Intermusings

by David Niall Wilson

  He unfurled the tight fists he'd made when the last spear of pain had ripped through his head, and pounded the sides of his cranium with open hands. "What the fuck is in there!?" he said, accenting the words with each smack. "Jesus Christ, what did I do to myself?"

  The dogs continued to stare at Calvin, motionless.

  The pain having relented, at least enough to let him think, Calvin's mind started to race.

  Maybe that was it, he thought, still holding his aching head in his hands, trying to combat the sloshing by holding his head steady, THT—thought filter?

  The implications were as clear to Calvin as they had been to Edmond Curit. Of course it must be a secret, the government would pay dearly for such a machine. Curit must have planned to deal under the table. It would be much more valuable that way. Calvin slowly lowered his hands from his head and punched codes quickly into the keyboard, erasing the last ten minutes that the computer had recorded and eliminating the evidence of his tampering with the alarm. No machine was going to fuck this up for him.

  He returned his attention to the dogs. If the two were kept apart, perhaps nobody would notice. He'd just accidentally give one of them an overdose of anesthetic, and no one would be the wiser.

  Hurrying so he would not have to think about what he was doing, he hobbled to the cabinet, praying that another jolt of pain wouldn't tear through him and collapse him before he could finish what he had to do here. Opening the cabinet door, he removed a large vial of anesthetic and a syringe. He carefully measured out what he needed, replaced the vial, and approached Bart.

  When he was just about to the table where the dogs’ cages were, he felt the stuff inside his head suddenly freeze. He screamed in agony and dropped to his knees, the syringe falling uselessly from his hand, clattering to the floor and rolling under the desk beside the instrument panel.

  Inside Calvin Konklin's head, a brightness like nothing he'd ever experienced erupted like an exploding iceberg. Blood ran in streams from both his ears, and he clamped his hands there to try to stop it, but it just kept coming, flowing down his hands and between his fingers in crimson rivulets.

  "Fucking . . . Jeeeesuuusssss!!!"

  The dogs watched quietly as Calvin's forehead cracked horizontally over his eyebrows like a fault line in an earthquake. Blood cascaded down his face in a sheet, and he fell forward onto the floor with a thick squelch.

  He was twitching now, eyes once again rolled back in his head.

  "Bloody . . . fuck . . . ing . . . wha . . . what's—"

  His legs flailed out, kicking the desk and office chair.

  "—inside my—"

  A gobbet of blood rose up through his throat and got stuck in his gullet. He choked on it, spluttered, then spat it out onto the floor in front of him. Stringy spittle linked the lump of blood to his mouth where it sat quivering a few inches in front of his face.

  ". . . head. . .?"

  He saw the chunk of congealed blood moving toward his face. It spread itself like a pancake into a thin sheet and latched onto Calvin's face, then sank into his pores, taking the blood that had poured down from the fissure in his forehead in with it as it receded..

  That was when the thing inside Calvin's head gained ascension.

  Calvin rose mechanically to his feet, eyes vapid; his mind nothing but small, round chunks of jelly in his head, no longer obeying his commands explicitly. He went over to the dogs' cages, a raging hunger clawing at him from deep within his skull. Something in there wanted what the dogs had pulsing through their veins. Not blood, but something just as precious to life. It was their Genius. Their own particular brand of the black stuff. Calvin could see the red and blue ribbons drawing eccentric circles in and around the dogs' pleading eyes. As he approached their cages, they began to whine and shift their weight from side to side.

  He unlocked Bart's cage, reached in—easily avoiding the dog's feeble attempt to bite his hand—and grabbed Bart’s left front paw. He let his fingers spider-walk up Bart’s leg, teasing along tendons and fur, and when his touch reached the animal’s shoulder, he dug in his nails . . . hard. He was not thinking about pain, or cruelty. Colored ribbons danced before his eyes, deep black called and pulsed within his soul. He dragged the nails down, claw-like, ignoring Bart’s sudden yelp of pain, watching the hot red blood as it splashed down, droplets striking his white lab coat. He pulled his fingers free, fascinated, gaze locked to the pooling, dripping blood, searching for the multi-colored anomalies of the Genius as the dog sat whining and squirming in the ever-expanding puddle.

