by Mick Farren
"Do you have one?"
"Not yet, but I'm thinking about it."
"Do you mind if I ask you something?"
Windemere laughed. "It doesn't seem to have stopped you so far."
"Why aren't you one of the Nine?"
Windemere hesitated before answering. "I guess basically because I didn't want to be. I didn't want to be involved in something that also involved Sebastian Rampton."
"That's been puzzling me ever since I was at that place on Greene Street. How did a sleaze like that get to be one of the great guardians of the Earth?"
"Rampton may be a very unpleasant individual, but there are areas about which he knows more than any living human. When the Nine were selected, nobody was talking morality or even likability. They were dealing in terms of knowledge and power and, God knows, he's got both."
"But can he be trusted?"
Windemere's expression was matter-of-fact. "I doubt it. It's always been my opinion that he was a power-crazed geek who fancied himself as ubermensch. I never thought that it was just coincidence that he wore exactly the same glasses as Heinrich Himmler."
"Isn't his being one of the Nine downright dangerous?"
Windemere nodded. "We'll just have to hope that his interests go on corresponding with those of the rest of them." Windemere swirled his brandy in the glass. "It's not just Rampton. I doubt that I would have joined the Nine even if he hadn't been one of the other invited candidates. I don't exactly share all of their principles. I guess when it comes down to it, I'm too much of a nihilist. The Nine are altogether too strong on preserving civilization as we know it. Me, on the other hand, I'm not even sure that I like civilization as we know it."
"I thought that if Necrom woke up, it'd be the end of everything, that he'd eat us alive."
Windemere shrugged. "That's more fortune-telling."
"So what will happen?"
"Damned if I know. It could be that Necrom will usher in a whole new golden age, although, having lived through the sixties, I'm not sure we'd recognize a golden age if it jumped up and bit us. The only real hope I can see is that we survived the last one and maybe we'll survive again this time round."
"Survived the last what?"
"The last influx of superbeings."
Gibson blinked. "When did that happen? Did I miss something?"
"This planet was occupied for about ten thousand years by Necrom and his kind."
Every time Gibson thought that he was starting to get a handle on the events that had been thrust at him from the moment that Casillas had come knocking on his door, someone or something came along and kicked all previous logic out from under him.
He took a deep, cleansing breath and then spoke slowly and carefully. "There were superbeings actually living on Earth?"
"Right."
"Right here on Earth."
"Right."
"For ten thousand years."
"That's correct."
"When was this?"
"From about 25,000 to 15,000 B.C."
"How come we never heard about any of this?"
"It's just another of those little things that metallic science doesn't like to think about and therefore refuses to believe ever happened. The evidence is there if we care to look."
"Where?"
Windemere picked up a small rope of worry beads from his desk and twisted them between his fingers.
"It's actually the lack of evidence that's the most overwhelming factor. For the whole of this period, there are no conventional human archeological remains. That's a hell of a period just to misplace. And we know that man was around during that time. It wasn't that he hadn't appeared on the scene yet. Jesus, the Leakeys have found bones in Africa that go back five million years. It's just that we appear to vanish for about ten millennia."
"Are you going to tell me about it?"
Windemere applied a lighter to the pipe. "Don't have much else to do."
"So what happened?"
"Really I don't know that much. Just bits and pieces that I've gleaned along the way. Otherzoners can become amazingly tight-lipped when it comes to telling us stuff that we don't already know."
Gibson nodded. "I've noticed that."
"Anyway, for what it's worth, it seems that round about twenty-seven thousand years ago a bunch of superbeings showed up and colonized this planet in this particular temporal reality."
"Huh?"
"This dimension, if you like. A bunch of parallel dimensions, too, for that matter. Superbeings don't do that kind of stuff by half."
"What did they want here?"
"Who the hell knows? Why does anyone go out and colonize anywhere? Why did Columbus risk sailing off the edge of the world? To prove a point? Maybe all sentient beings are possessed of insatiable curiosity."
