Psychosphere

by Brian Lumley

  It made no difference. Garrison “heard” her anyway.

  Three of them heard, struggled to come awake, to take command. And in situations like this—for all that Garrison had been a soldier in his own right, with lightning reflexes—Willy Koenig, ex-Schutzstaffel specialist, had always been the fastest. And by far the deadliest!

  Garrison’s body rolled over onto its back and sat up, its eyes flying open. Their light filled the gloom with golden lances of fire. Palazzi released Vicki, gurgled some inarticulate thing as he gazed across the room into the blazing eyes of hell.

  “Go to sleep, Vicki,” said the icy voice of the owner of those eyes. “Forget this—it isn’t happening—it’s all right. Schlafen Sie.” And she simply collapsed back onto her pillows.

  Palazzi made to dive through the window but found himself picked up instead—snatched up like a toy and suspended in air, floating towards the center of the room. Now he, too, would have cried out, but couldn’t. The zips on his jump suit flew open, his loot tumbling free.

  The naked man seated upon the bed smiled—a nightmare smile humorless as that of some ghastly, luminescent zombie—and pointed with a zombie’s stiff arm, hand and finger. “Go,” he said.

  Palazzi felt himself shot out of the window, rushed across the rooftops in a great hand, high over the tavernas where they catered to their late customers. He soared up into the night—mouth gaping, cheeks filling with air—eyes bugging, streaming tears as the rush of his motion stung them—his suit billowing and flapping like crazed black wings. Up and away across the great rock of the Acropolis, and the lights of Lindos glowing far below, and the lanterns of small fishing craft bobbing on the gentle swell of the slumbering Aegean.

  And out across the sea sped Palazzi. A mile, two, and a great jet plane thundering by overhead, its windows like rows of eyes. And—

  —And Palazzi floating, stationary now, with only an icy wind blowing on him across the sky. Floating and spinning a mile high in the air, and the deep, deep sea below.

  “No!” he screamed, hoping that someone, somewhere, somehow would hear him. “No, I didn’t intend to harm her. Mercy! Have mercy!” But no one was listening. Certainly not the owner of the great invisible hand, which now, without warning, hurled him down…

  Chapter 9

  At 6:00 A.M. Garrison—all Garrison now, for the Koenig facet had retreated once more—drank his fifteenth cup of coffee, smoked his twentieth cigarette and shivered in the light of the new day. It was not cold but he shivered. He sat on the edge of his tumbled bed and gazed out of his window, listening to a frantic cock’s crowing and the early morning rumpus of distant donkeys.

  His thoughts were confused, in disarray. Lindos, Rhodes, the Aegean…what the hell was he doing here anyway? And last night—no, in the early hours of this morning—he had killed a man. No, he gritted his teeth, correcting himself again, Willy Koenig had killed a man. And he, Garrison, had been unable (unwilling?) to stop him or even try to stop him. And Schroeder had a hand in it, too: Thomas Schroeder, protecting not only Vicki (his one-time ward) and Garrison (his present host) but also himself.

  Oh, yes, and that was the rub, as Garrison saw it. He, Garrison, wasn’t allowed to live his own life because the others lived it for him. What happened to him must also happen to them, and so they must protect him. And the constant conflict (Garrison sighed, his shoulders slumping), the conflict was draining him.

  He had to face up to it, he was being drained. Of physical strength, of his psychic energies, perhaps even of his sanity. And no use a stake against vampires such as these; no, for they dwelled within him. Sometimes he felt quite (he shivered again), quite mad. He had felt it just a few hours ago, and even knowing it was not madness but maddening frustration—the frustration which comes of having no control, which in itself might or might not be a definition of insanity—made it no less frightening.

  He was not his own man. His body was not his alone. He shared his powers, too—and they were being used up. A leaky battery in a communal torch in an eternal night. And no way to recharge. Pretty soon the light would go out. The battery would spill its acids. The whole thing would melt into a rusty mass and become totally useless. And darkness would reign over all.

  His mind clung to part of that last thought and examined it. No way to recharge.

