The Fourth Guardian

by Geoff Geauterre

  Sir Pembroke groaned. “Any more tricks up your sleeve?” Then he looked at the chauffeur he never hired, while being driven in a car he never owned. “Do you mind explaining who our driver is?"

  "He's an associate of mine, professor."

  "How did ‘he’ get on the base without a pass? I know he doesn't have ... oh, I see. He's another one."

  "He's becoming one,” corrected Regis.

  "So the guard did see a pass."

  "Of course."

  Roger flashed a grin. “I'm getting quite good at it, too."

  Two hours later, Sir Pembroke had settled in the library. His chauffeur-cum-manservant served a tray of tea and biscuits.

  "I do not believe,” he said, pulling up the throw over his knees, “that there is another person on the planet who could have done what you did."

  He sipped the tea, his gaze fixed on the other's face, and from the corner of his eye, he was aware of the position of the talented assistant at the window.

  "You know...” he murmured, looking down at his cup. “Before you came here, I had reached a point where I was going to commit suicide."

  Regis nodded. “Yes."

  "One never knows when you're around or not, and a man's thoughts aren't really his own when you are, are they?"

  "Guess not,” admitted Regis with a rueful, if somewhat embarrassed look. “Thought is a process built of psychic-bio-electrical impulses, and therefore it's like a transmitter in nature. Some see imprints, others pick up and share ideas, and a few sense those in the hereafter. A rare few have the ability to hear ongoing thoughts. That requires training by someone who can already do it."

  "As you can,” said Sir Pembroke.

  "Yes, as I and Roger can. I have him working on the ability to pick up psychic patterns from inanimate objects."

  Roger smiled as he continued his watch.

  "Psychometry."

  "If one were sensitive enough it's possible to feel thought patterns through time and space."

  Sir Pembroke objected. “You can't make me believe that."

  "Why not? Let's take your so-called environmentalists. Here they are driving themselves into a frenzy every time some industrial accident occurs. Why do you think they really bother? Do you think it's some misplaced feeling of guilt? Where do you think their impulses originate?"

  "I don't understand."

  "But it's so simple, Sir Pembroke! Consider the actions for their implicit value. Some of those people are ultra-sensitives. They ‘feel’ the very spirit of the living system of the earth, as it recoils, groans, and heaves in agony. But when they react, as instruments of the earth, they are at dangerous odds with the majority who haven't a clue and walk around like zombies."

  The old man's mouth opened, and his eyes widened as the truth dawned on him. What that truth meant in relation to those who “reacted” struck him to the core.

  "Good heavens! I've had a few of their lot thrown into the clink for trespassing!"

  Regis chuckled sourly. “They were trying to get your support when they clambered over your walls. Was that before or after you installed shards of glass atop it?"

  "After,” Sir Pembroke muttered, embarrassed.

  Regis shook his head. “There's the irony. People as dense as the walls they build around themselves are the greatest proprietors of the earth beneath their feet, the water they drink, and the air they breathe, and then they foul everything they touch."

  He leaned forwards excitedly, his eyes alive. “Tell me this. How would you react if you couldn't get to sleep at night because you kept getting messages demanding your help? Imagine the means these messages take to get to you. Imagine never being able to silence the unheard cry of wailing and not knowing where it was coming from?"

  "From what I've seen,” said Sir Pembroke, “it seems as if you could be in real danger. The more powerful a person is ... one could be at greater risk?"

  "The more powerful a natural psychic is,” said Regis, “the stronger their ability to shield against an over-wash. But for those who aren't that talented, they receive from every direction and it emerges in their nightmares."

  Sir Pembroke shuddered. “Poor bastards. I never realized."

  "I doubt if such people last long. Perhaps someone will do a paper on the subject someday. A correlation between the rate of suicides and those committed to psychiatric care. Among them would probably be the highest percentage of psychic talent. It should be interesting reading."

