The War of Immensities

by Barry Klemm

  Well, he couldn’t do anything about that. But he could deal with his conscious thoughts and it was all a matter of discipline. He prided himself on his willpower in that he couldn’t remember the last time he had thought about them. It was almost like they had never existed…

  But that wasn’t the only reason they kept him in Rehab for so long. It also had to do with the mysterious coma and its periodic effects. Felicity had discussed it with him intimately, explored every aspect of his psychic condition and did so to a depth that the professional psychiatrists, psychologists and counsellors did not even approach. He co-operated because he was as curious as she was. Something quite strange but seemingly quite wonderful was happening to him. It was especially wonderful now as he neared his destination.

  The periods of agitation—the aberrations as she called them—carried with them an exquisite sense of strength. It was impossible to define. At three monthly intervals, for a period of three days, he would become grindingly tense and desperate to be on the move. It was really a chronic wanderlust but within it too was a sensation of purpose, of precise need, that was in itself exhilarating.

  It was as if some new part of his brain had been opened, admitting senses hitherto blocked to all other humans. There was definitely a sense of superiority attached to it that was hard to explain. It was as if the aberrations were the real moments of his life, and the periods between merely flowed to and from them. Daily he searched his being for the new powers that the aberrations unleashed and if he found none, he was not disappointed. He knew—he didn’t know how he knew but he knew it with certainty—that such super-strengths would eventually appear. It was just a matter of looking for them in the right places. He knew that it was just a matter of time.

  He had passed the spot. It was knowing something like that, with such utter certainty even though there was no physical evidence to support it whatsoever, that convinced him all the more of his hidden strength. He swung the helicopter in a wide circle and soon determined the region he was seeking so blindly yet surely.

  This was flat country, cattle and some sheep, although in some regions the irrigation channels from the Murray River reached down to touch green rows of orchards and other diverse crops. He passed over a town of medium size that his map identified as Kyabram and going in low swept over the paddocks until he circled again and was over the exact spot.

  Someone was already there. A camp fire smouldered, a prime mover sans trailer was parked nearby. The man sat in the shade with his back against a solitary tree trunk, his hand shielding his eyes as he regarded the chopper hovering above. Wagner moved wide of the spot, away from the camp and the tree, to nearby open ground for he knew such dry country would throw up a vast amount of dust when he landed and he did not wish it to blow into the man’s camp. It was the decent thing to do.

  Carefully, he set down in the middle of the paddock. He turned off, unstrapped and looked around. There was nothing else to be seen in any direction. He got out—his right leg was cramped and he needed to walk in a few small circles to get the circulation flowing properly. By then, the tall man in the big bush hat had walked over to him.

  “G’day,” he called.

  “Hi there.”

  “This your property?” the man asked, before Wagner could ask exactly the same question.

  “Nope. Not yours either then.”

  “No.”

  They stood facing each other—Wagner could see that this man was as uncertain of his right to be here as he was. He extended his hand. “Kevin Wagner.”

  “Brian Carrick,” the man said and shook firmly.

  The name stuck a chord. Wagner was certain he had heard it before, somewhere… “You from around here?” he asked.

  Brian Carrick eyed him suspiciously. All questions seemed a great trouble to him.

  “Nar, I come up from Melb’n.”

  Since he knew Melbourne was a major Australian city but wasn’t too sure where it was from here, Wagner nodded and could think of nothing to say.

  “I’m just making tea,” Brian said.

  They had tea, and then Brian provided sausages and eggs for dinner. Finally -about an hour later as night came down and they squatted by the fire—Brian said: “You’re a Yank.”

  “That’s right.”

  “What part?”

  “San Diego.”

  “Long way from home.”

  “I sure am.”

  And, exhausted by all that conversation, they soon retired to their respective vehicles and slept.