"And what did they do?"
"Usual colonial power stuff. Dragged us monkeys out of our caves and forced their idea of civilization on us. Used the place as a playground and probably as a staging point for their inexplicable adventures elsewhere."
"How is it that no trace remains of them?"
Windemere grinned. He was warming to his subject.
"That's the point, there are traces. It's just that we either don't recognize them or we make excuses for them. The whole planet is covered with improbable objects, roads, pyramids, giant structures that may have been constructed according to some big superaesthetic: the Great Pyramid, the Black Stone at Mecca, Easter Island. We're up to our ass in superbeing stuff."
"Superbeing art?"
"Why not?"
"No reason, I guess."
"Artifacts aside, by far the greatest traces of this occupation remain in our own minds."
"They do?"
"Sure. Our gods, ancient and modern, are certainly nothing more than a handed-down memory of Necrom and his kind, although saying so, up until comparatively recently, could get you burned at the stake."
"You don't believe in any kind of religion?"
Windemere looked almost angry.
"I don't believe in gods, full stop. We have quite enough troubles of our own without inventing more. I used to agree with Einstein that the need to create gods was an aberration of our species, maybe a by-product of being at the top of the food chain-how did he put it, 'fear or ridiculous egotism'? Now I suspect that it's all the result of trauma. The arrival of the superbeings left us with a dent in our ego that we still haven't worked out. Our collective consciousness took a terrible hammering. First these superior entities show up and we have to admit that we're no longer number one with a bullet, and then, to add insult to injury, after ten thousand years, just as we're getting used to the idea of being the pets of giants, they dump us and fuck off. We've never recovered. We still keep watching the skies, straining to get up there, promising ourselves that we'll go there when we die. The later pyramids, the spires of cathedrals, Stonehenge, the lines at Nazca, are all appeals to the gods to return. Daddy come home. The truth is, we're a bunch of bloody cargo cultists."
"But how come there are no human remains left for that period? There were plenty of us running around, right?"
"I'm not sure that we were running around. I have a feeling that we were rather more doing what the superbeings wanted. We may have been in reservations or zoos or we may really have been pets inside the residences of the gods. They may not have approved of wild humans, violent and inquisitive, and generally an all-round fucking nuisance. I'm also pretty sure that they left the place as they'd hope to find it, underpopulated and primitive, and they did one hell of a job clearing up, too. They must have practically leveled everything. The catalogue of disaster in legends would seem to confirm it. All the floods, the earthquakes, the nuking of Sodom, they're all likely memories of the superbeings wiping the place clean. The few survivors crawled off to lick their wounds, A few may have struggled for a while, trying to hang on to a little of what they learned, but the majority were too dispirited by the whole business to do anything but head back to their
caves and start over."
"You're saying they almost wiped out humanity."
Windemere raised an eyebrow. "Plus all surface trace of their having been here. Does it surprise you?"
Gibson shook his head.
"Not really. It must have been something of a task, though."
"Not for Necrom's bunch, believe me."
"Just how super are they?"
"It's inconceivable. It's like a poodle contemplating Bertrand Russell. Don't let it get you down, though. The point is that we did survive. A pack of angry poodles can bring down a single philosopher if they have a mind to. Don't forget that. Of course, why they should have a mind to and the ethical questions contained therein are a whole other can of worms. That's maybe another reason I didn't join the Nine."
There was a quiet knock on the door. Windemere looked up.
"Yeah, come on in."
The woman who came in was in her mid-twenties and moved with a grace that immediately appealed to Gibson, who automatically rose from his chair. Windemere made the introductions.
"Joe, this is Christobelle Lacey. Christobelle, this is Joe Gibson."
Gibson turned on the charm. "Christobelle is a lovely name."
Christobelle smiled. "Thank you. You know, I saw you play once."
"I hope you enjoyed it."
"Oh, I did, but you rather fucked up later, didn't you?"