  "You've opened a door and given me a glimpse of concepts I'm going to be uncomfortable about for some time to come ... but why the haste? We could have had a nice, leisurely drive getting back. I sometimes hire a car and driver for that purpose."

  Roger spoke over his shoulder. “We couldn't give that bastard the opportunity to detain us. He would have thought of it eventually. Now that we're not physically there, he has to move carefully."

  "I don't understand."

  Roger spoke up from the window. “Shall we show him?"

  Regis nodded. “Yes, let's."

  Roger opened a drawer and brought Sir Pembroke five listening devices. At first he just stared at them. Then he got angry.

  "The air marshal?"

  "Not him. I believe it's another agency. One that moved the moment your niece was put in the hospital."

  Sir Pembroke chuckled sourly. “What is this world coming to?"

  "Don't let that worry you. Sit back and enjoy your tea."

  Regis removed the teacup from his hand, and the old man went to sleep. He felt his pulse, peeled back an eyelid, and checked his respiration.

  "Will he sleep for long?"

  Regis shrugged. “Thirty, maybe thirty-three hours. I'll need that time for a complete revulsion. His body is filled with toxins."

  "What can I do?"

  "Run a bath. Warm at first. Then we'll keep him wet and hot."

  "Will he react?"

  "I wish he was younger by about ten years, but it will have to do. You remember how to manage heartbeats?"

  "Yes."

  "There's a danger because I have to advance the procedure. His heart may stop."

  "I couldn't judge, but how much pain was he in?"

  "Constant."

  Roger shook his head. “Cancer. Arthritis. Remorse. Quite a man to fight all that and still hang on."

  "My friend, one of the reasons I'm doing this is because of that. We need powerful minds."

  * * * *

  It was close to forty hours later when Sir Anthony Pembroke awoke from a fevered sleep. He opened his eyes wide, no sense of struggling from the depths of dream-entrenched nostalgia, and took a deep breath. He sighed with amazement. He hadn't slept like that in years.

  With a profound sense of experiencing something new, his gaze fixed on the playing nymphs painted upon the ceiling, and there was one, he recalled fondly, searching for it, that seemed to leap out. Then he frowned, seeing something odd.

  The scheme of the ceiling's art looked as if it had been washed of grime. He blinked. Or was it that the painted forms had inexplicably been outlined, made sharper, and thus stood out?

  Outside his window, a blue jay let loose a piercing whistle. He stretched, yawned, and stretched again. Gad, what a marvelous morning!

  Moving carefully, he slipped from the covers and reached towards the table next to him ... but oddly, he didn't need his cane. At the bureau's mirror, he did his daily check to see how much hair he had left compared to the day before.

  He didn't know what was worse, morbid curiosity, or cadaverous delight in graphing the rate of physical decline. But it was the only thing he had left to do that gave him any sense of humor, even if it was a bizarre way of greeting the day.

  Narrowing his eyes, he peered into the reflection and refocused. His heart lurched. Now boy, this wasn't the time to go to pieces. Elizabeth was due home, and she'd need a lot of looking after. So what if he imagined he was growing his hair back? It was nonsense anyway. Once youth was lost, it was lost forever
..

  He looked over the face, and a number of wrinkles that should have been there, weren't. He straightened up, but the snap, crackle, and pop that were his daily reminder of growing strain on his vertebrae, seemed a trifle easier, a trifle smoother.

  Hurrying to the bathroom, he stripped off his pajamas and examined the rest of himself. A cry of astonishment escaped his lips.

  * * * *

  "You realize, of course,” Regis explained to a subdued Sir Pembroke at the breakfast table, “that once your appearance begins to change, you will have to leave.” He looked around and gestured. “You will have to leave all this behind."

  Sir Anthony nodded somberly. “I came to that conclusion an hour ago."

  "Yes. It wouldn't do to be seen as a younger man, and certainly not by acquaintances who are familiar with you. It couldn't be explained."

  "And you say this will progress?"

  "In a month, your appearance will be that a man in his fifties. In six months, your thirties. The longer it takes, the greater the period of time your body needs to adjust. In effect, that's what you're learning to do. Flushing out impurities and seeking a balance."

