And still the golden sphere rose. High into the sky over Thebes it climbed, eventually coming to rest some forty miles above the city. Mobius laughed with glee.
"Now, Ahkemeses," he cackled, "let there be light!"
The golden sphere flared with energy, becoming a small sun in the night sky. The light it cast filled the realm with heat, banishing the darkness with its powerful glare. For long moments, there was only stunned silence from the crowd below him. Then a cheer started up. It was a cheer for the Pharaoh. It started as a small ripple at first, gradually swelling like the waves of the ocean. Mobius let the sound wash over him. He smiled.
"Let the Gaunt Man work his plots," the Pharaoh laughed. "Let him stop the world for all I care! We shall have light in the Nile Empire! We shall have warmth! Then, when I am ready, I shall take the possibilities from the cheering cattle and move on. What do you say to that, Ahkemeses?"
"I say, Hail Pharaoh!" the High Priest proclaimed.
Mobius, content with his exalted station in life, looked up and basked in the sunlight he had created.
The
Dark
Realm
My realm is a dark labyrinth. And only I know what lurks beyond the next corner.
— The Gaunt Man
We've entered the darkness of our own accord. Are we very brave, or just very stupid? Whichever, God help us to reach the light.
—Father Christopher Bryce
The Possibility Wars 62
Major Julie Boot sat at Andrew Jackson Decker's bedside, studying his face in the dim light cast by the monitors. It was a fine face, she thought, a movie star's face. Or a sports figure's. Or a congressman's. She smiled. What is it with you, Major Boot? she asked herself. Are you falling for the man in the coma? He did look stronger, though, more healthy than he had since they brought him in. Maybe her little visits were helping. Maybe ...
The instruments monitoring his vital signs showed no change. According to them, he had gotten no worse, or no better. Slowly, hesitantly, she reached out and took his hand. It was cool in her own, dry. She rubbed it slowly, gently, wishing that it would grip her back with the strength she knew it possessed.
"Wake up, Ace," she whispered. "I need to speak with you." She leaned forward, putting his hand to her cheek. "I need to know who you are."
She sat like that for a long time, holding Decker's hand and whispering words of comfort to the unconscious man. Did she really think that her voice and nonsense words could bring the man back to them? Even Dr. Monroe had given up on Decker. It was too dangerous to try another operation, he said. And the only way to give him a chance was to remove the strange metal shafts imbedded in his chest. But Julie felt deep within her that her visits were helping him. She didn't know how that was possible, or why, but as long as the feeling remained she would come and sit with Decker.
Then it happened.
Decker's hand squeezed hers.
It wasn't a strong squeeze, and it lasted only a second before his fingers went limp again, but it was the most wonderful feeling she had ever know. She laughed with the joy of it.
"What are you doing sitting in here in the dark?" Monroe asked from the doorway.
"James, he responded to me," Julie said, unable to keep the joy and excitement out of her voice. "He squeezed my hand."
"It could have been nothing more than a muscle spasm, or an involuntary response to your touch," Monroe said as he came closer to examine Decker.
"Or it could have been a sign that he's getting closer to us, that he's fighting off whatever it is that caused his condition," Julie snapped back, immediately sorry that there was an edge to her words.
Monroe looked at her, anger flashing briefly in his eyes. "You'll have to get a hold of yourself, nurse," he warned her. "Where's your objectivity?"
"Damn objectivity!" she screamed. "Where's your compassion, Dr. Monroe? He is your brother, after all."
"I asked you not to bring that subject up."
They were silent after that, her standing and watching as the doctor listened to Decker's heart, checked his pulse, and peered into his eyes with a light.
"He's just as he was earlier," Monroe said finally. "His vitals are stable, but there's nobody home. I think we're all going to have to face the facts."
"And what facts are those, doctor?" Julie demanded.
"Andrew Jackson Decker is not coming back, Julie," Monroe said, his expression softer than it had been, more human. "His mind is gone."
63
"Very odd," the Gaunt Man said, musing over his machine. "It appears the stormer aiding Decker is stronger than I anticipated. During the process, Decker almost pulled himself out of the dream I have him in. I had to increase power before I got him to settle back into the dream state." He turned another dial. "Now he is back to sorting possible scenarios for me. But for a brief moment... very odd."
Thratchen regarded the Gaunt Man. This machine gave the Gaunt Man an edge over all the other High Lords, an edge beyond even his eons of experience and almost unlimited personal power. The machine gave him the ability to eradicate possibilities. And, with Decker attached to it, it gave him the power to use specific possibilities to his own ends. It was a power unthinkable to those who called themselves Possibility Raiders. It was power akin to creation — power clearly in the domain of Apeiros the Creator, daughter of Eternity. It was a power that frightened Thratchen, and fascinated him.
"Decker," Thratchen said carefully, "is he the only one who could serve you in this fashion?"
