Sanity Line

by Zachary Adam

  As it turned out, though, he never needed to fire. Before he even had his weapon up into position, gunshots rang out, all but deafening in the confined space of a corridor, roaring like cannon fire one after the other in a litany of mankind’s dominion.

  Without touching him, Scion tugged Niles after him as he turned to flee. Whoever was shooting could handle this on their own, the Angels thought together. This was beyond their paygrade.

  --Crowe’s anger swirled, howling in the back of his mind. He had come out for blood, immersing himself in the great hymn of Glory, forsaking his humanity to embody the very Glory of Mankind. In return, his God had heaped every blessing upon him. He had become unstoppable, invincible!

  And yet, that same wheedling banker who had humiliated him at the Great Seal had followed him here, here to what should have been his new nest, and was, in his invincible impudence, firing at him with those toy guns that had done so little to stop him even before he had been given this final ordination.

  Crowe laughed, a great basso note that rumbled throughout the building’s structure, and reached out to crush this miserable bastard.

  --Vidcund could not have been less surprised to find his handguns producing little more than amusement in the Deviant that had emerged from the elevator shaft, and had already begun to walk back down his cross-corridor when he had started firing. After all, he had demonstrated before, time and again, that reality deviants increasingly needed greater and greater expenditures of force to dispense with.

  That being said, he did have a plan. If he hadn’t, he would not have been a Special Director, a candidate for Grey Clearance. He was, now as he ever had been, what he considered to be the best that Agency Division could possibly have had to offer. That his heritage and origin were now in question did not change that conviction.

  Whether he was purpose-made or simply trained, he was the best, the prototypical, the goddamn paragon, (in his own estimation) and he’d be damned if he was going to let yet another slimy, crawling creature that had stepped into his reality from the land of myth and legend prove him wrong.

  He never took his eyes off the creature, though he would have liked to, letting it pursue him full-circle around the octothorpe of hallways until he had come back to the elevator shafts, firing only at odd occasions to ensure that he had its undivided attention. He had, of course, spied the Grey Angels fleeing down a side corridor, but once again he found that something else was a greater threat, a higher priority.

  Feeling the slightest of smirks touch his face, he tossed one handgun down the shaft, reached out, and jumped. To his pleasure, he felt the coarse metal of the track on which the car rode sliding between his gloved fingers, and only now realized there was a need to hope that his way was unobstructed and that his gloves would withstand the friction of this less-than-polished service.

  He fired his remaining rounds into the creature, which had followed him into the shaft, and discarded the other weapon. It was useless anyway, and now that he knew for certain he had the creature’s attention, he could conduct the balance of his plan.

  The elevators, he felt (or recalled), proceeded all the way to the sub-basements, with their engineering rooms and parking lots, the lowest level of which, he knew, was the key to his problem. It was a suicidal mission, but then, so had been jumping into the elevator shaft. So had been killing Drache, then himself, on the brink in Carcosa, for that matter.

  What then, was so suicidal? He landed hard, but running. The creature was not that far behind him, but he needed every second of lead time he could squeeze out. The dust was thicker on this floor than the others – more of it to fall, no doubt, and undisturbed in the search. That did not surprise him.

  Once, long ago, in those redacted pages of his life hidden by black ink and amnesiac medication, he had been the ultimate power here. He had secured this building, and he knew what was behind the panel with the combination lock.

  He glanced behind himself as he dialled in the combination, watching the creature that was chasing him push aside transformer equipment that was bolted down and wired into the floor as though neither of the proceeding had been true. With significant effort, he tore his eyes back to his work, wrenching open the cover even as he was lifted off of his feet.

  At the very limit of his reach, as he was pulled away, he jabbed his fingers into the sockets that housed two red buttons, and was rewarded with five of the most agonizingly long seconds of his life. Then, with a concussion that drew the creature’s attention upward, it all came tumbling down.