  *

  Twenty-three hours after he left the bemused Jami Shastri in his office, Harley Thyssen landed in Wellington. He had flown New York to Los Angeles, and almost immediately by United to Hawaii and then a wait of several hours before the Air New Zealand flight carried him directly into Wellington. He walked off the plane refusing to face his body’s demands for rest and re-orientation.

  It was 9am, local time and there were only seven hours left if his calculations were right. Customs officials fussed over a passenger with only a small overnight bag and then finally he emerged and approached the information desk. The girl did not have to bother to page Doctor Felicity Campbell—she was standing right beside him.

  “Professor Thyssen I presume.”

  “Doctor Campbell, good of you to respond on such short notice.”

  They shook hands. Hers was cool and fresh, his was sweating and clammy. He could tell by her bemused expression that he was far from what she expected.

  “A long journey, Professor.”

  “Let’s be informal, shall we Felicity? Even my students call me Harley.”

  “Well, Harley. As a doctor, allow me to recommend immediate rest.”

  “No time for that. Next time, assuming there is a next time, I’ll be better organised, but right now time is running out. What can you tell me?”

  “Let’s at least sit down and have a cup of coffee, Harley. The next flight to Melbourne doesn’t leave for two hours and we are booked on it.”

  She took his arm and led him off toward the coffee shop. Thyssen was thinking rather more in terms of a couple of quick Bourbons but at such an ungodly hour and in the presence of an MD, he supposed that would be out of the question.

  Felicity Campbell, he was beginning to notice, was a cool attractive woman, straw-haired, freckled, beaming smile, fit trim body, efficiently dressed in a purple suit with a skirt was rather shorter than most forty year-old women would have dared wear. Although friendly, she remained cool and businesslike. Thyssen made an effort to subdue his essential loneliness.

  They sat and she ordered black coffee without asking his preference. He fumbled in his pocket for saccharine.

  “So,” he asked, when her fussing over him finally subsided. “What do we know?”

  “Not a lot. Judy Carrick reports that Brian said he had been ‘up Shep way’ after one such trip and ‘same bloody place’ after another. ‘Up Shep way’ seems to translate into a region in Central Victoria where Shepparton is the major rural city. Lorna Simmons’ employer said she ‘kept disappearing off to Australia all the time’ and I spoke to John Burton, who was but is no longer Chrissie Rice’s fiancee and he thought they went to Bendigo, a big provincial city a hundred kilometres from Shepparton but also in Central Victoria. That’s all I was able to find out.”

  “You haven’t heard from Kevin Wagner?”

  “No. He promised to call but hasn’t. I’ve arranged for all of my calls to come through on the mobile,” she said, waving the instrument at him. “But no luck so far.”

  “Still, he remains our best chance.”

  “We could seek the co-operation of the Australian Police. I understand Brian Carrick is, once again, driving a stolen vehicle. Although, since they can reasonably suppose from experience that he’ll probably bring it back after three days, this time the owner has decided not to complain.”

  Thyssen was shaking his head wearily. “I’m reluctant to involve the civil authorities at this sta
ge. The risk that it might start unfounded rumours which in turn could lead to unnecessary panic, not to mention possible future embarrassment, is just too great.”

  “You didn’t seem to have any trouble bringing diplomatic pressure to bear on the hospital,” Felicity said provocatively.

  “No. I am sorry to drag you away from your patients like this. I know that you have a very busy schedule.”

  “I needed a holiday anyway,” Felicity chuckled. “But I would be interested to know how you did it.”

  “Friends in high places able to persuade the New Zealand government to turn you over to us on a matter of national security.”

  “Good Lord, they’ll think I’m working for the CIA or something.”

  “And your family? How will they cope?”

  “Oh, fine. They think I’m off to a conference on renal procedures. Nobody asks too many questions about things like that.”

  “Still, I apologise. I hope it’s worthwhile.”

  “I hope it isn’t,” Felicity said quietly. “On the whole, I suspect it would be best for everyone if this proved to be a wild goose chase.”

