Echoes of Worlds Past

by Nicholas Read

  Each time a shot from one of the darting, dodging youths harrying it struck home, the creature let out an unearthly reverberant howl that sounded like a pack of monstrous hounds baying in the distance.

  The entire shocking tableaux was being played out in the center of the river, in the pouring rain, as if the water beneath the combatants was as solid and stable as the pavement on which he was standing.

  Absorbed in this infernal curiosity, the amnesiac boy in baggy clothes momentarily forgot his own travails, forgot the ache and anxiety that filled him, forgot that he had forgotten.

  Annihilating light and bone-shaking sound clashed in the center of the river, no doubt interpreted by those who might overhear it as lightning and thunder. Though burst after burst from their weapons struck home, the attackers’ weapons were having little effect on the gelatinous life form in their midst.

  As he looked on, a pair of its pulpy tentacles snatched up a teen too slow to dodge and ripped him in half without fanfare or hesitation. For an instant the boy’s final despairing cry rose above the rain and the clash of battle. Then it was gone, whipped away by the storm even before the torn halves of his body were flung away to sink into the water.

  Grim-faced, his equally youthful comrades redoubled their assault.

  Their intent was clear. Throughout the course of the fight it was evident that the creature was struggling to leave the river and move to dry land. Clustering the bulk of their forces before it, they strove with increasing fire to block the monster’s approach and herd it toward the youth whose weapon appeared to shimmer the air. Clearly, preventing the creature from reaching the shore was all-important.

  The young spectator in soggy oversized attire unexpectedly found himself rooting for them to succeed. Especially as it was his side of the river the seemingly invulnerable creature was lurching toward.

  For the first time since he had taken notice of the otherworldly confrontation and stopped to watch, one of the frantic combatants took notice of him.

  “Run!” Looking back over her shoulder, the girl shouted over her high collar. “Get out of there, kid!”

  He might have complied, except not knowing where he was, he could think of no safe place to flee. So he continued to stand on the shore in the rain, paralyzed more by indecision than by fear, while the lethal syrupy tentacles and exotic gunfire that ranged and roared in front of him continued to edge closer and closer.

  As he continued to gawk in fascination he wondered how they were supporting themselves on water. Though he was no weapons master (was he?) he doubted seeing anything like the diverse devices that were being wielded against the swaying, amorphous life form. For all their range and variety, however, they appeared to be doing little more than irritating their target.

  As he looked on, the creature’s massive upper body swung toward him like a falling crane. Seeking further deadly contact with its agile tormentors, the creature’s tentacles flailed wildly in all directions. As the thick glutinous mass smashed into the river, several of its youthful assailants were sent spinning and tumbling to land on the water nearby.

  Not in, but on.

  Scrambling to their feet atop the rippling waters, they resumed firing as soon as they could reposition their weapons.

  Uncertain as to whether what he was witnessing was real or a product of a waterlogged brain, an icy splash from the river energized him in a way the continuous drizzle had not. Wiping the film from his eyes, he jacked backwards as the creature suddenly lunged for dry land, a snout of teeth thrusting out to find purchase on the concrete sidewalk that hugged the Thames.

  The apparition filled the boy’s view, and for a moment there was a relative quiet, punctuated only by a sickening wheeze as bubbles of white phlegm spurted from around where the creature’s baseteeth had dug in, inflating with every heave.

  Then, as tentacles the size of tree trunks curled around lampposts along the riverfront and drew taut, it was clear the monster that had so drawn the attention of the youthful militia was only the head of a much larger creature that was now emerging from its watery crib.

  As its beak gored hungrily at the flagstones to adjust its hold, the vague shape of a ponderous orb rolled from within the cavernous barn of a body to burst through the slimy dermis right in front of the sodden youth’s face.

  He stared at it. The two-meter wide eye stared back, then narrowed, the lines in its iris opening like a lotus to reveal a disc of serrated fangs that abruptly snapped forward on a long stalk.

  No time to run. No time for thought. One second from death.

  His reaction took only half that time.

