Necropath [Bengal Station 01]

by Eric Brown

  Vaughan gasped in awe and wonder, at once wanting to believe and yet not allowing himself the luxury. He fell to his knees, reaching for his augmentation-pin, his movements impossibly slow and prolonged.

  Then he saw, staring down at him, the martyred face of the Chosen One, and in his mind she became Holly, and he was taken back down the years to Ottawa, and this time in the seconds before her death she spoke to him, “Believe the Vaith, for it is true; I am alive and One...”

  He tried to raise his hand to his head, but it was as if it were being held. He felt himself drawn forward on his knees, dragged towards the lair of the Vaith. As he watched, its near surface folded upwards to reveal the content of the case, and suddenly he could see the Vaith, calling him...

  It was a writhing mass of pink torsos, each one a young dark girl, each one with the perfect features and big brown eyes of Holly, and they were beckoning him, gesturing with alluring smiles and gestures for him to join them.

  Do not torture yourself for what happened all those years ago, Vaughan-Lepage. The past is over and dead. Only the truth remains, the One of which we are part. Absolve yourself and join us in the One...

  And a part of him—that part of him which had hated himself for so many years, which had used the guilt like a sword on which to throw himself—now that part of him could not accede to the demands of the hydra-Holly.

  He knew, then, that to kill himself in atonement for his guilt would be too easy; he knew that he had to suffer.

  Come to me, Vaughan-Lepage. Come, join the One...

  With incredible effort he plunged the primer on the grenade in his hand, and did the same with a second and third. Then he pressed the red button on the first grenade and tossed it into the writhing mass of the illusion. He threw the second and the third grenades and dived for cover behind the nearest pew.

  The explosion deafened him, rocked the chamber, and swept the pews across the church like so much matchwood. Vaughan tumbled with the wave of the blast as if caught in a typhoon of heat. He came to rest and looked up, and the copper container was an empty, shattered shell, and all around the chamber were the remains— the bloody strips of tegument, shards of claw and chitin—of the god the church had been built to worship.

  As he lay in the tumble of broken pews, battered and bloody, Vaughan wondered if he would have gone ahead and destroyed the Vaith if he had not known that out there, scattered across the galaxy, were yet more of the mighty creatures.

  * * * *

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  A CLEANSING PAIN

  Vaughan lay very still in the silent aftermath of the explosion, afraid to move in case he increased the pain that wracked his body. At last, the weight of the pew that crushed his legs becoming too much, he reached out carefully and pushed it away. The noise of the falling wreckage crashed like a blasphemy in the silence of the church. He flexed his leg; it appeared undamaged. He took stock of his injuries—flesh wounds and a lot of blood, but nothing broken. He sat up, climbed to his feet.

  Only then did he see the tall figure standing just inside the entrance of the church.

  Osborne wore his long black coat, the same one he had worn all those years ago, with the collar turned up in a manner both cool and Mephistophelean. He was smiling his lazy smile at Vaughan’s shock.

  As he stared, Osborne reached into his coat and pulled something from around his neck. He tugged, and the chain snapped. He held the golden oval in his hand, smiling at Vaughan.

  “Osborne?” Vaughan began.

  “It’s my shield,” he said, smiling. “I want you to read my pain, Vaughan!”

  He tossed the shield away from him, and Vaughan could not help but scan the man’s tortured mind. He saw images of Holly, read Osborne’s grief.

  Almost shouting out in pain, Vaughan pulled the pin from his skull and dropped it, and instantly the assassin’s feverish mind-noise became bearable.

  Osborne moved from the entrance and stepped into the chamber. “It’s been a long time, Lepage— or should that be... Vaughan?”

  “How did you find me?”

  “I always find my quarry, Vaughan. You should know that. I haven’t failed yet. And do you know something else? I rather think that you wanted me to find you.”

  The sight of Osborne took him back to that last mission, when Vaughan had been seconded to Osborne’s unit. He was in the Air America office, the building deserted but for Osborne and himself. They were posing as customers, awaiting the arrival of the terrorists they knew had planned to hold up the office and take hostages. Vaughan had not been augmented that day; Osborne, in command, wore the pin and gave the orders. For the first time in years, detail returned to him: the thick crimson carpet, the smell of pine disinfectant in the air, the snow falling outside on the crisp winter’s day.

  A file of schoolchildren had paraded past the building...

  Vaughan stared across the ruined church at Osborne, into the killer’s black eyes.

  Osborne said, “Why did you kill my daughter? Why did you kill Holly?”