  *

  So here they were again. Same old paddock down the same dirt road. Same bloody truck driver in the same sort of truck but red this time not blue, same journey to nowhere. It was past summer now and although the grass was still yellow, it wasn’t as hot, it wasn’t as dusty and there were no longer the swarms of flies that drove them mad last time. But this time they were dressed for the occasion in jeans and sneakers, hats and sunglasses and instead of hauling suitcases each had a small pack on her back.

  Lorna refused to go at first and Chrissie had to be patient with her.

  “It’s ridiculous. I can’t afford to go running off to Australia every three months for no good reason. I’ve gone through all my savings. I can’t afford it.”

  It was actually the shopping in Melbourne that she couldn’t afford, but Chrissie had plenty of money to pay for them both so it hardly mattered. Lorna had gone to work that morning, and Chrissie, to try and subdue her agitation, went to the local church and prayed and prayed. If it didn’t provide any comfort or relief, at least it offered a point for all that suffering. Lorna turned up late in the afternoon, and knew exactly where to go to find her.

  “I broke down in tears in the office. They sent me to the hospital, but I knew I had to come here instead,” Lorna confessed sulkily.

  Chrissie offered the Almighty a small smile of thanks.

  They had to stay overnight in Melbourne because there was no train to Shepparton until next day. The hotels in the city were all terribly expensive but they asked around and finally came upon a pub in Carlton that offered cheap overnight accommodation. The rooms were small and the furniture decrepit but the staff was friendly and the food was good.

  Lorna set about getting herself thoroughly drunk, so drunk that she failed to pick up one of the locals because she made herself violently ill, and Chrissie needed to help her to bed.

  A seedy but unrepentant Lorna rode the train to Shepparton next day, and then the buses to and from Kyabram.

  “I still feel bloody randy,” she murmured.

  The fresh country air did nothing for her and she was a complete wreck by the time they arrived.

  “Maybe our friend the truckie will be in the mood,” Lorna remarked when their objective was in sight.

  “You suppose it’s him again?” Chrissie wondered.

  “Of course it’s bloody him again. Blokes like him are the original bad penny.”

  “You don’t really fancy him, do you?”

  “Why not?”

  “He’s a bit old.”

  “He looks fit and he ain’t bad looking, in a rugged sort of way. Lousy conversationalist but who cares? If I don’t get a bit soon, I’ll turn lesbian and go after you.”

  “Maybe he isn’t so bad after all.”

  But as they got closer, they began to be able to make out a strange object standing in the paddock some way off from the truck.

  “It’s a helicopter,” Chrissie realised.

  “Well, at least it’s something different,” Lorna sighed.

  Finally, they were wading through the grass toward the camp site. The quiet man was sitting back against the usual tree reading a book while the newcomer sat on a log, studying a map. Lorna brightened immediately. “Wow, what a spunk,” she breathed.

  Chrissie considered the man as he looked up in considerable surprise as they approached and smiled an encouraging smile. He was almost as old as the truckie—Brian, she remembered—and somewhat shorter. But yes, he had a nice smile.

  “Hullo there, you guys,” Lorna bubbled, all trace of the pallid wreck that she had been all day utterly eradicated.

  “You two again,” Brian remarked flatly, doing nothing other than looking up from his book.

  “Well, hi,” the newcomer drawled in his American accent. “You didn’t tell me about this, Brian.”

  “Didn’t think they’d be back,” Brian remarked and returned to his reading. “Better put the billy on, mate. They drink a lot of tea.”

  “Sure, but you better do the bit where you swing it,” the man said, tipping water from the jerry can into the billy. “So how about an introduction to your friends.”

  “Can’t. Don’t remember their names.”

  “I’m Lorna and she’s Chrissie...” and with extra emphasis, she added. “Brian.”

  Brian Carrick gave a little twitch and went on reading.

  “I’m Kevin Wagner. Damned glad to meet you. Grab a seat. What the hell are you two doing way out here anyway?”

