NECROM

by Mick Farren

  Meanwhile, Raus seemed to be finally caving in. "There must be no mistakes."

  Smith was all but showing her contempt for the Kamerian power broker. "There will be no mistakes."

  "And I want it on record that my choice was dispose of him here and now."

  "Your position has been noted. Can we go now?"

  Raus couldn't forgo a final burst of huffing and puffing. "I still don't like it."

  Smith ignored him and signaled to French. "You'd better bring the car around."

  When French arrived with the car, a large black sedan that looked a lot like a Packard, Gibson was unceremoniously bundled into the back with a uniform on either side of him.

  " Since I seem to be under arrest, do I get to call my lawyer? "

  Smith glared at him from the front seat. "Shut up, Gibson. I don't want to hear from you."

  "I thought I was crucial to the plan?"

  Smith eyes were steely and dangerous. "We have a use for you, Gibson, but don't let that go to your head. You can fulfill your function with any number of minor bones broken. Burroughs and Wellcome here, the gentlemen on either side of you, are experts at causing pain without doing serious damage."

  This was enough of a warning for Gibson. He leaned back in the seat, closed his eyes, and did his best to make himself as comfortable as possible with his arms pinned behind his back. An old-time criminal had once told him, "When you're really in the shit and there's nothing you can do about it, rest up. You may need your strength later." Gibson didn't say a word for the rest of the drive.

  Their destination turned out to be an apartment building back in the city, in much the same neighborhood as the last one. The apartment, however, was much larger, with a big living room that looked more like a temporary command post than a home, and three, maybe four bedrooms. Gibson didn't have much time to look around as he was hustled through, but he did see a large chart table with a model of a city square set up on it, a lot of sleek electronic equipment that was too advanced for Luxor and had to be all streamheat. Maps and photographs were pinned to the walls, and a selection of small arms that were a mixture of local and streamheat designs were stacked in a makeshift rack.

  Wellcome and Burroughs took Gibson directly to a small windowless bedroom at the far end of a corridor from the living room and threw him inside. There was nothing in the room except a narrow, military-style cot and a bucket that he assumed was for emergency waste.

  "Are you going to take these damned handcuffs off?"

  Wellcome and Burroughs ignored him and left the room, locking the door behind them. In a sudden flash of rage, Gibson was across the room, kicking on the door and screaming after mem. "Fuck you, you bastards! My hands are getting numb."

  His anger, however, was short-lived. It had been a rough night and he quickly ran out of steam. With no response forthcoming, Gibson sat down on the bed and stared at the opposite wall. He was past the point of self-pity or asking why him or what had he done to deserve any of this. It didn't even help to wail that he was deeper in the shit than he had ever been. All he could do was to sit and wait and maybe pray that some kind of way out would present itself and that he'd have the presence of mind and the resources to take it. He wasn't exactly optimistic about his chances.

  He sat like that for maybe forty-five minutes with the pain in his hands worsening with every one of them before a key rattled in the lock. It turned out to be Klein with an amiable smile on bis face that Gibson didn't buy for a moment.

  "I brought some cigarettes."

  Gibson gazed at him with a look of solid dislike. "How am I supposed to smoke them with my hands chained behind my back?"

  "Nobody took your cuffs off?"

  Gibson scowled. "Full marks for observation, nobody took my cuffs off and my hands are swelling up."

  Klein raised a hand. "I'll see to it straight away."

  He quickly left the room and was back in less than a minute with a key. He freed Gibson's hands, stepped back and handed him a pack of the Luxor-style Camels. "Are you hungry?"

  Gibson didn't answer right away. He massaged his wrists until there was circulation in his hands again; then he shook a cigarette from the pack and stuck it in his mouth. "Could I get a light for this?"

  Klein lit his cigarette, leaving the matches on the cot, and repeated the question. Gibson exhaled and nodded. "Yes, I'm hungry, and I could kill for a drink."

  Klein smiled. "I don't know about the drink, but I'm sure I can rustle up some food for you."

  Klein's whole act was irritating Gibson, and he found the implied chumminess in the word "rustle" really offensive. "Listen, Klein, if you're trying to Mutt and Jeff me, forget it. I'm too far gone for any good-cop, bad-cop routine."

  Klein had the gall to actually look hurt. "I was only trying to make you a little more comfortable."

  "Bullshit, Smith probably sent you in here to soften me up, but it ain't going to work. You want something from me and once you've got it you're going to kill me. For my part, I'm going to do my best to stay alive by any means possible. That's the relationship and pretending it's anything else is garbage. Do I make myself clear?"

  Klein stood up with an expression of guarded neutrality. "I'll see about the food."

  "You do that."

  Once again there was the sound of the door being locked. Allowing that he was probably incapable of feeling any worse, Gibson's mood had actually improved after his clash with Klein. He'd had a chance to vent some of his hostility, and also the fact that Klein had come in there to try and get on his side indicated that whatever they wanted him to do required some measure of his cooperation. It wasn't exactly a break, but it might prove to be the source of some slack and he was certain that slack was the only thing that was going to save his ass.

  Klein was back in fifteen minutes with a plate of eggs and beans and bottle of local Luxor beer. "I managed to find you a beer."

