End of the Century

by Chris Roberson

  The Huntsman turned, and Alice could see that his eyes were completely red except for the thin point of the pupil and seemed almost to glow.

  Now he was coming for them.

  Stillman started firing his Hotspur, which slowed the Huntsman, but only marginally.

  Alice's thoughts concentrated like a laser. The world had shrunk to her and the gem, and the glass that separated them. She needed something to smash it with. Something to break through, so she could grab the gem and go, and find the answers later. Something like…

  She glanced at the sword, just feet from her. It looked like it might break if you tapped it too hard, but Temple had said something about it being unbreakable. And it was the only thing to hand.

  Alice wrapped her hands around the handle, picked the sword up, and swung it like a baseball bat.

  Halfway through the arc of her swing, the scabbard of the sword slid off, flung away amongst the plinths, revealing the naked blue-white blade beneath.

  The arc of her swing continued, and the blade connected with the glass of the display case. The sword sliced through as though the case wasn't even there, but as it passed through, the top half of the display case slid to one side like a car in neutral at the top of a hill without the parking brake engaged and smashed to the floor.

  Alice didn't pause to wonder, but dashed forward, snatched up the gem, and held it tight in her hand.

  “Come on!” She shouted to Stillman, racing for the elevator. “Let's get out of here!”

  Stillman fired a few more fletcher rounds into the Huntsman, who seemed only annoyed. “You can't open that, love! Biometric panel, remember!”

  Alice tucked the gem into the pocket of her jeans, and on the run scooped up Temple's severed forearm. “Not a problem!”

  She slammed the cold lifeless hand against the biometric pad, and the door slid open immediately, with a chime, like the captain's cabin on the starship Enterprise. “Come on…” She started to yell over her shoulder, only to feel herself shoved forward.

  She fell to the floor of the elevator, Stillman crouching behind her. He stabbed a finger at the Down button, and then emptied the rest of his Hotspur rounds at the Huntsman, who was now only feet behind them. The door slid shut just before the Huntsman reached the elevator.

  The car had only started to descend when the red blade of the sword slid sideways through the door.

  “Oh, shit!” Alice shouted. Then, gracelessly, she battered at the red blade with the blue-white sword she held and managed to knock it aside far enough for the car's descent to continue.

  “Suddenly,” Stillman said, glancing at the ceiling as the floors chimed off, “descending in a car suspended by cables when pursued by a man with a sword that can cut through anything doesn't seem terribly wise.”

  When they reached the ground floor at a normal speed, not plummeting to their death at thirty-two feet per second squared, they decided that the Huntsman must have wanted the gem more than he wanted Alice or Stillman dead, and if he cut the cables and let them fall, it would be more difficult to sort the same jewel out from the wreckage.

  Which meant, of course, that he'd be descending the stairs, more than likely, hoping to catch them at the bottom.

  They got their first hint of the carnage that lay in the Huntsman's wake when they stepped off the elevator on the ground floor. From the looks of things, the Huntsman had come in through the front door, opening up the glass and steel with his sword like a church key on a can. The security forces of Glasshouse had evidently mobilized to stop him. Unsuccessfully, it seemed, at least if the bodies, parts of bodies, and viscera that covered the lobby floor like scattered garlands were any indication.

  According to Stillman's researches, a dozen security personnel were assigned to the Glasshouse on a typical night shift. It was hard to tell, given the size of the pieces into which some of them had been sliced, but if she had to guess Alice would have said that most of that dozen had met their end here at the front gates.

  They passed the door to the fire stairs, which had been sliced from its hinges. Alice wasn't sure, but her first instinct was to be more impressed that the Huntsman had climbed thirty-five stories—and so quickly—than with the fact that he carried a super-science macromolecular sword capable of cutting through anything, which he was clearly willing to do.

  She had the gem back in her hand now, the surprisingly light blue-white sword in the other. She hadn't had time to process yet, but was beginning to realize that, though she held the final puzzle piece in her hand, the puzzle was resolutely failing to resolve into anything like an answer.