  And at the very back of his mind it seemed that he heard a tiny whispering voice say, “Don’t you remember, Richard? You stopped the Machine. You killed the beast…” It was Schroeder’s voice and he recognized it, but it could only be memory for his alter-facets were incapable of independent communication. He couldn’t talk to them and they couldn’t talk to him, or to each other. He was them, they were him. So where had he heard those words spoken? And what did they mean?

  Garrison believed he might at least have the answer to the second half of the question, and he paled.

  Psychomech!

  Oh, yes—that was one beast he really had killed. Out of jealousy. So that no one could ever follow him into…into what? This misery?

  Misery, yes—born of fear. His powers were failing and he knew it. Right now he felt utterly exhausted, drained (again that word), unable to face up to whatever it was he felt closing in on him. It wasn’t simply lack of sleep, wasn’t the knowledge that he had killed a man—that bastard had probably deserved it anyway—wasn’t even the way Vicki sometimes looked at him now, with something less than her old, customary adoration.

  It was simply that he felt—usurped?

  Usurped, yes. The incident with those Greek youths, for instance. His anger, certainly, but Schroeder’s and Koenig’s action. And this morning’s burglar: the same thing. And Garrison paying for it. His energy draining away. A battery leaking its vital spark, or having that spark leeched by parasitic thieves.

  And no way to recharge…

  But maybe there was a way.

  He shivered again, stood up and crossed the room, glanced at and caused the water to boil in its kettle atop an unlighted gas ring. He climbed the open, wooden stairs. Behind him the jar of instant coffee poured two perfect measures into a pair of mugs; a carton of milk tilted itself, the kettle, too, until the mugs were filled. The level of sugar in its bowl went down by exactly one spoonful; a little whirlpool raced in Garrison’s mug.

  There had been a time he would have performed these small feats in front of Vicki, but no longer. She was asleep now, anyway, and so could not see them. But once—

  Once, in the beginning, she would have been amazed, would have laughed delightedly. Later…then she became apprehensive. And now? Now such magic only served to frighten her.

  He sat down beside her where she lay and touched her arm. Warm, alive. And yet once, not so very long ago…

  He knew that she would remember nothing of the affair with the burglar. No, for he had told her to forget it, that it wasn’t happening. Since then she had not stirred. Had not even changed her position. Her chest rose and fell, rose and fell. Garrison stared, looked closer, listened to her breathing, felt his own pulse quickening. Was there something wrong here? Some imperfection? Some…deterioration?

  Her skin looked paler somehow, despite her tan, and her respiration seemed a trifle jerky. There were previously unnoticed lines at the corners of her eyes, her mouth. Not age lines, no. Not crow’s-feet. More the marks of a subtly altered metabolism, of—

  —Of something he did not wish to contemplate!

  With fingers that shook slightly he eased the knotted handkerchief from her eyes, lifting their lids with the pressure of his thumbs. She slept on as he jerked back, horrified.

  Beneath those now trembling eyelids, sightless orbs had seemed grotesquely huge and pallid in the frames of their scarlet sockets. The golden glow had been missing from Vicki’s eyes!

  Garrison’s panic fuelled his powers. “See!” he commanded. “Be filled with light, life, warmth, energy. Take of my own energy…” And slowly—at first a faint pulse of yellow burning beneath her pale eyelids, then brig
htening to a glow—the gold returned. The lines faded out, smoothed into her skin. Her pulse and respiration steadied.

  “Awaken!” And she came slowly awake, opened those great golden orbs of eyes and smiled at him.

  And Garrison leaned his back against the window’s frame and tried to control his trembling. “It’s morning, Vicki,” he managed to tell her at last. “I’ve made coffee.”

  Morning, yes, and Garrison had determined that this would be their last morning in Lindos. There were things he must do—and without delay.

  While there was still time…

  JOE BLACK HAD LEFT SMALL SUMS OF MONEY IN THE HANDS OF various unsuspecting informers in Lindos, advance payment for that tip-off which was vital to his and brother Bert’s planned hit. One of these informers was not the young, pretty, shorts-clad local representative of a small British tour operator who awakened him that morning bright and early, and being only half-awake when he answered her knock Black might easily have given something of his real interests away. He was not dull-minded, however, and quickly caught on to her own interest in Garrison’s affairs.