  Gibson looked dourly at the food. "You even managed to make something like prison food."

  "It's what we all eat."

  "You ought to complain."

  Klein seemed to realize that it was pointless arguing with Gibson. "Is there anything else that you want?"

  Gibson nodded. "Yeah, I want to go home."

  "You know that isn't possible."

  " So fuck off and leave me alone to eat this mess."

  Gibson did his best to make the food last as long as possible; eating was something that kept him occupied and let him avoid thinking. After a couple of forkfuls, though, he realized just how hungry he was and wolfed down the rest of the eggs and beans in double time. He took a little longer over the beer and longer still over his second cigarette. When that was done, there was nothing to do but sit and wait. After Klein's departure, he had expected to be left alone until the streamheat felt like feeding him again. Thus it came as something of a surprise when, after only a half hour, the door was being unlocked again. This time the visitor was Smith, and she was making no attempt to make nice.

  "Klein tells me you're acting belligerent," Gibson's face twisted into a sneer. "What was I supposed to be? Grateful?"

  "You're suddenly acting uncharacteristically tough."

  "Maybe all the things that haven't killed me lately have made me stronger."

  Smith clearly didn't like this new attitude of Gibson's. "You're really in no position to be paraphrasing Nietzsche at me."

  Gibson's sneer broadened. "Oh, yeah? It seems to me that I'm in a position to do pretty much what I want. Or, more to the point, not to do what I don't want. I mean, what can you do? You already told Raus that you're going to kill me when I've done whatever it is you want. You've kind of closed off your options."

  "Pain can be a great motivator."

  Gibson met her gaze. "Burroughs and Wellcome."

  "They're just outside."

  "You know something? I really don't think you're going to torture me."

  Smith raised an eyebrow. "You don't?"

  "I think whatever
you want from me has something to do with the look-aiike."

  "The look-alike?"

  "My double. The guy who was living in that appartment before you put me there. The guy whose wallet and ID I found."

  "Leh Zwald."

  "Is that his name?"

  Smith nodded. "What about him?"

  "I figure that the reason you brought me here was to use me as a ringer of some kind, a substitute. I don't think I'm going to be any use as a ringer if I'm too busted and messed up to walk or talk."

  Smith looked amused. "You've changed, Gibson."

  "Probably because I've been fucked with and lied to a little too consistently."

  "You think we've been lying to you?"

  "I know you've been lying to me. You've been lying to me since you picked me up in Jersey. All that bullshit about looking after me and protecting me, that's all it was, bullshit. The way I see it, you had a plan for me from the get-go."

  Smith's eyes were hard slits. "That's what you think?"

  "I've been hearing all about you people and a few things are starting to make sense,"

  "You've been hearing about us?"

  "All about you."

  Smith sniffed. "You've been talking to those ridiculous idimmu."

  "They filled in some of the blanks."

  "I suppose they gave you the usual human-sacrifice nonsense and how we're bent on conquering the universe."

  "That was touched on."

  It was Smith's turn to sneer. "And you, of course, believed them."

  "It all seemed pretty plausible."

  "That's the word for it, plausible. Not necessarily the truth, though."

  Gibson lit a cigarette, with the matches that Klein had left for him. It seemed the streamheat weren't worried that he'd set fire to the bed. "I still tend to believe it."

  "Your demon friends weren't much help to you this morning."

  Gibson had to concede this. "You have a point there."

  Smith changed the subject. "You want to tell me the point of this tough guy talk, Gibson? What are you hoping to achieve by it?"

  Gibson dragged on the Camel before he answered. He felt that he was near to playing the only card that he had. "I'm trying to save my ass."

  "That's understandable, although, from where I'm standing, you don't seem to have much bargaining power."

  "I could cooperate. Fully."

  Smith smiled nastily. "Believe me, Gibson, you'll cooperate."

  "I think the saying goes 'One volunteer is worth ten pressed men.' "

  "And what would you want in return for this full cooperation?"

  "Just that I'd walk away once whatever it turns out to be is all over. You shoot me back to my own dimension and I keep my mouth shut."

  Smith actually laughed. "It certainly is an intriguing proposition."

  "So you want to deal?"

  Smith shook her head. "I don't know. I'll have to think about it and discuss it with my colleagues. I promised Raus that I'd have you eliminated."

  "How would Raus know, if I was in another dimension?"

  Smith continued to shake her head. "I really have to think this one through. There are a couple of things that you ought to know, however."

  "What's that?"

  "Leh Zwald isn't just your double. He's actually the parallel of you in this dimension."

  Gibson's jaw dropped. He didn't quite know what to do with this bombshell, "Jesus."

  Smith was obviously enjoying this part. "There's something else."

  "There is?"

  "Leh Zwald is planning to assassinate the president of the UKR."

  While Gibson was dealing with that one, Smith turned and let herself out of the bedroom. "I'll give you my decision later."

