by Stephen King
Susannah got up as well as she could, gripping the side of the bed for balance, holding Scowther’s gun out in front of her. She had gotten four. The rathead nurse and one other had run. Sayre had dropped his gun and was trying to hide behind the robot with the incubator.
Susannah shot the two remaining vampires and the low man with the bulldog face. That one—Haber—hadn’t forgotten Susannah; he’d been holding his ground and waiting for a clear shot. She got hers first and watched him fall backward with deep satisfaction. Haber, she thought, had been the most dangerous.
“Madam, I wonder if you could tell me—” began the robot, and Susannah put two quick shots into its steel face, darkening the blue electric eyes. This trick she had learned from Eddie. A gigantic siren immediately went off. Susannah felt that if she listened to it long, she would be deafened.
“I HAVE BEEN BLINDED BY GUNFIRE!” the robot bellowed, still in its absurd would-you-like-another-cup-of-tea-madam accent. “VISION ZERO, I NEED HELP, CODE 7, I SAY, HELP!”
Sayre stepped away from it, hands held high. Susannah couldn’t hear him over the siren and the robot’s blatting, but she could read the words as they came off the bastard’s lips: I surrender, will you accept my parole?
She smiled at this amusing idea, unaware that she smiled. It was without humor and without mercy and meant only one thing: she wished she could get him to lick her stumps, as he had forced Mia to lick his boots. But there wasn’t time enough. He saw his doom in her grin and turned to run and Susannah shot him twice in the back of the head—once for Mia, once for Pere Callahan. Sayre’s skull shattered in a fury of blood and brains. He grabbed the wall, scrabbled at a shelf loaded with equipment and supplies, and then went down dead.
Susannah now took aim at the spider-god. The tiny white human head on its black and bristly back turned to look at her. The blue eyes, so uncannily like Roland’s, blazed.
No, you cannot! You must not! For I am the King’s only son!
I can’t? she sent back, leveling the automatic. Oh, sugar, you are just …so… WRONG!
But before she could pull the trigger, there was a gunshot from behind her. A slug burned across the side of her neck. Susannah reacted instantly, turning and throwing herself sideways into the aisle. One of the low men who’d run had had a change of heart and come back. Susannah put two bullets into his chest and made him mortally sorry.
She turned, eager for more—yes, this was what she wanted, what she had been made for, and she’d always revere Roland for showing her—but the others were either dead or fled. The spider raced down the side of its birthbed on its many legs, leaving the papier-mâché corpse of its mother behind. It turned its white infant’s head briefly toward her.
You’d do well to let me pass, Blackie, or—
She fired at it, but stumbled over the hawkman’s outstretched hand as she did. The bullet that would have killed the abomination went a little awry, clipping off one of its eight hairy legs instead. A yellowish-red fluid, more like pus than blood, poured from the place where the leg had joined the body. The thing screamed at her in pain and surprise. The audible portion of that scream was hard to hear over the endless cycling blat of the robot’s siren, but she heard it in her head loud and clear.
I’ll pay you back for that! My father and I, we’ll pay you back! Make you cry for death, so we will!
You ain’t gonna have a chance, sugar, Susannah sent back, trying to project all the confidence she possibly could, not wanting the thing to know what she believed: that Scowther’s automatic might have been shot dry. She aimed with a deliberation that was unnecessary, and the spider scuttled rapidly away from her, darting first behind the endlessly sirening robot and then through a dark doorway.
All right. Not great, not the best solution by any means, but she was still alive, and that much was grand.
And the fact that all of sai Sayre’s crew were dead or run off? That wasn’t bad, either.
Susannah tossed Scowther’s gun aside and selected another, this one a Walther PPK. She took it from the docker’s clutch Straw had been wearing, then rummaged in his pockets, where she found half a dozen extra clips. She briefly considered adding the vampire’s electric sword to her armory and decided to leave it where it was. Better the tools you knew than those you didn’t.
She tried to get in touch with Jake, couldn’t hear herself think, and turned to the robot. “Hey, big boy! Shut off that damn sireen, what do you say?”