  --

  PSYCHOLOGICAL EXAMINATION OF VIDCUND DÄRK – SUMMARY

  Conducted Prior to Acceptance into Agency Division.

  Before Teleneural Inhibition and Amnesiac Treatment, Subject 001 exhibited significant disregard for personal safety in combat

  operations. In spite of excellent training and proven aptitude for identifying threats, the Subject simply disregards them. In his own words, “The presence of many alternate options means bodily safety is important only in the context of the integrity of the whole. When many options allow, the loss of an individual is acceptable. There is no greater harm in losing one of me, than, say, cutting your hair or trimming your nails. It is unpleasant, yes, but mine is an unpleasant business.”

  These traits vanished with the introduction of the aforementioned medications. Our current Vidcund Därk is every bit as studiously cautious as the prototypical Agent Alex Smith. I am, therefore, recommending Mr. Därk’s acceptance with a clean bill of psychological health.

  --Removing at long last his mask, with its sweat-soaked lining, Niles looked back in the direction they had trudged, as he stepped into the back of the car. He was rewarded, as those like him often were, with the impeccable timing to watch as one by one whole bands of building were blown outward, the whole thing falling like a stack of cards into its own footprint, telescoping into its basements.

  Driver, the Angel associate who had come to collect them, gave a low whistle, as he brought a fresh cigarette to his lips. “That is some precision demo work.”

  “Yeah,” Niles agreed. He hadn’t seen anything to suggest the tower was to have been destroyed. For once, he felt he did not want to know the answer to the many questions

  this rose. Nothing could possibly have survived that, which would be a cold comfort in the many insomniac evenings he expected were to come.

  Gently, James put a hand on his shoulder. “No point in hanging around, Niles. Let’s go.”

  “Yeah. Let’s go.”

  Scion sighed, squeezing into the vehicle beside him. “I have a feeling that’s not the last we’re going to see of our man in black.”

  “I doubt it,” Niles said slowly. “Nobody could survive that.”

  He wanted so desperately to believe that.

  08 – Answers

  The extreme unfamiliarity with the informal process of a stern talking-to engendered more amusement than was appropriate for Vidcund, who felt, standing as he was more or less attentively opposite Stamatia and her desk, as though he had somehow been injected into a scene ripped from some police procedural drama or military flick.

  “You mean to tell me that with the better part of a decade’s experience in the field, with a brain that’s all but screaming to be promoted well past where it is, your best guess on how to deal with the deviant was to drop a building on him?”

  Vidcund blinked slowly and deliberately behind his glasses, portraying for the entire world the introverted, muted deliberation that countered Stamatia’s frustration. “With the limited resources available to me at the time, and the time constraints, I’d have thought the fact that I was even able to drop a building on him at all should speak to my operational creativity.”

  “Shut up,” Stamatia responded with a sneer, looking to her computer. “… How the hell did you do that anyway?” “I remembered, somehow, that the building had been rigged for self-destruction, when it had been in active use. I merely got lucky that whoever purged the
building didn’t neutralize the system.” Vidcund blinked slowly again, inclining his head slightly. “It’s possible the Amnesiac drugs from Project Moses are beginning to wear off.”

  It certainly was possible. Human memory was a powerful thing, and an odd one – almost as odd as human perceptions of reality. Whole memories could be excised completely, obliterated by the best medication and hypnotherapy science could provide, but then they would slowly creep back, in déjà vu, flickers of intuition, and the hazy, mutedly-vivid scape of dreams.

  This answer, at least, seemed to pacify the Woman in White, who leaned back in her chair somewhat, considering Vidcund coolly. “You are positive the creature in question is related to your Task Force’s mission?”

  “I have tentatively identified him based on facial recognition scans as Grunnyar Crowe, a former associate of Gloria Creena.”

  “Good. Organize your staff, Special Director.” Stamatia rose, the meeting at a formal end. “I expect significantly more subtle results in the future, if you wish to maintain your Grey Clearance and title.”

