt fogged, slipped away from his perception as he reached for them. The light was blurred, as if distorted, slightly filtered, bending the surrounding images through smoky old glass.

  "Take it," said the man.

  Jack took a step back. The White-Haired Man was holding something out toward him.

  "Take it," he said.

  Jack stood where he was. The White-Haired Man tossed the object at Jack's feet. It was a handipad, solid, gray, standing out from the blankness around them. The man turned and strode off into the shadows.

  Jack stooped and retrieved the object. He flipped it open.

  "Enter password," it said in a chill voice. Swirling colors moved across the display.

  "But I don't know the password."

  "Enter password," it said again.