  A distant spectator as his body drew on some deep reflex, his vocal cords contorted in a manner that would have astounded a laryngeal specialist, as he dropped smoothly into a low crouch with one fist clenched and the other palm up.

  A single perfectly modulated sound escaped his throat. He had never heard it before and could not recall it later.

  Part word, part song, it teetered on the edge of audibility; precise, beautiful, devastating.

  The consequences were profound.

  The monster froze like shocked jelly, its tentacles spastic against the death rattle that blew through the semi-fluid body. Eyeteeth and beak froze in a roar that never came. Then every atom of its being exploded.

  Fine tendrils and tiny blobs of pale green protoplasm erupted high into the night, fanning away from the boy whose whisper was sharper than any weapon forged by man. The bulk of the creature still concealed in the water swayed and toppled backward to begin a slow, unseen slide to the English Channel.

  WHILE THE RAIN WASHED alien goo from their clothes, the youths who had failed to bring the monster down slung weapons beneath their coat flaps and called in their injuries by routine. Save for the one who had been halved, there was no damage the rest couldn’t walk away from. This established, all turned quickly to the odd and faintly absurd figure standing alone on the riverside.

  Strolling across the water, the half dozen survivors gathered in a semi-circle around him, bands around their ankles supporting them silently an inch above the ground on cushions of manipulated air.

  The tallest, a lean but strongly built young man whose skin was nearly as dark as the night, cocked his head slightly sideways as he studied the much smaller and younger figure before him. Somewhat incongruously, the jacketed inspector sported speed stripes in his clippered hair and a suave pencil-thin mustache.

  “My name’s Lion, little man.” He jerked a finger back in the direction of the river. “How did you do that?”

  The smaller boy pushed out his lower lip and shrugged pensively, still processing what he had done. The lethal blast had not come from one of the hand cannons the others wielded. It had come from his own mouth. He may not have known who he was, but he knew enough to know that what he had just done wasn’t normal.

  “I . . . don’t . . . know,” he volunteered at last, searching for words that were safe, unsure what might launch from his throat next. Seeing no effect, he relaxed a little. “Maybe . . . maybe . . . it was a delayed reaction to what you fired into it?” He wasn’t convincing himself, so he doubted there was any way his hesitant words would convince the others.

  “No, mate,” another older boy countered, also dark skinned. “You went all Merlin on it. I seen you with me own mince pies. You know what that thing was?”

  “Selagote,” replied the kid matter-of-factly. The word surprised him as much as it provoked animated discussion among the fighters, and he scowled at the frustration of not knowing how he knew. When Lion raised a hand and the others quieted, it immediately identified him as the leader.

  “We call that one a Kraken, because we don’t have real names for them. Just a bunch of types.” His gaze narrowed. “But you—you know its name. Are you from one of the other Longcoat cells?”

  The younger boy struggled to remember. He cajoled his own mind, did everything but hit himself in the head. When he spoke again the anguish in his vo
ice all but overwhelmed the confusion.

  “Longcoats—what? No, I don’t know. I woke up underwater, swam ashore, found some food, and came across all of you fighting the selagote.”

  Even through the dimming downpour, the coated girl who stepped forward flashed a bruised beauty. Her shoulder pad was blue. Sniffers wore blue, their technology designed to track and reveal what could not be seen with normal sight.

  Her visor display winked out and retracted under her hood, revealing dripping ringlets of dark brown hair and a mauve burn that snaked downward from her left eye to disappear into her neckline. A metaphorical blowtorch had also burned away the softer aspects of Jax’s personality and roughed them up to match her hardened visage. She had no time for small talk as she addressed the group in her brogue French accent.

  “Guys, it speaks like us, but its brain is fragged like everything else that tumbles through the seams. This is no Longcoat. What it was able to do just now, and knowing the name of a creature no civvies ever heard of, it can only mean one thing.”

  She stepped forward and pressed metal to the boy’s throat as she began to pat down his pockets. “It’s obvious this one came through, too. We send it back.”

  A thickly muscled arm attached to a crimson epaulette and an equally massive body pushed Jax’s arm down.