  Amadeus watched from the other cage, shivering and whining along with Bart, as if he knew that he would be next.

  McLaughlin watched the man across the desk from him carefully. Something in the way his eyes just sort of sat there like black lumps of coal in his head was disconcerting, and made it very hard to trust him.

  But The Clinic would definitely have to deal with him. What Konklin offered was so vital that it could not be ignored. That didn’t mean McLaughlin had to trust him. Few people ever earned McLaughlin's trust; that was one reason that he held his particular position. Operations such as this left no room for distraction or mistakes. Discovery alone would be enough to cause a scandal that would pale Watergate and Iran-Contra into insignificance. It was, he knew, a matter of morals as opposed to cold reality. Someone stood around every corner waiting for the fates to toss out a hole card—some ace that would give them control of the game. Big Mac McLaughlin, and The Clinic, stood in their paths—in theory.

  Over the years he'd seen several crises averted, others had been only diverted, none had toppled the pillars of American Democracy. That was the goal—preservation of power, stability. Discoveries such as "The Curit Process" inevitably drew The Clinic's attention. Unfortunately it was also nearly inevitable that one such as Konklin would become their link. It was a shame, but if they didn't deal, someone else would. The logistics of reality made that inevitable.

  "So," he said, watching closely for Konklin's reaction, shivering at the huge scar that spread across the man's forehead and wondering what the hell could have caused it, "what you're saying is that you've stumbled across an aspect of Dr. Curit's process that you believe should not fall into the wrong hands? Would you like to elaborate?"

  The corners of Calvin's lips rose in the parody of a smile—there was no humor in his eyes. "I believe so, yes," he replied, every word measured.

  The director of The Clinic tried on a smile that didn't fit. He braced himself for the answer to the question he was about to pose. "Um . . . might I inquire, with no intention of being rude, of course—purely out of curiosity, you understand—"

  "Where I got my scar, right?" Calvin finished for him, the smile finally touching his eyes . . . which was even worse.

  McLaughlin swallowed and his throat clicked, dry as sand. This wasn't right at all. McLaughlin was supposed to be the intimidating one here.

  "Well, yes, that's right."

  "Swing hit me in the forehead when I was a kid," Calvin said, deadpan.

  "Oh. . ."

  There was an uncomfortable silence between them now. Uncomfortable for McLaughlin anyway; it didn't seem to bother Konklin at all. The research assistant let a dry chuckle escape his lips, and for the third time in as many minutes, McLaughlin felt his skin ripple, trying to crawl inside itself. He leaned back in his leather chair and ran his fingers through his greying hair, taking a deep breath to reassert his control in this situation. He needed that control if he was going to make this deal.

  "So," he started again, with as much confidence in his voice as he could muster, “What happened?”

  Konklin blinked twice, as if trying to comprehend the question, his brow furrowing in concentration. Then, as quickly as the smile had disappeared, it returned and he began. "It was an accident, actually, a failed module. Without the THT filter in place, it seems that the Balancer transfers thought patterns as well as health—memory even. I suppose I needn't elaborate the implicat
ions to one such as yourself?"

  Of course, this was true. McLaughlin's mind was off like a shot. "But Curit," he pressed, "why didn't he ever mention it? Surely if he installed this filter, he must have known full well why he did so."

  "The doctor," Calvin answered, the first hint of emotion finally creeping its way into his voice, "has very narrow views concerning our government. He apparently did not trust them to use it with good judgment. I am not certain, after more careful consideration, that I blame him."

  "Not thinking of backing out of our agreement, I hope," McLaughlin said. It came out more like a question than the subtle threat he had intended. He shifted around in his seat, his back sweating, fiddling with his thumbs. Why was he so damned nervous?

  Calvin shook his head, slowly. "No," he replied, "of course not. I want to do everything I can, of course. It's just that I'm concerned about the possible evil this could bring about. In the wrong hands, as I've said, the potential for destruction is phenomenal."

  That, McLaughlin surmised, qualified as a gross understatement of the facts. Espionage would take on aspects previously undreamed of. No political secret would ever again be safe. On one point he and Konklin agreed: in the hands of a normal government agency it would very likely lead to mass destruction.