  Vidcund smirked almost imperceptibly. “The webs we weave… How did we excuse it?”

  “Fortunately, that building has been abandoned for years. It was demolished at the request of the precinct government of Tererra by Ground Self-Defence Force Engineers.”

  --“I thought, in the absence of any leads from Anfangsburg, I might present something new.”

  Vidcund looked up from the real, ink-and-cellulose file he had been reading, glancing down the conference table to the speaker. This room – booked specially for the purpose of finally having a flesh-and-blood congregation of the Task Force – was a hive of information, projected on every wall, and for those with the benefit of augmented reality glasses (tinted or otherwise), even hanging in mid-air, obediently waiting to be gestured into and out of reality. “You have a lead, Erwin?”

  Erwin Baha was among the eight agents, Vidcund included, who comprised the dedicated membership of the Task Force. Countless others, surely, comprised their support elements – resources acquired from the research or enforcement departments, mostly. After all, labour was expendable and unspecialized. The Group of Eight, however, were the specialists, each bringing something to the table the others lacked, which someone up above, possibly Stamatia herself, had considered relevant.

  Vidcund, of course, brought consummate

  professionalism and organization, when he wasn’t busy breaking down buildings and throwing the rulebook into the wind. Baha, on the other hand, was one of those Agents Vidcund despised. He was late as a matter of course, inherently unprofessional, relying on charisma and specialty to make him indispensible.

  Baha was an expert on cultic magics, particularly those that pertained to the Sleeping Eye and their derivatives. There was nobody more useful to this investigation, then, besides him.

  That was why Vidcund was somewhat disappointed by Baha’s lead. “If you’ll recall, this investigation began not with a direct look at Creena, but at the release of proscribed literature – you will recall someone got their

  hands on a copy of the Pnakotic Manuscripts.”

  “I also seem to recall the myth-cycle to which the Manuscripts belong were not part of your usual expertise,” Vidcund said flatly, “and apart from timing, I am no longer convinced they are related.”

  “Ah, but I believe they are,” Baha said evenly, “and they are related through her.”

  At Baha’s gesture, one of the wall-projections changed to a recent, rather high-quality surveillance photo. The liveanimated image showed points being plotted on the young female subject’s face, followed by a webwork of lines, after which a matching file photo presented. Vidcund didn’t need to wait for the name to render to recognize the young woman – Maria Frost.

  He turned, giving Baha his undivided attention as the man continued. “Numerous people have reported, or, more accurately, been discovered, as having been subjected to the proscribed work The King in Yellow. There’s a task force dedicated to the problem, and they forwarded me this photo. The copies were reported stolen from the W.A. Keeping Memorial Collection at the national library, by Ms. Frost.”

  Vidcund was wholly unfamiliar with the work, as well he likely should have been, but he did recall the triskelion and its implications at the school - an attack for which he knew Gloria Creena (or at least her cult) to be responsible. “Does the play normally figure into the Eye mythology?”

  “Not directly. However, there are parallels. If Maria is now a free agent – or even if she’s working with Creena directly, she’s probably trying to get people down the garden path. For one thing, we’re not even sure there’s anything useful in the King play. It’s a complete cognitohazard.”

  Vidcund nodded slowly, a frown forming on his face. If the book was that dangerous, what had it been doing in a collection the public could get access to? “Who is in charge of the W.A. Keeping Collection?”

  “Ahh...” Baha glanced at his notes, “A Professor. Donnovan Kline?”

  The Special Director felt the corner of his mouth involuntarily curl into a smirk. “Not anymore.”

  --

  “Chef, may I?” The lithe man who was delicately pouring soup from one spoon to another, over a bowl he’d set at the edge of the stove, seemed halfway to puzzled, and went so far as to check both the large digital clock on the wall and his watch, before setting the larger of the two spoons back into the pot, and the smaller into his mouth.