  However, she had more pressing concerns. Namely, that if the Huntsman was able to climb the stairs in the amount of time it had taken them to walk from one side of the gallery to the other, it was more than likely that he could descend equally quickly.

  She and Stillman could compare notes later.

  Stillman was loading additional fletcher rounds from the cigarette-pack-sized clip on his belt into the Hotspur, already racing for the door. “Come on, love. Don't dawdle.”

  “Coming, Da-” She bit the word off. She had almost called him that, again.

  The doors were wide open, naturally, the glass shattered and the steel lying in shredded ribbons on the ground, so the pair were able to get back outside without incident.

  Then, of course, they found the Gabriel Hounds waiting for them, their red teeth and claws glinting like rubies in the faint light of the crescent moon.

  There was no way past them. There were five of the spectral white dogs, arranged in a perfect semicircle around the front entrance of the Glasshouse. They snapped their red teeth and snarled, lowering their strange, catlike heads.

  From behind them came the sound of crashing, and Alice knew that the Huntsman would reach the ground floor in moments, if not sooner.

  “What are we going to do?” Alice asked, tightening her grip on the sword, glancing over at Stillman.

  Stillman held his Hotspur in a two-handed grip. “My darts may slow them down a bit, love, but won't stop them. Your sword'd probably cut their hides, but I doubt you could get all of them before one of them manages to get its jaws clamped on you.”

  He glanced around. Alice followed his glance.

  The Glasshouse was part of the Canary Warf district, Docklands, which had been built atop the old West India Docks. It was built right at the edge of the dark waters of the West India Millwall Docks. A short distance from the Glasshouse front entrance was a pedestrian footbridge that connected Canary Wharf with the West India Quay on the waterway's far side.

  “If we can get to the other side,” Stillman said, pointing with his chin, “the water might slow them down enough to let us get to ground.”

  Alice looked at the five snarling hounds who held their positions, keeping them cornered until their master the Huntsman arrived. “I don't see that happening.”

  From above came the sound of flapping wings, first one pair, then several, then dozens. Alice looked up, and the skies overhead were completely filled with black-winged birds, descending on the Glasshouse entry.

  “Then again…”

  The ravens were eerily silent, the only sound the flapping of their wings. There must have been dozens of them, maybe even hundreds or more. Like a black cloud, like a fog of darkness, they descended from the night sky, diving towards the spectral Gabriel Hounds.

  One of the ravens broke off from the others, angling towards the place where Alice and Stillman stood. Raising his Hotspur, reflexively, Stillman almost fired on it, but at the last moment, Alice stayed his hand. “Hold on a second. I've got a feeling.”

  Stillman shot her a look that conveyed exactly what he thought about her feelings at this juncture, but didn't voice an objection.

  The raven flew in a wide arc around them, approaching from behind. At the last moment, it extended its talons, and flapped its wings, shifting its body weight back. Slowing its descent, its wings flapping even faster, it landed on Alic
e's shoulder, its talons closing on the tough material of her leather jacket. It folded its black wings and brought its black beak near Alice's ear. Beak opening, it spoke again, its voice high pitched, growly-squeaky.

  “Unworld. Waits. Memory. Within. Disk. Save. Alice.”

  From within the Glasshouse came the sound of stones tumbling to the floor, and Alice glanced back to see the Huntsman slicing his way out of the stairway, evidently not content with the size of the existing door.

  “Come on,” Alice said, as much to the raven on her shoulder as to Stillman, and taking to her heels running. “Let's continue this conversation elsewhere!”

  While the rest of the flock of ravens distracted the Gabriel Hounds, dozens of them ending their lives in bloody ruin in the jaws or under the paws of the beasts, the talking raven flew along beside Alice as she and Stillman raced towards the bridge. The Huntsman was only a short distance behind, but he too found himself the focus of the ravens’ attention, as dozens of them flapped and clawed around his head, stymieing his progress. He sliced them in half, black feathers and viscera flying in all directions, but still more came.

  The puzzle was coming together, but try as she might, Alice couldn't make sense of the image.