Gibson put on his rueful face. "So they tell me. I think I was a little mad at the time."
"We all get twisted at one time or another."
Gibson maintained the rueful smile. "Not all of us do it so publicly, though."
Christobelle nodded. "You did rather make a production out of your paranoia."
He was already wondering about the relationship between Windemere and Christobelle Lacey. What was she? Wife, mistress, employee, friend? Gibson found her exceedingly attractive. The bone structure of her face was solid and patrician, but this was offset by a full, sensual, and very generous mouth. Her white-blond hair was cut punk short and combed straight back. A short leather skirt revealed a pair of very good legs, and even the man's white dress shirt couldn't hide the hard points of her breasts. Christobelle had that same provocative British androgyny that Annie Lennox of the Tourists had exploited into a career. He wondered if the androgyny was limited to style or if androgynous was as androgynous did. You never could tell about the English.
Windemere smiled and half answered the question without being asked. "Christobelle is my secretary. This house would fall into total disorganization without her."
Gibson realized that he'd been staring with this fatuous expression on his face. "I'm sorry, I think the speed is starting to wear off."
Windemere was suddenly very businesslike. "Well, we won't have to worry about giving you any more for the moment.'"
"I don't think its a good idea for me to fall asleep. The last time I tried it, it was very nearly permanent."
"You're quite safe here."
Gibson looked a little uncomfortable. "I don't want to insult your hospitality or anything, but that's what they told me back on Greene Street. When it came down to it, the psych attack ran all over them."
Windemere slowly nodded.
"I think you'll find that you'll be a good deal safer here from dream invasion. They do rather tend to live in the material world, what with their Mafia rent-a-goons and Muslims straight out of Attica. We tend to be a little more organic over here. Why do you think I've been feeding you hundred-year-old cognac and good opium for the last couple of hours?"
"I thought you were showing me a good time."
Windemere grinned. "Well, that, too, but I was also hardening up your dreams. An opium dream is practically inviolate on its own, but surrounded by a layer of good booze, it's rock steady. They can psych away all they want, but you'll be in blissful oblivion. I don't really approve of amphetamine as a way of life. Without sleep, you just grow less and less sane. Just to be on the safe side, I have some heavy-duty blockers built into this humble abode that are, although a little more funky than the stuff they have in the Nine's little Disneyland on the Hudson, a great deal more effective."
Gibson was still a little doubtful. He wanted to think that Windemere was okay, but it was taking a hell of a risk. The rats and the Nazis were still horribly vivid in his memory.
"I have to take your word for all this?"
Windemere nodded. It was almost casual. "That's right. You do."
"I need to talk to Smith, Klein, and French about this."
This time Windemere shook his head. "I'm afraid that here in my own small magic kingdom I call the shots, and the first one is that you have to make your own decision. As far as my protecting you, it'll be done my way or not at all. Don Carlos knows this and the streamheat know it. It's really a case of take it or leave it, Joe."
Gibson thought hand about this. He really was exhausted and would like nothing better than to stretch out and go to sleep. "If there is an attack, will you have people on hand, ready to pull me out?"
"Of course,"
Gibson took a deep breath. "Okay, then. I'll try and get some sleep."
Windemere looked at Christobelle. "Would you mind showing Joe to his room? I have some thinking to do. I fear the multidimensional universe is going to a war footing sooner than I expected."
Christobelle stood up and smiled at Gibson. "Would you like to come with me? "
At the door, Gibson turned back and grinned at Windemere. "Thanks for the hospitality."
Gideon Windemere waved a hand in airy dismissal. "You're more than welcome."
As Christobelle closed the door, she winked solemnly at Gibson. "You should take Gideon's bullshit with a pinch of salt."
Gibson was surprised. It seemed like a decided lack of loyalty. "You mean all that he was telling, he was just making it up?"
Christobelle quickly shook her head. "Oh, no. I don't know what he was telling you, but Gideon always tells the truth as he sees it. The bullshit's in the presentation. Do you want a Valium?"