  “That’s right, babushka, blow to hell everything you don’t understand. Come on, give me Rosen’s toys.”

  Jax handed over her weapon and several other pieces of equipment to the Russian. So did the others, wrestling the more unwieldy hip cannons together with their mounting belts over to the moose of a young man.

  As soon as the handover was complete he pressed a button on his chest and his red shoulder pad winked green. He was the Toymaster now, custodian of the team’s gear since Rosen was gone. Without ever taking his eyes off the young stranger he dropped the items into a flat pocket of his sleeveless coat. One by one they disappeared into the fold of fabric as if they were weightless and devoid of mass.

  “They call me Hummer.” He jabbed a thumb at his sternum. “Built like American truck.” By way of illustration the young Russian gunned an enormous shirtless arm. “The nice French lady want to blow you to next dimension. So you tell me, buckaroo, you are human, da?” He prodded an apish finger into the boy’s chest, testing the flesh. It struck like a small hammer.

  Wet and shivering, the boy stammered a reply. “Y-y-yes, I’m human. N-n-no, I don’t know my n-n-name or what just happened. Yes, I’m cold, thanks for asking. Good luck with whatever this is all about, but I’m not staying.”

  With that the strange youth turned and, hands thrust into soggy pockets, started walking briskly away. His fingers curled tightly around the now cold metal he found in one crease, the only familiar thing in his brief store of moments.

  The others exchanged glances. One paused to spray-paint a circle and stylized ‘LC’ on the pavement, an indicator to others of their kind that the site was a weak seam to be cautious of, then broke into a jog to keep pace with those following the boy, their feet now on the ground instead of floating above it, rings retracted behind their heels. They surrounded the boy but didn’t get in the way of his stride.

  Much smaller than Lion and with hands in constant motion, the other dark-skinned boy spoke up. His blue collar identified him as a Sniffer, like Jax.

  “Here, moosh. Wot you know about divergent harmonics, mate? Because that’s wot you just made.”

  “Nothing.” The stranger in their midst spoke honestly and helplessly. “Everything.” Stopping, he put his hands over his eyes and pressed hard. “I don’t know.”

  “Leave him be, Vector.” Another girl, this one a short-haired blonde with war paint sprayed across both eyes, who wore a red strip that designated her a Bouncer. Like Hummer, she was team muscle. Reaching out, she put a hand on Lion’s arm. “Whoever he is, he’s suffering, Lion.”

  The team leader sniffed, wiped rain from his nose. “We’ve all suffered, Tucker.” He turned briefly to stare at the flowing Thames and lowered his head. “First order of business: a time-out for poor Rosen.”

  All heads dropped in honor of their fallen comrade. They knocked knuckles together to break the moment, not given to extended remorse.

  “Well”, declared the dark-haired Jax, returning to the matter at hand, “he says he can’t remember his name or his home. Crazy Ivan here wants to keep him as a pet. So . . .” She eyed her companions. “What’ll we call him?”

  “How about ‘Shrek’?” cooed Castle, who among the group came the nearest to qualifying as scrawny. He jutted a finger at the green slime that still coated the boy’s face despite the cleansing efforts of the steady rain.

  Tucker shook her head. “No, ‘Tramp’ fits him better. Look at those clothes.”

  Lion gazed down at the baggy stranger. “Is that a tuxedo you’re wearing? Who’d you mug? With that fit it’s clearly not your clobber.”

  “I’m telling you, he came through the same seam as the Kraken—the selagote,” Jax insisted, trying on the new word for the creature. Stepping forward, she commenced a professional pat down of the nameless visitor. Flinching, he eyed her uncertainly.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Looking to see if you’ve got a Holepunch on you or if you’re just an aimless wanderer. We get those sometimes.” Encountering a piece of metal in one pocket, she started to remove it. He immediately clapped his right hand over the pocket and drew back. Jax raised her hands and straightened.

  “Whoa, easy there, no-name! Just checking for vile.” She looked over at the group’s leader. “Whatever I felt, it’s not badness. He’s clean.”