  Alice and Stillman reached the far side of the bridge, the raven once more perched on her shoulder. The West India Quay Station was just a short distance away.

  “Where to now?” Stillman asked, starting to breathe heavily. For the first time, Alice believed he might well be the age he claimed to be. He was looking exhausted.

  She was more than a little winded herself.

  “I don't know,” she panted. “Let's ask our feathered friend, shall we?” She turned to look at the raven on her shoulder. “Okay, what's this about, anyway? Come on Polly, squawk!”

  “Alice. Memory. Within. Disk. Save. Alice. Unworld. Waits.”

  Alice shot a glance at Stillman. “That was helpful, wasn't it?” She held the Vanishing Gem up, catching the light from the nearest lampposts, glinting like a milky diamond. “What is this thing? What's this all about?”

  “Unworld,” the raven said, in its squeaky-growly voice.

  “What, is that what this is, or what this mess is about?”

  “Unworld,” the raven said, simply.

  Alice waved the blue-white sword, menacingly. “Look! I've had enough of all of this. If I've got a goddamned destiny, why doesn't someone just tell me what it is, already, and get it over with?!”

  “Unworld. Waits. Alice.”

  “I think we should be going now, love,” Stillman plucked at her elbow.

  The raven swung its head around and fixed ink black eyes on Stillman. “Alice. Memory. Within. Disk. Save. Alice.”

  “Do what now?” Stillman said, cocking an eyebrow. Then his eyes widened, and he pointed across the green-glowing bridge. The Huntsman stood at the far side, the Gabriel Hounds baying at his heels. “Oh, no.” Stillman sighed heavily. “Well, anyone up for a run?”

  Alice shook her head and stood her ground. “No!” she snapped. “I'm tired of running. Look, this guy is the T-1000, okay?” She took in Stillman's blank expression. “From Terminator 2? No? Whatever. Look, he's going to keep coming, right? You shot him full of holes, didn't do any good. I've been running for, what? Five days now? Longer? And he still found me. He's got a magic sword that can cut through anything.” Stillman's eyes slid to the sword in her hands. “And you know what? So do I. So here's what I'm thinking. Let's go back to the middle of the bridge, right? Stand right over the water. And then if he wants us, he's got to come over the water to get us. You said it weakens him, or something like that, right? In which case, if he comes for us, we've got the home court advantage. Make sense?”

  Stillman just looked at her, impressed. He nodded.

  “All right, then. Time to stop running. Time to be a little more proactive.” She put her foot on the bridge, the gem in one hand, the sword in the other. “Maybe then the puzzle will start to make sense.”

  The bridge rested on pontoons, mostly submerged in the waters below. On either side of them were balustrades of stainless steel cables. Behind them was the north side of the waterway and the refurbished Victorian warehouses of the West India Quay. Facing Alice and Stillman on the opposite side, with the towering Glasshouse behind them, were the Huntsman and his Gabriel Hounds.

  “Still not sure how you were able to draw that sword, love.” Stillman gestured to the blue-white blade in Alice's hands while checking the action of his Hotspur.

  Alice shrugged. “Makes about as much sense as anything else, the last few days.”

  “Mmm.” Stillman nodded. “You did say your grandmother was in Iceland once upon a time, didn't…?”

  “Look!” Alice said, cutting him off. “Here they come!”

  She pointed with the point of the sword at the Canary Wharf side of the waterway, where the Huntsman had just stepped onto the footbridge.

  “They'll be slow in coming,” Stillman said, thumbing off the safety on his fletcher pistol, “but now it's just a matter of time.”

  “Yeah, but moving as slow as he is, maybe we can get some answers from him.” The Huntsman was taking slow, tentative steps, like an old lady walking on ice.

  “I'm not sure he can talk, love, at that.”

  Alice opened her mouth to answer, but the raven perched on her shoulder beat her to it.

  “Unworld. Alice. Unworld.” Its squeaky-growly voice seemed fainter, as though coming from farther away.

  “I guess the dogs must have made short work of the rest of the flock.”