  Vaughan tried to shut out the memory, but it played nevertheless in his mind, would not be stopped.

  They had been tense, nervous on that final mission all those years ago. The terrorist cell had killed before, ruthlessly and without mercy. Osborne’s team was under instructions to kill first and ask questions later, which suited Osborne fine. His team had often joked, behind his back, that the man was a psichopath.

  Vaughan recalled the feel of the pulse-gun in his hand.

  Someone had burst in through the plate glass door, running across the crimson carpet, shouting... Only later, asecond too late, did he hear the cry, “Daddy! Daddy!”

  Vaughan had swung round at the sound of the door crashing open, was firing before he could stop himself.

  The pulse caught the little girl on the side of the head, ripping away half of her face and igniting her jet hair in a brief, incandescent halo.

  “Why did you kill my daughter?” Osborne repeated. “Why did you kill Holly?”

  Vaughan reached out, almost pleading. “It was a terrible mistake, Osborne. You know that. Don’t you think I’ve suffered?”

  “You suffered? You don’t know the meaning of the word. I have suffered hell over the years. Hell...”

  “The official report stated it was an accident. Don’t you think I regretted what I did?”

  “Don’t talk to me about regret!”

  He had been close to Osborne and his Vietnamese wife, then, and close to Osborne’s daughter, Holly, too. The purity of her young mind had countered the cynicism and hatred he read every day in the minds of his fellow men. He had sought salvation in the innocence of the girl.

  One month after the shooting, unable to go on, Vaughan had staged his disappearance, dropped out, knowing that Osborne would soon be on his trail; knowing that, sooner or later, Osborne would find him.

  And years later Vaughan had found Tiger, whose purity of mind had matched that of Holly’s.

  Osborne stepped forward. “I want to read you,” he said. “I want to read your regret, your suffering. I want to know that you too went through hell.”

  “That’s impossible,” Vaughan said, his voice almost cracking. Soon after fleeing Canada, Vaughan had hired a backstreet neurosurgeon to implant a shield in his skull console.

  Osborne smiled a terrible smile. “Is it?” he said. “I traced you around the world, Vaughan. I found the surgeon and learned what he’d done.”

  “No.” Vaughan shook his head, disbelieving. “No, you can’t!”

  The assassin laughed. “Oh, but I can. I’m going to rip out your console and read you, Vaughan. And if that doesn’t kill you...” Osborne smiled, “then when I’ve read you I’ll take great delight in executing you. Turn around!”

  Vaughan considered running, but there was nowhere to go. This was the end, then—the end he had expected for so long.

  He turned, as ordered. There was something almost fitting in meeting his end here, beneath t
he impassive gaze of the Chosen One. As he stared up at her, he saw that the explosion had ripped a hole in the graphic beneath the girl’s right eye.

  She seemed to be weeping tears of absolution for him.

  Vaughan sensed Osborne behind him, and closed his eyes. He felt a surprisingly gentle hand on his head, and then the cool steel touch of something gripping his console.

  Then he felt a sudden pain in the back of his head, a cleansing pain, and then nothing.

  * * * *

  TWENTY-NINE

  REVENGE

  Sukara lowered herself from the ladder and stood in the half-darkness of the narrow corridor. Her pulse hammered in her ears. She was unable to control her shaking limbs. She clutched the smooth butt of the pistol in the pocket of her jacket, wondering if she would be able to summon the courage to use it before Osborne killed Vaughan.

  The burden of responsibility upon her was almost too much.

  She leaned forward, listening. From up ahead she heard the faint ticking of footsteps. She began walking. Every five metres she paused, head cocked. When she failed to hear the footsteps, her heart set up a fearful pounding. She imagined that he had stopped, concealed himself, and was waiting until she caught up with him. What then? Would he think twice about shooting her?

  Then she heard the tapping of the steps again, released a breath, and continued cautiously along the dusty corridor. Not for the first time she wondered what Vaughan was doing down here.

  Coming in on the flier, she had seen Vaughan leave Nazruddin’s. He had crossed the road and entered a shop, emerging minutes later. Then, Osborne had shown himself, stepping from concealment in the entrance of a café across the road. He had followed Vaughan at a distance. Sukara had frantically called to the driver to let her out, thrown a bundle of dollar notes at him, and jumped from the vehicle before it had touched down on the rank. She had dashed through the crowd, trying to keep Osborne in sight, then followed him down an alley and into a big, deserted building. From there she had tracked him by following the tiny, echoing sounds as he descended into the depths of the Station.