  Lion nodded sagely. “Still remains the matter of whether he’s from our side or an Inter-D. Given he speaks English, I’m thinking he’s probably one of ours.” He then looked thoughtful. For the first time that night a smile creased his face. “Given the seam has closed and we can’t leave him here, he’d better come with us. And he needs a name that’s better than ‘Shrek’ or ‘Hey You’, right? We’ll call him ‘Eastwood’. The Boy with No Name. That all right with you, kid?”

  Eastwood.

  Searching his mind, the freshly christened subject wondered why the coat-clad fighters were smirking. No matter. He would be Eastwood.

  Vector nodded sympathetically in the shivering boy’s direction. “Tucker’s right. He needs some dry gear.”

  “That,” the newly clept Eastwood agreed, “would be really nice.”

  Jax was eyeing him cautiously. “Let’s get going. We’ll find out who you are. Just as we’ll find out your other secrets.” Her tone darkened. “Watch your step, copain.”

  “Monarch will know what to do with him back at the Chimney. Coats down, let’s roll,” said Lion.

  As the group followed their leader, Eastwood’s mind was racing with questions. “What’s a ‘seam’?”

  Vector spoke up, folding his collar and pressing a stud that shortened his coat into a sports jacket. “Seams are portals wot join Earth Prime—our Earth—and the other ones. Different dimensions an’ all that. But if you’re from one of ‘em, you already know this stuff.” He shook his head. “And I never seen anyone do wot you just did, mate. I know words can cut sometimes, but bleedin’ heck!”

  Eastwood shook his head, frustrated. Indeed, how had he done that? Crossing a footbridge next to rails over the river, he cast a baleful glance at the water below, one of the few people in London who knew what lurked below the waves.

  “That thing was from a different Earth? That’s impossible.”

  “Da, impossible,” Hummer agreed pleasantly. “And yet, here we are. More creatures every week, and now you with your voice. Impossible would be nice, yes?” He suppressed a chuckle. “There is old Russian proverb: when you take away the improbable what is left, even if it fantastic, must be truth.”

  “That was Sherlock Holmes, you git,” chimed Vector.

  “Yes—based on old Russian wisdom.” Hummer flashed a challengin
g smile.

  “So the people in this place are all fighting monsters from other worlds? Where is it I’ve woken up?” asked Eastwood.

  Castle, on his right, called forward. “Lion?”

  “May as well,” came the reply. “We can always wipe him later.”

  Castle nodded, gathering his words.

  “People go about their business. They think the world is safe. They think our world is the only one, and look to the stars for signs of new life. I don’t know all the tech, but we’re told several Earths exist around each other, clinging to the same real estate but kept separate in different dimensions . . .”

  “Because of harmonics,” put in Vector. “Different vibrations and wavelengths and all that. A multiverse.”

  “. . . right,” continued Castle. “And usually they’re kept apart, not bumping into each other. Only, the Earth is on a schedule with,” he chose his words carefully now, “. . . with what you might call its destiny?” He glanced at Hummer and Vector, who both nodded their agreement.

  Vector picked up.

  “They say we’re flying through space at, wot, ‘alf a million miles an hour? And the whole solar system’s about to fly through a line of scrimmage . . .”

  “A line of judgment,” Hummer corrected.

  “Yeah, judgment, right. But if we’re judged the wrong way, it’ll be scrimmage, a real turf war for the planet. At least that’s what they say, them Cassandrans.”

  Eastwood cocked an eyebrow. “Cassandrans? They’re the judges?”

  “No, the judging is done by the Builders.” He paused, looking at the others who shook their heads in response. “Actually, that’s a long story for another time. No, the Cassandrans, they’re our benefactors.”

  Castle spread his hands wide. “It’s the Cassandra Foundation that funds our little show. They’re like a research institute; part museum, part science lab. Run by a lady actually named Cassandra. They know stuff. And when each of us had nowhere else to go, their people found us around the city, gave us a home, warm food, these tricked-out clothes, and trained us for a purpose.”