She had no idea if it would work, but it did. The silence was immediate and wonderful, with the sensuous texture of moiré silk. Silence might be useful. If there was a counterattack, she’d hear them coming. And the dirty truth? She hoped for a counterattack, wanted them to come, and never mind whether that made sense or not. She had a gun and her blood was up. That was all that mattered.
(Jake! Jake, do you hear me, kiddo? If you hear, answer your big sis! )
Nothing. Not even that rattle of distant gunfire. He was out of t—
Then, a single word—was it a word?
(wimeweh )
More important, was it Jake?
She didn’t know for sure, but she thought yes. And the word seemed familiar to her, somehow.
Susannah gathered her concentration, meaning to call louder this time, and then a queer idea came to her, one too strong to be called intuition. Jake was trying to be quiet. He was … hiding? Maybe getting ready to spring an ambush? The idea sounded crazy, but maybe his blood was up, too. She didn’t know, but thought he’d either sent her that one odd word
(wimeweh )
on purpose, or it had slipped out. Either way, it might be better to let him roll his own oats for awhile.
“I say, I have been blinded by gunfire!” the robot insisted. Its voice was still loud, but had dropped to a range at least approaching normal. “I can’t see a bloody thing and I have this incubator—”
“Drop it,” Susannah said.
“But—”
“Drop it, Chumley.”
“I beg pawdon, madam, but my name is Nigel the Butler and I really can’t—”
Susannah had been hauling herself closer during this little exchange—you didn’t forget the old means of locomotion just because you’d been granted a brief vacation with legs, she was discovering—and read both the name and the serial number stamped on the robot’s chrome-steel midsection.
“Nigel DNK 45932, drop that fucking glass box, say thankya!”
The robot (DOMESTIC was stamped just below its serial number) dropped the incubator and then whimpered when it shattered at its steel feet.
Susannah worked her way over to Nigel, and found she had to conquer a moment’s fear before reaching up and taking one three-fingered steel hand. She needed to remind herself that this wasn’t Andy from Calla Bryn Sturgis, nor could Nigel know about Andy. The butler-robot might or might not be sophisticated enough to crave revenge—certainly Andy had been—but you couldn’t crave what you didn’t know about.
She hoped.
“Nigel, pick me up.”
There was a whine of servomotors as the robot bent.
“No, hon, you have to come forward a little bit. There’s broken glass where you are.”
“Pawdon, madam, but I’m blind. I believe it was you who shot my eyes out.”
Oh. That.
“Well,” she said, hoping her tone of irritation would disguise the fear beneath, “I can’t very well get you new ones if you don’t pick me up, can I? Now get a wiggle on, may it do ya. Time’s wasting.”
Nigel stepped forward, crushing broken glass beneath its feet, and came to the sound of her voice. Susannah controlled the urge to cringe back, but once the Domestic Robot had set its grip on her, its touch was quite gentle. It lifted her into its arms.
“Now take me to the door.”
“Madam, beg pawdon but there are many doors in Sixteen. More still beneath the castle.”
Susannah couldn’t help being curious. “How many?”
A br
ief pause. “I should say five hundred and ninety-five are currently operational.” She immediately noticed that five-ninety-five added up to nineteen. Added up to chassit.
“Do you mind giving me a carry to the one I came through before the shooting started?” Susannah pointed toward the far end of the room.
“No, madam, I don’t mind at all, but I’m sorry to tell you that it will do you no good,” Nigel said in his plummy voice. “That door, NEW YORK #7/FEDIC, is one-way.” A pause. Relays clicking in the steel dome of its head. “Also, it burned out after its last use. It has, as you might say, gone to the clearing at the end of the path.”
“Oh, that’s just wonderful !” Susannah cried, but realized she wasn’t exactly surprised by Nigel’s news. She remembered the ragged humming sound she’d heard it making just before Sayre had pushed her rudely through it, remembered thinking, even in her distress, that it was a dying thing. And yes, it had died. “Just wonderful!”
“I sense you are distressed, madam.”
“You’re goddamned right I’m distressed! Bad enough the damned thing only opened one-way! Now it’s shut down completely!”