  "Then we will settle this as quickly as possible," McLaughlin said slowly, still trying to fathom what exactly it was that so troublesome about Konklin's face, his demeanor. "My organization will set up a laboratory for your use; assistants will be provided. All you need to do is recreate the Balancer, minus the THT filter, or whatever you called it, and a private account will be opened in your name. I believe $1,000,000 was the figure requested?"

  Calvin nodded. The two shook and, standing up to see the strange man out of his office, McLaughlin wiped his hands on his pants as he walked Konklin to the door.

  When McLaughlin had opened the door and said his goodbyes, Calvin turned around to face him. "I'm only selling you this because of the money, you know." Up this close, McLaughlin could see all too clearly the black eyes—the inert lumps of ash—in Konklin's head. For the briefest of moments it appeared as though something stirred in their depths. And as Konklin walked out the door, McLaughlin shivered again for what would be the last time in his life.

  "What do you mean, ‘it doesn't work’?" McLaughlin asked, eyes darting up to pierce Calvin's, cutting through them in search of deception, pinning him tight-lipped in position like a captured insect . . . but not for long. Calvin shifted his stance a little, facing more towards the stocky Clinic agent, his eyes hardening into little orbs of black steel. McLaughlin swallowed hard and continued, determined not to be driven down again by Konklin's stern gaze. "You assured us, Mr. Konklin, that your plans were genuine and complete. What do you suppose my superiors will think of this? Perhaps you'd like it to get back to your superior, Dr.Curit, that you might be allowing secrets to leak out? I assure you, we will have no trouble in covering our own tracks."

  After a moment, Calvin cleared his throat and replied. "I told you the truth. Curit must have expected this, installed safeguards." His eyes flicked over to the corner of the room. "The plans I stole build a device similar to the Balancer, but it fails in the final stage, something has been removed." Calvin's eyes flicked again to the corner of the room, and this time rested a little bit longer at the freezer positioned there, humming softly in the dimly lit laboratory.

  "Well," McLaughlin's face betrayed no emotion, but his tone was chill and final, or so he hoped. He was about to make a threat that he wasn't so sure he should be making. "I suggest that you apply yourself to the problem, and that you solve it. Your daughter is how old, five? I believe she would just be getting off of the school bus now. Third and—"

  Calvin suddenly reached out his right hand and caught McLaughlin's jaw with it. Calvin's eyes began to shimmer as McLaughlin stared straight into them, mesmerized. Calvin began to squeeze and McLaughlin began to scream. He tried bringing his hands up from his sides; tried to ball his fingers into fists, but they wouldn't obey him. McLaughlin could feel his jawbone start to crack and he squeezed his eyes shut, tears springing from the slits and running down his cheeks.

  Then, just when McLaughlin thought he was going to hear his jawbone break into bits, Calvin relaxed his grip. McLaughlin opened his eyes a crack, and watched as something—little ribbons of color—swam through Calvin's eyes. McLaughlin sucked in a quick breath and watched the little ribbons intertwine themselves in Konklin’s pupils, through his iris, back to the pupils again, then venturing out momentarily into the whites, only to return again to the black cores. A wistful little dance through the window of the soul.

  Calvin walked forward slowly, pushing McLaughlin back and lifting the agent’s chin up higher and higher as he went, so that by the time he reached the doorway that led down into the equipment storage area, McLaughlin was no longer looking at Calvin's eyes, but at the ceiling, his neck straining back on itself, tendons creaking and stars exploding to fill his vision.

  With his free hand, Calvin reached around the stumbling form of the Clinic agent, twisted the doorknob and opened the door toward him. He brought McLaughlin's face around to meet his gaze a final time. If he’d had the chance, McLaughlin would have shrieked.

  The three-inch crack over Calvin's eyebrows had opened up again and blood was pouring down his face once more; his eyes had gone pure black, losing all the playful little ribbons to the total pitch of their former playground.