  “It’s not even three yet, Martin, you don’t have to ask may I, because you aren’t interrupting.”

  The young waiter, who, together with Chef Locke, comprised the entirety of the staff at this small restaurant during the mid-afternoon closure, smiled. “Sorry, force of habit. There’s a gentleman here to see you, a Mister Kline.”

  “I don’t have any appointments today,” Locke replied, turning so that he could scoop up a healthy pinch of salt and throw it into the pot.

  “He said he was referred to you by a mutual friend, Chef. A Mister... Banker.”

  Locke perked, suddenly – perhaps the seasoning of the soup was spot on, after all. “... Show him up to my office, Martin. I’ll be up once I’ve put this away.”

  --

  “It’s missing the second act, you know.” Maria ignored the disembodied voice, just as everyone else in the library did. She was, naturally, the only person who could actually hear it, and there was no sense in speaking aloud, apparently to herself, when no such speech would have been allowed in the first place, never mind in a busier, nosier place where it might have gone unnoticed.

  That she could hear the call of Il Fantoma even here, even in broad daylight, with all of Earth and the weight of its consensus-based reality blocking Aldebaran, was a sign of how far gone she herself was. In these lucid moments she wanted anything but to continue to act out her role... but such moments were increasingly fleeting.

  “… Then again, I suppose it always is, isn’t it?” She closed the book – an aging, yellow-paged edition of the King in Yellow (translation by Harrity from the original French, 1793) – and slid it back onto the shelf. They were, of course, nowhere near the plays, and such a public collection of the National Library as this had no business with such circumspectly-proscribed works.

  “Yes,” she said gently, as she stepped into a stairwell she was confident was empty. “That’ll have to be a secret just for us.”

  She adjusted the set of her yellow hood over her dark hair as she approached the base of the final flight of stairs, and reached out toward the un-alarmed fire escape door, finding it, quite disconcertingly, to open out into a blank, starless void.

  She frowned slightly, and slowly let the door close between her and the roaring darkness. That hadn’t been part of anyone’s plan.

  --The Material Handling Annex was added to the National Library at the insistence of then-incoming Grand Librarian Donnovan Kline, though Agency had, as it did in most things, a fairly significant influenc
e over the construction process. At their silent direction, most of the security network’s computing power had been moved into the new wing, and was subsequently slaved to the Agency analysis and override network, Echelon.

  That meant, from a command room not unlike the Media Management Centre, Vidcund could have a complete overview of every bit of intelligence the library could offer him, before he’d even put boots on the ground. It seemed fitting to him that the subtle conflict that had began with the unauthorized divulgence of proscribed knowledge what felt like a small eternity ago, when he stood in a room scarcely distinguishable from this one, watching a now-dead professor speak what was functionally his last.

  Not for the first time, he was conflicted between his sense of the sheer enormity of the power he, as a Special Director, helped Agency exercise, and the increasing fear that the poetry he couldn’t help but see in everything thus far was evidence that something greater than even his employer’s phenomenal power was personally orchestrating events.

  It was a ridiculous fear, but it bit and grew all the same, and one day soon he would need to figure out a way to eradicate it.

  On the main monitor, he watched a specificallydesignated camera feed him images of the incoming convoy of vehicles – a sedan trailed by three armoured cars bearing the logo of the nationally-known CLIFF Deposit Service. CLIFF, of course, was an Agency front operation, and while it had hundreds if not thousands of legitimate contracts, it was also used, as in this case, for moving around material, up to and including Enforcement troops.

  A dozen agents, about half of whom, Vidcund reminded himself, were him. It nagged at the back of his mind, the idea that they were all him – if he was the particular Vidcund Därk he was at the moment, that was merely a temporary accident, the peculiar appearances bestowed upon reality in his transient state. While they unloaded and got ready to get to work, Vidcund cycled through the other cameras available, of which there were hundreds. When he got to the main lobby, he paused, highlighting an individual on the screen with a finger on a pad.