“Except for the default,” Nigel agreed.
“Default? What do you mean, default?”
“That would be NEW YORK #9/FEDIC,” Nigel told her. “At one time there were over thirty one-way New York–to–Fedic ports, but I believe #9 is the only one that remains. All commands pertaining to NEW YORK #7/FEDIC will now have defaulted to #9.”
Chassit , she thought … almost prayed. He’s talking about chassit, I think. Oh God, I hope he is.
“Do you mean passwords and such, Nigel?”
“Why, yes, madam.”
“Take me to Door #9.”
“As you wish.”
Nigel began to move rapidly up the aisle between the hundreds of empty beds, their taut white sheets gleaming under the brilliant overhead lamps. Susannah’s imagination momentarily populated this room with screaming, frightened children, freshly arrived from Calla Bryn Sturgis, maybe from the neighboring Callas, as well. She saw not just a single rathead nurse but battalions of them, eager to clamp the helmets over the heads of the kidnapped children and start the process that … that did what? Ruined them in some way. Sucked the intelligence out of their heads and knocked their growth-hormones out of whack and ruined them forever. Susannah supposed that at first they would be cheered up to hear such a pleasant voice in their heads, a voice welcoming them to the wonderful world of North Central Positronics and the Sombra Group. Their crying would stop, their eyes fill with hope. Perhaps, they would think the nurses in their white uniforms were good in spite of their hairy, scary faces and yellow fangs. As good as the voice of the nice lady.
Then the hum would begin, quickly building in volume as it moved toward the middle of their heads, and this room would again fill with their frightened screams—
“Madam? Are you all right?”
“Yes. Why do you ask, Nigel?”
“I believe you shivered.”
“Never mind. Just get me to the door to New York, the one that still works.”
SIX
Once they left the infirmary, Nigel bore her rapidly down first one corridor and then another. They came to escalators that looked as if they had been frozen in place for centuries. Halfway down one of them, a steel ball on legs flashed its amber eyes at Nigel and cried, “Howp! Howp!” Nigel responded “Howp, howp!” in return and then said to Susannah (in the confidential tone certain gossipy people adopt when discussing Those Who Are Unfortunate), “He’s a Mech Foreman and has been stuck there for over eight hundred years—fried boards, I imagine. Poor soul! But he still tries to do his best.”
Twice Nigel asked her if she believed his eyes could be replaced. The first time Susannah told him she didn’t know. The second time—feeling a little sorry for him (definitely him now, not it)—she asked what he thought.
“I think my days of service are nearly over,” he said, and then added something that made her arms tingle with gooseflesh: “O Discordia!”
The Diem Brothers are dead, she thought, remembering—had it been a dream? a vision? a glimpse of her Tower? — something from her time with Mia. Or had it been her time in Oxford, Mississippi? Or both? Papa Doc Duvalier is dead. Christa McAuliffe is dead. Stephen King is dead, popular writer killed while taking afternoon walk, O Discordia, O lost!
But who was Stephen King? Who was Christa McAuliffe, for that matter?
Once they passed a low man who had been present at the birth of Mia’s monster. He lay curled on a dusty corridor floor like a human shrimp with his gun in one hand and a hole in his head. Susannah thought he’d committed suicide. In a way, she supposed that made sense. Because things had gone wrong, hadn’t they? And unless Mia’s baby found its way to where it belonged on its own, Big Red Daddy was going to be mad. Might be mad even if Mordred somehow found his way home.
His other father. For this was a world of twins and mirror images, and Susannah now understood more about what she’d seen than she really wanted to. Mordred too was a twin, a Jekyll-and-Hyde creature with two selves, and he—or it—had the faces of two fathers to remember.
They came upon a number of other corpses; all looked like suicides to Susannah. She asked Nigel if he could tell—by their smells, or something—but he claimed he could not.
“How many are still here, do you think?” she asked. Her blood had had time to cool a little, and now she felt nervous.
“Not many, madam. I believe that most have moved on. Very likely to the Derva.”
“What’s the Derva?”