  “Maybe not,” Alice said. From the direction of the Glasshouse, a few black shapes fluttered, feathers rustling, and came to rest on the railings to either side of them, perching atop the balustrade. There were three on either side of them, six in all. With the one on Alice's shoulder, that made seven. “Looks like a few of them made it out in one piece, more or less.”

  Stillman hummed, thoughtfully.

  The raven turned its black eyes to Stillman, and opened its beak. “Alice. Memory. Disk. Within. Save. Alice. Save.”

  “An intent little bugger, isn't it?” he said, raising an eyebrow.

  Slowly, so gradually that at first she didn't notice it, Alice's hand began to grow warmer, the one holding the gem. She raised it up in front of her face and found that the Vanishing Gem had begun to glow.

  “Um, Stillman?” she half turned to him, keeping her eyes on the gem.

  The Huntsman was almost halfway to the bridge's midpoint where they stood, his thin sword glowing red in the dim light, while the Gabriel Hounds at the shore were baying, like the sound of wild geese in flight.

  It felt as if the gem had grown more heavy, a hundredfold. Alice was forced to set the sword down on the deck of the bridge at her feet, careful to keep the blade flat so the edge didn't cut into the deck, and hold the gem in both hands.

  “Stillman, what's it doing?”

  “I-I'm not sure, love.”

  “Unworld. Alice.” The raven's growly-squeaky voice rasped in her ear, while it tightened its talons on her shoulder. “Unworld. Waits.”

  Suddenly, the light from the gem flared up, flooding Alice's field of vision with whiteness. It felt very familiar.

  Then, Alice fell.

  MISS BONAVENTURE WAS FOR ALERTING THE AUTHORITIES, but Blank was afraid that even a moment's delay in getting to Fawkes might make all the difference. Taylor, for his part, insisted on accompanying them to the bitter end, intent on seeing the Jubilee Killer brought to justice.

  A hansom cab carried them at breakneck speeds from New Bond Street to Victoria Station, the driver paid handsomely to pay no mind to safety or courtesy, and in short order the trio were on board the Crystal Palace Railway, headed south. It was midday on Friday, and assuming that he had not abandoned his post, Mervyn Fawkes would be found at this hour at work.

  As they rattled along the track, Taylor with his hands gripped white-knuckled on his knees, Blank and Miss Bo
naventure compared notes. Fawkes certainly fitted the role of culprit in most regards, at least in terms of opportunity, but there still remained the questions of motive and method. What did Fawkes gain from these senseless and gruesome killings? And just how were they accomplished?

  Too, there remained the question of the man in the smoked-glass spectacles, and his strange dogs, dyed and groomed to resemble the Gabriel Hounds of the Wild Hunt. What was his connection to all of this? And what of the crystal object retrieved from Glastonbury Tor by Professor Bonaventure and Jules Dulac, which seemed to lie at the center of all this madness? If Fawkes were the Jubilee Killer, then he doubtless was behind the theft of the report from the Somerset Archaeological and Natural History Society, which perhaps had led him to find the crystal chalice in Professor Bonaventure's storage in Earl's Court. Just what was the significance of the ancient artifact to Fawkes, worth the life of at least two men and five women to him, and possibly more? And, finally, there remained the vexing question of method? What manner of tool or implement had Fawkes found that allowed him to slice iron and steel, flesh and bone, as easily as an oar cutting through water? Was it something he brought back with him from his extended stay in Iceland?

  All of these questions and more plagued the trio as they rode south towards the Crystal Palace. Perhaps, Blank thought, the answers might be waiting for them at the end of the line.

  When they reached the Crystal Palace, they worried that it might be difficult to locate Fawkes. As it happened, they needn't have bothered.

  Mounting the steps that led to the grand front entrance, the trio passed fleeing visitors and employees alike. Men, women, and children ran in wide-eyed terror, shouting something about madmen with swords battling inside.

  They entered the airy pavilion, the midday sun streaming through the glass panels which covered the walls and the roof high overhead, and found an unlikely scene already in progress.