Gibson thought about both the statement and the question. "No, I don't think so. The opium will more than do it for me."
Windemere's study was in the ground floor of the house, and they were out in the main hallway that led in one direction to the front door and in the other to an imposing staircase. Christobelle started toward the staircase. As she began to climb, she glanced back at Gibson.
"Did you really kill your roadie?"
Gibson wearily halted. How many times did he have to go over that old, old story? "You know, that whole thing has been blown out of all proportion. We were all drunk and the gun went off. Damn, he was out of the hospital and back on his feet inside of a week."
"But you did shoot him?"
Gibson sighed. "That's right. I did shoot him. I pointed the gun and shot the son of a bitch. "
Christobelle seemed to realize that she'd gone too far. "I'm sorry. I wasn't making any kind of judgment."
' "You just wanted to hear from the horse' s mouth if the stories were true."
"Something like that. I suppose a lot of people ask you the same thing."
Gibson nodded. "One or two."
"I really am sorry."
"That's okay. Don't worry about it."
The sound of footsteps was coming down from the second floor, and he and Christobelle were confronted by Smith, Klein, and French and Windemere's two minions on the first-floor landing, Windemere's minions were a choice pair. Gibson had no difficulty figuring out which was Cadiz and which was O'Neal without any formal introductions. Cadiz looked fresh out of a Cuban maximum-security prison. He was a small swarthy man with a flat nose and broad cheekbones. His black hair was slicked straight back, and three tattooed tears ran down his cheek from the outer corner of his right eye. The mythology was that each tear represented a homicide. If Cadiz was from the joint, O'Neal looked as though he'd learned his business in some extreme faction of the Irish Republican Army. His hair was shoulder-leng
th and his features were hard and florid, and both men faced down the world with expressions that were totally devoid of the normal signs of either humor or pity. Gibson wondered how a seemingly cultured individual like Windemere stood living with this duo of cold killers hanging around.
Smith stopped on the landing and looked questioningly at Gibson. "Are you okay?"
Gibson nodded. "Yes, I'm fine."
"What are you doing?"
Gibson scowled. Smith continued to behave as though she were his goddamn governess or something.
"Windemere suggested that I should get some sleep."
"Is that a good idea after what happened in New York?"
"I'm prepared to take the chance."
"We're responsible for your safety."
"I thought Windemere had taken over that role?"
Smith glanced back at Cadiz and O'Neal.
"I don't think this is the time or place for this discussion."
Gibson stood his ground.
"And I don't think that it's a good idea to be shooting me up with any more speed. I'm going to wind up crazier than I am already. So, despite your misgivings, I'm going to avail myself of Mr. Windemere's hospitality and go to bed." He stepped past Smith and looked at Christobelle. "Would you like to show me to the guest room? "
Christobelle eyed Smith, Klein, and French coldly.
"Of course, whatever you want."
The two of them started up the next flight of stairs. Nothing more was said, but Gibson had the distinct feeling that somewhere along the line Smith would make him pay for his demonstration of independence.
The guest room was on the top floor. In the days when the house had originally been built as the home for a well-to-do Victorian family, the room had probably been part of the servants' quarters. On one side, the ceiling angled down, following the line of the roof. Most of the floor space was taken up by a king-size brass bed and a small bedside table. On the table there were two twelve-ounce Cokes cooled in a bucket of ice, and a copy of Stephen Hawking's A Brief History of Time appeared to be set out as suggested bedside reading. How the hell did Windemere know that Coca-Cola was Gibson's favorite hangover cure? There was a framed print of Andy Warhol's Electric Chair hanging above the mantel. The room wasn't exactly cheerful, but the bed looked comfortable, and right at that moment it was all Gibson cared about. As they entered the room, a very large black Persian cat with the amber eyes of a demon jumped up from where it had been sleeping and streaked past them and out of the door. Gibson started but quickly recovered himself.