  "And the end result?"

  "You will do it automatically, on a day by day scale."

  A lick of the lips. “You're speaking of immortality."

  "No,” Regis contradicted. “I'm speaking of maintaining a healthy biological system. Among my people, living to six, or even seven hundred, is just considered a quarter of a person's lifetime."

  "But what of Elizabeth? I expect her soon."

  "We've planted a thought in the air marshal. It will seem to him, that for her health, she should be released. That she can't stay there for long. And, indeed, neither can she stay here, too."

  Sir Pembroke rose to object, but then stopped, realizing the obvious.

  "I understand how you feel, Sir Pembroke. Believe me, I do. But consider. We've had strangers in your home, planting listening devices. Those have been taken out. The ones listening will have learned of it. They'll know we know. They'll act in any way they see fit, as long as it's camouflaged by some official sanction."

  "So ... my home, the home of my great grandparents, grandparents and parents isn't safe anymore."

  "Those in control of your government will not allow you or your niece to live in peace. I hope you understand what that means. I hope you're intelligent enough to realize your only option to virtual imprisonment."

  "Run like hell, you mean?"

  Regis looked amused. “The last time I looked, Scotland was still part of Great Britain. You'll have no safety there, either."

  "Young man, I appreciate what you're doing, but we have bureaucratic levels in our civil and military divisions geared for this. I'm sure if we approached the right group, in the right manner, we'd have the protection we needed until all this died down."

  "You're telling me that you can obtain protection from those whose superiors are already considering how you and Elizabeth can be used."

  Sir Pembroke opened his mouth, and then closed it. He looked around sorrowfully, sensing the truth. He might never be able to return.

  "Where would we go?"

  Regis smiled with assurance. “I've recently come into a bit of real estate, and you're the man I need to organize things. You'll be working with your kind of people. It will become your home."

  It was a week before they were told Elizabeth would be released from the hospital. They discussed it, and it smelled. Something was wrong.

  At the expected time, a car would whisk her to Pembroke Mansion, and she would take her convalescence there. Sir Pembroke insisted on having her picked up by his chauffeur. It would be more comfortable that way.

  When Roger drove up, he glanced at the windows and nodded grimly. Regis looked at Sir Pembroke, and the other kept an eye on the back road, seeing if they had been followed.

  They stopped at the front, and acting the part to the full, Roger went round to open the passenger door, offering a hand that was ignored and bowing slightly.

  Elizabeth, looking pale and somber, stepped forth in the uniform of a lieutenant commander in the royal navy, where she had held a commission. She looked disturbed. Her fingers plucked at the buttons of her blouse as if she were more than ready to change garments as soon as she could.

  Regis did a quick probe and sighed. He didn't have to look very deep to see what wasn't right. And considering the briefing she'd had ... wait a moment, briefing? Had Roger sensed something he missed? With narrowed eyes, he decided that perhaps a detailed scrutiny might be called for...

  A picture in the girl's mind formed, and he could see officers seated at a conference table, eyeing her with stern looks as she stood nervously at attention before them.

  Her orders were to “watch” her uncle, spy on his guests, and report anything she saw or heard as soon as she was able. This was a matter of national security. Did she understand?

  She nodded. She understood all right. She had the military to thank for being brought back from the dead, but now they needed her help. There were events happening over at Pembroke Mansion, and she had to keep her eyes open.

  Regis concentrated, inserting questions, tracing the chemistry of the drugs they used for her conditioning. She was a puppet on strings. Everything would seem normal, essentially, but following the planting of the bugs, she was the enemy's second assault.

  Sir Pembroke returned and reported that he noted a car had pulled up alongside the road to the back. They had been followed. The door opened to admit Elizabeth, and the moment she saw her uncle, she smiled, walked a couple steps inside, and froze.

  "Good heavens!” cried Sir Pembroke, startled at the transformation. “What's happened?"