The Gaunt Man turned to Thratchen curiously. "No, but stormers of his power are rare. Perhaps the woman called Tolwyn, the one Uthorion fears so much, could be used. Or even the young woman you seek. What did you call her?"
"Mara," Thratchen replied. "Dr. Hachi Mara-Two."
"Of course," the Gaunt Man smiled. "Why do you ask?"
"You do not yet have either of those stormers in your possession. We do not know Kurst's status, but from his last reported actions he has turned against us," Thratchen explained.
"I know all of this," the Gaunt Man growled. "What are you getting at?"
"We have Decker, High Lord. But there seems to be a stormer with him who can interrupt the workings of the runes. We could wind up losing him."
Worry played across the Gaunt Man's skeletal features. "This must not occur," he said. "Decker is more powerful than any other stormer I have yet used. I must keep him until the process is finished." The Gaunt Man stood by the control banks, practically crackling with power. "He must be brought here, to Orrorsh realm," the Gaunt Man decided. "He must be brought to me."
Thratchen waited, forcing the smile from his thin lips. His ability to manipulate situations was working again. Was it a wonder that one day soon he would be the Torg, and not this ancient, skeletal relic beside him?
"I have sent others to intercept Kurst, but there is still Scythak," the Gaunt Man said. "It is Scythak's turn to hunt. He will keep others from helping Decker. He will bring Decker's physical form to me."
Thratchen nearly howled his excitement. Scythak would be even easier to manipulate, he knew. He would complete his mission for the Gaunt Man, but he would do it in the manner Thratchen decided. Yes, all would work out for the best, Thratchen thought as the plan developed in his mind. He let the details fall into place as he followed the Gaunt Man up the stairs to find Scythak.
64
Eddie Paragon sat beneath a tree, watching the activity in Baruk Kaah's camp. Baruk Kaah was still locked in conversation with the Horn Master and the ravagon, but the edeinos were not wasting time waiting for their leader. They were gathering the plants they used as weapons — hrockts, Paragon remembered they were called. Others were involved in elaborate rituals that Paragon could not fathom. They danced and twitched in large numbers, singing praises to Lanala, their god.
He had been within Rec Pakken for the beginning of Baruk Kaah's meeting, but as the discussion grew more heated the three lost interest in him. After a time,
he simply slipped out of the forest of black stone.
Paragon grew bored watching the lizard men. Their rituals were tedious, nothing more than a series of oft- repeated movements that agitated and excited the edeinos into a state of frenzy. Still others stood totally quiet, looking out over the fields around them. These contemplated the swaying grass, finding evidence of their god in such simple occurrences. He had spoken to one of the edeinos about these things, and he envied their spiritual existence. But he could not embrace their way of life as other humans had. There was too much modern man in him, he decided.
He moved through the camp lazily, looking for something to break his mood. He found it when his wanderings brought him to the pile of weapons the edeinos had taken from their last battle. Spoils of war, he knew. There were machineguns, rifles, pistols—Paragon couldn't put a name to any of them. He didn't know an M-16 from a Beretta. If he grabbed one, could he get it to work?
His breathing was quicker now. What was he contemplating? Did he think he could take out the entire camp? No, he told himself. Calm down. Not the camp. But with a weapon, he might be able to make it to the front and back into his own reality. He might be able to make it home.
His hands was sweating. He was a singer, a performer. What did he know of combat and survival techniques?
The answer was not a thing. But the guns were right there, unguarded. No one was paying any attention to him. He was just another part of the camp. His gaze returned to Rec Pakken, and he expected to see Baruk Kaah come storming out after him in response to his thoughts. But the black forest was the same as before; no one emerged from its depths to stop him.
Even the Wild Hunt was gone, the black cloud dispersed until the Horn Master gathered it again. Paragon wiped his hands on his jeans. If he was going to try anything, it would have to be now. Without thinking, he grabbed a pistol and a rifle from the pile. His eyes darted in all directions, but no one was watching him. He stuffed the pistol into his pants and held the rifle at his side.
Slowly, at an even pace, Eddie Paragon walked to the edge of the camp. Then, with a final look toward Rec Pakken to make sure Baruk Kaah wasn't on to him, he walked into the forest and out of the camp.
65
President Jonathan Wells replaced the phone on its cradle. General Powell had called with the news: Quin Sebastian was on his way to Kentucky. At least that was going according to plan. Now he had to deal with the problem before him. He looked up, returning his attention to Ellen Conners, Director of the Delphi Council.
"John, I need you to sign that document," she said again, not letting up on her position. "For the Delphi Council to be effective, it must be allowed to recruit agents."
Wells sighed. "Ellen, the council is supposed to be a think tank. It's supposed to develop strategies to help us battle these invaders. For what possible reason does it
need permission to raise a damn army?"
Conners gave him her best Madam Medusa look, the look that withered her opponents throughout her years in the Senate. John Wells was used to it. He smiled at her.