  Then McLaughlin was flying backwards, head over heels down the stairs, bashing his face off of the first stair he made contact with, then pinwheeling his arms, trying to find purchase on one of the banisters. He failed, and with a sickening thud, the back of his head made contact with the concrete floor at the bottom.

  When McLaughlin came to, he could feel the lump on the back of his head pounding along with his heartbeat, his nose crooked and bleeding from the painful face plant.

  He lifted his head and, blinking his eyes to clear them, saw Calvin Konklin—or whatever the man had become—at the top of the stairs, grinning wolfishly and standing beside a large freezer that had been tipped onto its side.

  McLaughlin's mind swirled and he shook his head as vigorously as he could considering the pain, bringing a fresh wave of nausea as he attempted to erase the image, praying it would change when next he looked up.

  It didn't.

  Konklin still leered down at him, and this time the freezer was teetering on the edge of the top step. McLaughlin watched in silent horror as two little black slugs broke the skin beneath Konklin's cheeks and scampered down his face, burrowing their way back into his blood-drenched neck, little whispers of blue and gold trailing out from behind their wriggling tails.

  "What the fuck—" McLaughlin said, trying to move, to get farther away from Konklin's leering visage. He couldn’t. McLaughlin looked down at his arms and, for the first time, realized his position.

  He was standing, swaying back and forth, three steps from the bottom of the stairs. His wrists were strapped to either bannister. Steadying himself, he yanked on them hard, but neither the metal bannisters, nor the thick rope that secured his wrists gave under his assault.

  He panicked, his breath rasping, yanking wildly at the ropes and crying out softly as each effort drove the bonds more tightly over his flesh. The realization of what was going to happen to him slammed home, and his eyes bulged suddenly in his face as though inflated from behind with an air pump.

  "Ohfuckingjesuschristyoubastardyoufucking—"

  "Shhhhh," was all Calvin had to say to stop McLaughlin's rambling. "You threatened my girl," the more human part of Calvin began. "And besides, I need what's inside you. I need your Genius."

  His mind jumping from one thing to the next, trying to figure out what Konklin was babbling about, and the words not making sense. McLaughlin breathed in deeply, trying to get some semblance of a grip on himself, realizing that if he didn't try to reason with whatever was up there totter
ing that freezer, he was going to be dead in a matter of moments.

  Latching onto his earlier threat, he dug his mind's nails into the thought, making it come clear in his overwrought brain.

  "If . . . If you kill me, Konklin, you'll never know where your girl is," he said, his words coming in quick succession. "You didn't think I'd carry out the kidnaping myself, did you?" He tried to laugh cruelly, confidently, but it came out all wrong—like a question; his heart beating a tattoo in his chest again.

  "Either you'll tell me or you won't; it's not my primary concern anymore," Calvin said in answer.

  The retort shocked McLaughlin rigid. "What do you mean, not your primary concern!? It's your daughter, for Christ's sake!" He saw his last hope for life fluttering away, like a discarded newspaper, but tried not to let his fear show.

  The human part of Calvin—what was left—was trying desperately to fight the words coming out of his mouth; was trying to pull the hand that rested lightly on the side of the freezer away, but it was a losing battle. There simply wasn't enough of him left. Whatever had entered him was fully in control now, and he could feel his very soul slipping away, being sucked into the inky blackness that he had so eagerly invited in.

  "I have no time for this," Calvin said, the words dropping like bricks out of his mouth. The hand on the freezer started to push.

  "Oh Jesus, no!" McLaughlin yelped, struggling with his bonds anew, seeing that his bluff hadn't worked.

  Then the bit of the true Calvin that still remained tried the only thing he had left to try.

  He started to think of the colors.

  The colors that he'd seen in the blackness before the thing that came after consumed them. The rich golds, ruby reds, deep blues, and forest greens. He pictured them as best he could in the musty, dank corner of his skull that he'd been relegated to. Even now, just trying to perform the simple task of conjuring images in his mind was wearing him down quickly. The whatever-it-was in his head had sensed what he was trying to do. His perceptions had shifted, and he now suspected that what he was fighting was not Genius at all, but some sort of foul side effect of running Curit's Balancer without the filter. Before the darkness could transfer what he’d desired, it had been caught, distorted and amplified beyond his control.