  “Yes,” he mumblingly admitted, yawning and rubbing sleep from his eyes, his face peering from behind his door. “I am interested in the, er, Adonis Studios? In all three rooms, yes. Far superior to this place. But—” and he shrugged. “To my understanding the chap who has them will be there for another four or five days.”

  “Not at all, Mr. er, Schwartz?” she smiled. “He’s moving out this morning—him and his lady. Flying back to London, I understand. I got the tip from Costas Mekos, one of the taxi drivers here. That was just before he set off to drive the Garrisons into Rhodes—about twenty minutes ago.”

  Now Black understood all. Costas Mekos was one of those into whose eager hands he’d placed a little cash. But—twenty minutes! Black’s heart gave a lurch. “I see. And you being a Skymed Tour representative, and the Adonis Studios being Skymed accommodation, you—”

  “I hate to see such good rooms go to waste, yes!” she sweetly answered. “You see, Mr. Garrison has paid for his rooms in advance, and the money is non-returnable, and so—”

  “You can let me have the rooms at reduced rates?”

  “Well, I—”

  “Maybe a thirty percent discount?”

  “Now I can’t be absolutely specific off the top of my—”

  “Of course not, I understand. Well, Miss, er—?”

  “Just call me Linda. Skymed’s Lindos Linda, you see?” She tilted her head and smiled sunnily.

  “Of course. Well, Linda, I’d invite you in but behind this door I’m quite naked. Can I contact you later? You see, I’ll have to get in touch with friends of mine in Rhodes. And I really can’t make any spur of the moment promises. They may have got themselves fixed up by now.”

  “Oh, I see,” she was a little disappointed. “Well, my office is in—”

  “I know where it is,” Black smiled, thinking: go away, you silly bitch! He decided to speed her departure. “Listen I know it’s early yet, but I have a very nice bottle in here and I was just going to make myself a little breakfast. If you’d care to, er—?” and he opened the door a fraction wider. She got a glimpse of a muscular hairy thigh.

  Black was not a pretty sight. Not any time, but worst of all unshaven and after a night’s uneven sleep, with whiskey fumes still heavy on his breath. The trick worked, as he had known it would.

  Lindos Linda backed off in the face of his leer, her smile becoming falsely fixed, her friendly tour operator manner evaporating in a moment. “Thank you, but I’ve already breakfasted. The early bird, you know?”

  “Ah, yes. Pity.” He started to close the door.

  “But—”

  Jesus, what now?

  “You’re not German. I mean, you know, your name? And I’ve seen you in the village and I thought—”

  “My wife is German,” he lied. “I’ve spent a great many years there.” he opened his door wider still. “Of course, my wife isn’t with me right now, and—” But Lindos Linda was already smiling her farewell, backing away into the sun-splashed, cobbled village street…

  BERT WAS THE “SUAVE” ONE. He had played his part with his usual efficiency, fixing up Garrison’s two-man aircrew with booze and birds, worming his way into their confidence and along the way acquiring the affections of their leggy air hostess. It had been one long party ever since he arrived, and he hadn’t needed to be too careful about protecting his identity. After all, they weren’t going to be talking about him. It had been expensive, true, the masquerade; but the brothers could afford it on what Carlo Vicenti was paying. And anyway, Bert had always liked the good life.

  He had played it that way, too: a lucky punter on holiday, looking for pleasant company to help him spend his winnings—but not too fast, for he wasn’t quite used to being rich yet. The crew of Garrison’s jet, at loose ends and not wishing to blow too much of their earnings on the high life, had proved an easy mark. After a day or two Bert had mentioned his interest in aircraft, they had fixed it to take him out to the airport and see their plane, he had been like a kid with a new toy. Like a malicious kid, who pulls the wheels off. Or in this case the guts, undercarriage and all the major flight-control cables.