  "Do not touch her!"

  Sir Pembroke halted, hand outstretched. “What?"

  "Anthony, she's been programmed. Now's the only time I can manage this, and I'll need your cooperation!"

  Sir Pembroke stepped back, appalled. “Good God almighty..."

  Roger looked around the door behind her. “I wasn't wrong. There was something about her that didn't feel right."

  "Be quiet you two,” Regis commanded. “I've taken the first step into her mind, but this next one's going to bite."

  "Follow me, my dear,” she heard softly, in her uncle's voice ... and followed him into the study, where she sat and talked about her experiences ... what they meant to her and to the people she now missed so terribly. It was a pattern of thought painstakingly laid out for her.

  Now Regis closed his eyes and increased his concentration. What he had to do next was insert a memory pattern that didn't exist, which meant he had to create one from scratch and mesh it to her true memory. Here, though, he had to be very careful. Her life depended on it.

  He had to be careful. Her life depended on that.

  He impressed upon her the idea that she had “known” what her interrogators were doing. However, because of her psychic abilities, she was able to evade the drugged programming, and biding her time, she'd wait for an opportunity to play her part and find out what was happening.

  At that point, Regis stopped to catch his breath, sopping wet from his effort. He wanted a beer. A sandwich. A good night's sleep, all in that order. But there wasn't time.

  The two men hovering around them felt powerless.

  Now he had to create a memory over the memory, splicing them together so there wasn't the slightest seam.

  She was picked up by her uncle's chauffeur, a rude fellow who smiled affably enough, chatting with the sentry on duty, but for some reason was cold to her when she asked questions about what was happening back at the house. Her immediate response was a reflection of that cool.

  Looking out the window as the country flashed by, the black woods with their fells and greenish grays dipping past, leaning against the cushions, eyes closing...

  The long ride dispelled the wrongness she'd sensed, and she wondered if the nightmare she'd experienced at the base was nothing bu
t her imagination. After all, the bastards tried to fiddle with her mind.

  She wondered why her uncle hadn't visited. She was angry and felt abandoned. She needed his support, especially after dealing with the nightmare at Stonehenge ... was it really twenty-seven years ago? It felt like yesterday.

  Then she was told she'd been put back on the active list at her previous rank. From that moment, she was the property of the Crown. It was certainly a nasty homecoming.

  She asked after her uncle and was told he was too busy to bother, but would take her in once her treatment was over. Meanwhile, these were her instructions. She had an assignment.

  Sewn into her uniform were several transmitters, a voice-actuated digital recorder that could be hidden behind a lapel or a scarf, and she had to memorize a telephone number if she felt the house should be stormed.

  She said she understood what it was she was supposed to do, and in her heart she was grief-stricken. Her uncle was a traitor, but then she knew that couldn't be. So she needed to see for herself...

  And now, coming towards her out of the shadows of the great hall was Sir Anthony Pembroke.

  Gravely, Anthony embraced her, putting a finger over his lips. He gestured to his ears and to where a transmitter she hadn't been told about was in her sleeve.

  "My dear, I'm so grateful you could come home. Have they treated you properly?"

  "Yes ... they were most cordial."

  "But what about this uniform?"

  "I've been put on active duty. Isn't that grand?"

  "Of course. Here's our tray. Relax in your old chair next to the fire. Take a nap. I remember how you used to curl up like a kitten in that chair and fall asleep. That's right, my dear. Just rest. There's a good girl."

  She took off her jacket, blouse, skirt, and shoes to rid herself of the monitoring devices. Then tip-toeing out of the room, they moved into the small study, which was hers so long ago.

  "Will you explain how you look fifty-five when I know you're seventy-five? And why didn't you visit ... oh, that's part of the conditioning, isn't it?"

  Her uncle nodded sorrowfully. “I'm so sorry, my dear. But yes, it is. And to answer you will take time. So now, slip upstairs and dress in some decent clothes, then come back down, but do not return to the study. We'll tell you all about it."