Nigel said he was dreadfully sorry, but that information was restricted and could be accessed only with the proper password. Susannah tried chassit, but it was no good. Neither was nineteen or, her final try, ninety-nine. She supposed she’d have to be content with just knowing most of them were gone.
Nigel turned left, into a new corridor with doors on both sides. She got him to stop long enough to try one of them, but there was nothing of particular note inside. It was an office, and long-abandoned, judging by the thick fall of dust. She was interested to see a poster of madly jitterbugging teenagers on one wall. Beneath it, in large blue letters, was this:
SAY, YOU COOL CATS AND BOPPIN’ KITTIES!
I ROCKED AT THE HOP WITH ALAN FREED!
CLEVELAND, OHIO, OCTOBER 1954
Susannah was pretty sure that the performer on stage was Richard Penniman. Club-crawling folkies such as herself affected disdain for anyone who rocked harder than Phil Ochs, but Suze had always had a soft spot in her heart for Little Richard; good golly, Miss Molly, you sure like to ball. She guessed it was a Detta thing.
Did these people once upon a time use their doors to vacation in various wheres and whens of their choice? Did they use the power of the Beams to turn certain levels of the Tower into tourist attractions?
She asked Nigel, who told her he was sure he did not know. Nigel still sounded sad about the loss of his eyes.
Finally they came into an echoing rotunda with doors marching all around its mighty circumference. The marble tiles on the floor were laid in a black-and-white checkerboard pattern Susannah remembered from certain troubled dreams in which Mia had fed her chap. Above, high and high, constellations of electric stars winked in a blue firmament that was now showing plenty of cracks. This place reminded her of the Cradle of Lud, and even more strongly of Grand Central Station. Somewhere in the walls, air-conditioners or -exchangers ran rustily. The smell in the air was weirdly familiar, and after a short struggle, Susannah identified it: Comet Cleanser. They sponsored The Price Is Right, which she sometimes watched on TV if she happened to be home in the morning. “I’m Don Pardo, now please welcome your host, Mr. Bill Cullen!” Susannah felt a moment of vertigo and closed her eyes.
Bill Cullen is dead. Don Pardo is dead. Martin Luther King is dead, shot down in Memphis. Rule Discordia!
O Christ, those voices, would they never stop?
&nbs
p; She opened her eyes and saw doors marked SHANGHAI/FEDIC and BOMBAY/FEDIC and one marked DALLAS (NOVEMBER 1963)/FEDIC. Others were written in runes that meant nothing to her. At last Nigel stopped in front of one she recognized.
NORTH CENTRAL POSITRONICS, LTD.
New York/Fedic
Maximum Security
All of this Susannah recognized from the other side, but below VERBAL ENTRY CODE REQUIRED was this message, flashing ominous red:
#9 FINAL DEFAULT
SEVEN
“What would you like to do next, madam?” Nigel asked.
“Set me down, sugarpie.”
She had time to wonder what her response would be if Nigel declined to do so, but he didn’t even hesitate. She walk-hopped-scuttled to the door in her old way and put her hands on it. Beneath them she felt a texture that was neither wood nor metal. She thought she could hear a very faint hum. She considered trying chassit—her version of Ali Baba’s Open, sesame— and didn’t bother. There wasn’t even a doorknob. One-way meant one-way, she reckoned; no kidding around.
(JAKE! )
She sent it with all her might.
No answer. Not even that faint
(wimeweh )
nonsense word. She waited a moment longer, then turned around and sat with her back propped against the door. She dropped the extra ammo clips between her spread knees and then held the Walther PPK up in her right hand. A good weapon to have with your back to a locked door, she reckoned; she liked the weight of it. Once upon a time, she and others had been trained in a protest technique called passive resistance. Lie down on the lunchroom floor, cover your soft middle and softer privates. Do not respond to those who strike you and revile you and curse your parents. Sing in your chains like the sea. What would her old friends make of what she had become?
Susannah said: “You know what? I don’t give shit one. Passive resistance is also dead.”
“Madam?”
“Nothing, Nigel.”