  The device had been small, deadly, something he could carry in his pocket. A limpet, armed it would cling to metal. It now clung behind a bulkhead in the plane’s tiny hold. As yet it did not tick, wouldn’t until Bert gave it the remote control signal. Which would be as the plane took off. Then—

  Then the bomb would tick away the seconds to disaster. It would tick for one hour. And somewhere over the Aegean, midway between Greece and Turkey…

  The sea was five, six hundred feet deep there; the plane and its contents—specifically its human contents—would probably never be found. Bodies would decompose, turn to sludge. The plane would rot, crumble away. The sea would roll overhead, as it had for half of time, and Carlo Vicenti would be very happy. And Joe and Bert Black would have earned their bread.

  Bomber Bert Black rarely dreamed, and he never suffered from nightmares. He was a man without a conscience, which was just as well in his line of business. Lacking morals, his morale was abnormally high; unlike his brother he could wake up happy, at peace with the world. Even on a day when he would shatter that peace beyond restructuring—for some.

  This morning he woke up at the buzz of his telephone and lifted the handset smoothly from its cradle before it could awaken the girl curled beside him. It was Joe on the other end, and the other’s tense whisper told Bert all he needed to know:

  “They’re on their way. The word is they’ll fly today.”

  “Sure,” Bert answered, giving nothing away, taking no chances that the girl wasn’t really asleep.

  “You can do it?”

  “Yeah, it’s done—all but the coup de grâce!”

  “Oh, yes? And you still in your hotel? Get your arse down to the airport!”

  “Be cool,” Bert grinned into the mouthpiece. He glanced at the girl and she snored obligingly. Fast asleep, and little wonder after the night they’d just had. “They won’t leave without me being there. They can’t!”

  “What? Listen, what the hell are you—”

  “Cool, cool!” Bert insisted. “I’ll explain later. Just believe me it’s all fixed, that’s all. Hell—I’ll be there to wave them goodbye!” He put the phone down, cutting off Joe’s sputtering.

  Then he turned over, carefully spilled the girl onto her back, gently parted her legs and kneeled between them. He was drawing up her knees when she awakened and blinked at him sleepily. “Bert? My God! Again?”

  “Hey!” he told her. “It’s a beautiful day. If we start it right it’ll stay right.” He eased himself into her. “Enjoy, Baby!”

  And to himself: Cop it while you can, Sweetheart. The next guy who takes a bite at your sweet little pussy will have gills and fins and slimy, slimy scales!

  “WHO WERE YOU WAVING AT?” Garrison asked t
he stewardess when she came into the plane’s tiny, luxurious lounge after the takeoff. “You were all at the hatch, laughing, waving.”

  “Oh,” she smiled, “that was just a friend we met up with in Rhodes. Nice chap. More money than sense—but, you know, nice.”

  “Ah!” Vicki smiled. “Romance on a Greek island, eh?”

  The girl wrinkled her nose. “Well, not exactly. He was pleasant enough, I suppose, but—oh, I shouldn’t think I’ll see him again. Anyway, there was something about him.” She shrugged. “Good fun, yes, but a bit too calculating for my likes. Too cold by far.”

  She frowned for a moment, thoughtfully, then smiled. “It helped pass the time. Now then, Mr. Garrison, Mrs. Garrison, what can I get you to drink while you choose a meal for yourselves?”

  Garrison and Vicki drank a little ice-cold lager, picked at cold meats and salad from the limited menu, finished with ice cream, coffee and liqueurs. While they ate they talked.

  “You promised you’d tell me what it was all about,” Vicki worriedly pressed him when they were alone, dropping the witty, happy attitude she had adopted for the benefit of the crew. “Why are we going home, Richard? Why now, halfway through our holiday?”

  Garrison gazed out of his window for a moment, sipped lager, used his fork to toy with a piece of chicken breast. “Vicki, you remember our conversation the other night? Well, now I’m ready to face up to what’s wrong. And I’m ready to start doing something about it—while there’s still time.”

  “And is there something you can do about it?” she asked.

  “With a bit of luck, yes. What went wrong was this: I destroyed Psychomech. Simple as that. But that’s not an end to it. No, for I’ll build the machine again. Or rather, I’ll have it built. The man who modified Gareth Wyatt’s original Psychomech now works for me. If I give him a helping hand—or mind—there should be no problem.”

  “No problem,” she nodded and sighed. “But you felt it was sufficiently urgent that it couldn’t wait.” She sighed again. “I really did like Lindos a lot, but—”