  Gibson flopped back on the bed, totally drained. He had given it his best shot and then had it handed back to him in spades. Assassinate the president? There was almost a bizarre logic in that. He'd made his mark in his dimension, and it seemed that this Zwald was trying to make a truly indelible mark on his. Indentical personalities, presumably with the same primal drives and desires, are shaped by two very different societies, and one turns out to be an entertainer while the other strives to carve a niche in history by killing the leader of a country. Just to complicate the matter, the streamheat had organized it so both individuals were now in the same dimension and participating in the same killing. Gibson pulled his feet off the floor and lay on his back. He was actually surprised at his own calm and a little curious why he wasn't in the throes of a life-threatening anxiety attack. The big question was the same one that had been hovering over him ever since this thing had started. What exactly did the streamheat want with him? Some of the periphery of the puzzle had been filled in, but the essential core was still a frustrating blank.

  As far as he could estimate, two hours passed before he got any further answers, although it was hard to gauge the passage of time in the locked bedroom. The only thing he knew for sure was that he had smoked five more cigarettes before he once again heard the sound of the door being unlocked.

  This time it was Klein, who held the door wide and beckoned to Gibson. "Come with me, will you?"

  Klein seemed less than friendly. Perhaps he was miffed at Gibson's negative response to his providing him with beer, butts, and breakfast. Gibson followed Klein down the corridor into the living room. The first thing that he noticed was that the model on the chart table had been covered over with a white sheet. Presuming that it was a miniature of the planned assassination scene, they plainly didn't want him looking at it. Smith, French, and Rampton were waiting for him, and, to Gibson's great relief, there was no sign of Burroughs and Wellcome.

  Smith came straight to the point. "You'll be pleased to hear that we have provisionally decided to take you up on your offer."

  Gibson nodded. "If I cooperate, you'll let me live?"

  "That's the gist of it."

  "Well, I'm very pleased to hear that. What are the provisions?"

  Smith smiled. "Really there's only one. If you try to double-cross us, we'll shoot you out of hand."

  "That's direct and to the point."

  "It is, of course, a somewhat strange agreement since we don't trust you and I imagine you have equally little faith in us."

  Gibson thought about this. "What you might call a conspiracy of mistrust."

  Rampton seemed to like this. "There are times, Gibson, when you put things very well."

  Gibson looked round the room. A number of the photographs on the walls were different views of the same building. It was a square, seven-story industrial building, either a factory or warehouse, but there was something oddly familiar about it and he couldn't for the life of him put a finger on what it was or where he might have seen it before.

  Giving up on the puzzle, he faced Smith. "Since we seem to have the basis of an agreement, shall we get down to business? I'm a little anxious to know what's expected of me. I take it, since you're so friendly with Raus, that you're on the side of the assassins in this plot."

  "That's not strictly true."

  Gibson raised his eyebrows. "You mean that you're going to try to save the president?"

  Smith sighed. "No, we're not doing that either."

  "So what's the deal?"

  "Essentially we are monitoring events in Luxor. There's no real debate that the administration of Jaim Lancer has been a complete disaster for this country, but this is an internal matter of the UKR, and contrary to popular opinion, we don't actually go around interfering in the domestic affairs of sovereign states in other dimensions. The most that we can do is to nudge events in the direction that we believe will lead to maximum stability in the region."

  "And I'm to be a part of this nudging process?"

  "In fact you may only be a backup. The assassination will be carried out by Zwald and three other unnamed shooters. Behind them are Raus and a number of other powerful men in the country. Although the mantle of power will naturally fall on Raus and his friends, there wil
l also be a major public outcry following the president's death. Lancer enjoys a totally irrational popularity among the people of the UKR, and there's bound to be a massive outcry following the assassination and probably the need for a scapegoat."

  A chill ran up Gibson's spine. "I hope you don't have me cast in that role?"

  "It was considered at first but rejected as impractical."

  "So who will take the fall?"

  "Zwald."

  "While Raus gets crowned king?"

  Smith's expression was that of the world-weary professional. "Isn't that the way these things are done?"

  Gibson went to the window and looked out. Many floors below, people were walking on the sidewalks and traffic was moving up and down the street. The overcast was breaking up, and patches of watery blue sky were showing through. It was a normal day in any big city. "No honor among conspirators?"

  "Would you expect any?"

  Gibson nodded in slow agreement. "So what do I have to do?"

  "Basically, it's very simple. We move you around various locations in the city to confuse witnesses and generally promote the idea of Zwald being a lone-nut assassin."

  "Trying for the lone-gunman theory?"

  "That's what Raus is looking for."

  "And you?"

  "We would prefer the most massive conspiracy paranoia that is possible without Raus's position actually being compromised."

  "This sounds a hell of a lot like the Kennedy assassination."

  "That was one of the models we used for reference."

  "And does Raus know about the Kennedy assassination?"

  Smith shook her head. "Of course not."

  Rampton seemed to feel a sudden need to show off his knowledge. "There's something called the bottleneck theory that puts forward the proposition that certain events are, for all practical purposes, preordained, racked up in the time stream like a bottleneck that has to be passed before the culture of that dimension can move on."

  Smith and French exchanged swift angry glances. It was plain that, as far as they were concerned, Rampton had said too much. Smith went into spin control. "I wouldn't worry about the bottleneck theory, Gibson. Many of us don't subscribe to it."