  “We were hoping you might know.”

  “Damned if I do. Hey, where you from anyway?”

  “New Zealand,” Lorna enthused. “Auckland...”

  “Waal, godammit. How about that. I just flew in from Wellington myself.”

  “Really? I thought you were American.”

  “Yeah, well, some time back. But how about that. Beautiful place, New Zealand. Love it. You ever been to New Zealand, Brian?”

  “Yeah. Once. Hated it.”

  “How could you hate New Zealand?”

  “I had a real bad time there.”

  “I would have thought you’d have a pretty bad time in most places, Brian,” Lorna said sweetly.

  “I had an especially bad time in New Zealand.”

  Wagner winced as if he was the victim of the sarcastic exchange, and then continued to try and keep the conversation light and bright.

  “You know, I get the feeling I’ve met you before,” he said, referring to both of them but looking at Lorna.

  “Maybe we all met in New Zealand,” Lorna smiled sweetly.

  “No way. If I’d met a girl like you, Lorna, I wouldn’t have forgotten it.”

  Chrissie shook her head in dismay—she heard males say that to Lorna at least twice a week. But it was Brian Carrick who answered, drawling; “Yeah, it’s the sharp tongued ones you remember.”

  Still, for all the difficulty, Kevin’s charm battled on. “So, here we are,” he soothed. “All been to New Zealand and now all here. What a coincidence.”

  “Yeah,” Brian Carrick muttered. “Bloody big coincidence.”

  Perhaps they were all saved from disaster, if not embarrassment, when they saw a vehicle coming down the road.

  “Waal, will you get an eyeful of that!” Kevin declared and they all looked.

  A white stretch limousine gracefully slid along the bumpy road.

  “Some people travel in style,” Lorna breathed.

  “Must be one of them down-at-heel cow-cockies you hear so much about,” Brian declared.

  But the limo drew along the road until it reached the gap in the fence and stopped. The middle-aged uniformed chauffeur jumped out and opened the rear door, and a tall black woman flashed elegant thighs as she climbed out. She offered a gigantic smile to the chauffeur and thanked him and then looked and waved toward the four astonished onlookers.

 
Chrissie immediately realised that she knew this woman—a black giantess was hard to forget. She was struggling to place her, as were the two men, but it was Lorna who got there first.

  “Andromeda Starlight,” Lorna breathed.

  “Yeah,” Brian Carrick grunted. “I think this just stopped bein’ a big coincidence.”

  6. THE VOICE OF GAIA

  Along the shores of Lake Baikal, the rugged Buryat tribesmen lived as they had for a thousand years, tough Mongolians who prided themselves in their horsemanship and their absolute control of their animals. In their small rustic settlements—almost entirely family groups—they followed the teachings of the Dalai Lama, to whom they were returning their devotions since the fall of the Soviet Empire. For this was Soviet Mongolia, where the 300,000 Buryats live in collectives, migrating with their sheep between summer and winter pastures, the latter to which they had just returned.

  Then in an instant, everything changed. Their animals went berserk with a universal suddenness that filled them with terror. Along the edge of the rapidly receding lake, steam began to rise and then, only moments after first of these terrors commenced, they knew no more. Right around the southern end of the lake, the people fell into sudden unconsciousness—people and horses and sheep and dogs alike—all dropping in their tracks. The solid wooden houses shook and collapsed on the unconscious inhabitants. There were few survivors in the affected zone—most were killed by the searing steam from the lake, or swallowed as they lay sleeping by the explosive lava flow.

  And there was no one left awake to see the great cracks open in the muddy floor along the edge of the lake and fire burst forth, followed by oozing lava spreading out in all directions. Over a thousand died in the affected region and, days later, when the neighbouring tribes overcame their fear of the towering pyroclastic cloud that had swallowed that end of the lake and came to investigate, they found those few who had survived locked in an unresponsive coma.