"Damn it, John, listen to me," she urged. "We are a think tank. I've gathered the best minds I could find from the political, military, and scientific communities. But we need the ability to place agents in the field. How can we move quickly if we have to wait for some other agency to provide us with manpower? Besides, if this situation lasts throughout the foreseeable future, we'll need people specially trained to deal with it. Can you send just any FBI or CIA agent into the conquered territory and expect them to function as they would here in Houston? My God, man, look what happened to Decker and his marines."
Wells listened to her words. They made sense, on the surface. But what was the intent behind them? And, even if Conners was sincere, what if someone else came to power? The Delphi Council and its special privileges could be abused. He fingered the document before him. "By Executive Order," it began. All it needed was his signature.
"John, we're wasting precious time," Conners said. "Every second we waste is another dead soldier or civilian. Every minute is another chunk of land lost to the invaders. I need agents to go in there and find out how they work — and why our technology doesn't."
Swayed by the necessity of the moment, Wells signed the document. He would worry about curbing the long- range ramifications of the Delphi Council later. Right now, he had to give Ellen Conners the authority and ability to carry out her mission.
He handed the signed paper to her. "Do what you
have to, Ellen. But don't make me regret this decision."
"You won't, John," shesmiled. "Someday this decision will be remembered as the first step toward our victory."
She left then, off to put the new Executive Order into practice. Wells sipped his coffee. It was cold and bitter, but it settled his nerves. He had been putting his next decision off for a while, but now was the time to implement it. He reached for his phone.
"Carter," he said into the receiver. "Have the boys prepare Air Force One. I'm going to Twentynine Palms to see Decker."
66
Thratchen checked the pendant again, looking for any imperfections in the runes. It was a red, multi- faceted stone held by a gold chain. The stone sparkled when the light hit it, reflecting bright beams from its many faces. On each face, painstakingly carved by Thratchen's own hands, were runes of magic.
It had been a long time since Thratchen had called upon these arcane skills. While magic was not beyond the axiom levels of Tharkold, technology usually provided a faster, easier solution. But here, in Orrorsh, it was more prudent to use the tools available to him. Less chance of contradictions being formed that way. And, he discovered as he prepared the spell, he liked using sorcery. It added a new element to his already- extensive repertoire.
Satisfied that he was prepared, Thratchen stepped into a shadowed alcove to wait. It wasn't long before Scythak appeared at the end of the corridor, fresh from his audience with the Gaunt Man. Thratchen marveled at the weretiger's size. Even in man form, Scythak was huge. He stood over six-and-a-half-feet tall, with massive shoulders and powerful muscles. In tiger form, he was even larger. In either form, he towered over Thratchen. His size and strength did not frighten the Tharkoldan, though. It merely made him cautious.
Scythak drew closer, moving nearly silently for one so big. Moving like a cat. As he approached the alcove, Thratchen stepped out of the shadows and blocked the hunter's path. Scythak stopped when he saw Thratchen, regarding him from under heavy brows.
"I thought I smelled your stench, Thratchen," growled Scythak. "Get out of my way. I have a mission from the Gaunt Man, and I do not have time to deal with you."
The powerful man started forward again, but Thratchen held up his hand. "Before you go," Thratchen said, "I have something to aid you in your mission." He held up the pendant, letting it dangle from its chain. The pendant caught the light from the gas lamps in the corridor as it twirled lazily, reflecting it into Scythak's eyes. "Do you see it?"
"I see it," said Scythak, interested. "What is it?"
"It's a pendant of Orrorshan reality," Thratchen lied. "I know that you can retain your own reality, without any help from devices, but this mission is too important to risk that odd chance of disconnection. Besides, a little insurance couldn't hurt."
It was understood by those who regularly traveled through different realities that there was an inherent danger involved in the process. Even the strongest stormer could find himself "disconnected," cut off from his reality and set adrift in a wash of alien axioms. Thratchen hoped to play on that nagging concern, perhaps fanning it into outright fear.
The stone continued to reflect light into Scythak's eyes, shining indecipherable patterns across his line of vision. Satisfied that he had the weretiger's attention, Thratchen spoke the words of power. His breath caused the pendant to twirl faster, intensifying the reflected light with each rotation. And the magic flared.
"What is your mission?" Thratchen demanded.
"I am to travel by dimthread to Takta Ker, go down bridge to Baruk Kaah's realm in the western United States," Scythak said, his voice distant as the beams of light hypnotized him. "From there I must enter Core Earth reality and locate the stormer named Andrew Jackson Decker. I am to bring him and the stormer aiding him back here."
"Very good," said Thratchen, moving the pendant closer to the hunter's face. Scythak smiled like a child given candy. Thratchen spoke another word of power, then said, "Now listen to me very carefully. When you see Decker, you will kill him. You will not protect him or bring him back here. You will simply kill him, because if he remains alive you will find yourself disconnected, cut off from your own reality. Do you understand?"
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