  Now, in the distance, she made out an open trapdoor in the floor. She could no longer hear his footsteps. She approached the hinged, circular hatch cautiously, expecting him to jump out and shoot her. She crept up to the opening, peered down into an abyss of darkness. She listened. She could just make out, on the threshold of audibility, the distant sound of footsteps.

  She sat on the rim of the opening and lowered herself through it. Her arms extended, supporting all her weight, she waved her legs and tried to reach the floor. Her feet encountered nothing. She wondered whether to let herself drop, wondered how far she might fall. The decision was made for her. Her wrists could no longer sustain her weight and she fell, giving a little cry of alarm.

  She had fallen less than a metre, but even so she hit the deck hard and fell, rolling across the ground. She oriented herself, crouched, and peered into the gloom.

  In the distance, a wedge of blue light spilled out into the blackness. As she watched, she made out the unmistakable shape of Osborne silhouetted against the light. She followed.

  She judged that she had cut the distance between him and her by half when she was deafened by the ear-splitting detonation. The explosion thundered in the confined space, echoing on and on for what seemed like ages. She crouched, clamping her palms to her ears. Up ahead, beside the rectangular hatch in the bulkhead wall, Osborne was doing the same. Through the hatch, Sukara made out flying debris, heard the shrapnel pattering down in the quiet aftermath of the explosion.

  Osborne approached the hatch. He stood there for a long time, peering in.

  Sukara concealed herself behind a pillar and watched him. She pulled the pistol from her jacket and told herself that now was the time to use it. She should run up to him, while his attention was diverted, ram the pistol into his back, and pull the trigger. She touched the golden pendant around her neck, praying that it was working, shielding her thoughts from his mind.

  She recalled the way he had held her the other night, the love he had professed he had felt for her, and the feeling his acceptance had nourished in her. How could she kill the first man who had ever loved her?

  And then she was consumed by anger at his betrayal. All his words, his promises, his affection... all this had been so many lies. And he had taken her in, used and betrayed her.

  Sukara moved from her place of concealment behind the pillar.

  As she did so, Osborne chose that second to enter the chamber. She paused, her resolve drained by his sudden disappearance. She realised that she was trembling uncontrollably, and wondered what to do next. She knew she had to approach the source of the light, but was reluctant to let Osborne see her.

  Then she heard the sound of conversation from within the chamber. She tried to make out the words, but all she could hear was the low rumble of male voices. Steeling herself, she crept across the deck to the hatch, and stopped.

  The first thing she saw as she stared through the opening was the massive graphic of a girl, then a tumble of benches. It looked like a church, a church that had been bombed. Over everything she noticed a film of some oily substance, chunks of what looked like pale meat, shards of what might have been the chitinous casing of some great creature.

  And then she saw Osborne and Vaughan.

  They stood beneath the pix of the girl, facing each other. Vaughan was obviously injured, his clothing ripped and bloody. The appearance of the two men could not have been any more different: Osborne sophisticated in his long black coat, smug and confident, Vaughan defeated, the expression on his face that of a condemned man.

  As Sukara watched, frozen, Vaughan turned his back to Osborne, as if acceding with all his soul to thecoup de grâce.

  Quickly, before she could act, Osborne stepped up to Vaughan. He lifted something, applied it to the base of Vaughan’s skull, and pulled the trigger.

  Vaughan dropped, felled like a slaughtered ox.

  As Sukara watched, Osborne knelt, reached out, and placed a hand on Vaughan’s head. Then he pulled, hard, and something erupted with a gout of blood from the back of the dead man’s skull.

  Sukara screamed, rushed at Osborne. Still crouching, he turned, his expression changing from one of satisfaction to surprise. Staring up at her, he gathered himself. He saw the pendant hanging around her neck and smiled.

  Sukara held the pistol in both hands, determined that she would not miss.

  “Su—you don’t understand. Let me explain.”

  The pain in her was too much—and his words served only to strengthen her determination.

  The first shot ripped through his shoulder, sending him spinning backwards across the floor. He fetched up on his back, staring up at her with such a look of injury and pain on his handsome face that she could only fire again, to wipe it out.

  The second shot hit him in the stomach, opening a hole the size of her fist. His expression became one of agony. He raised the weapon he had used to kill Vaughan, aimed at her... then he looked at the gun and—a strange reaction that she came to understand only later—laughed. He threw it aside.

  He smiled at her, that old, lopsided smile that had melted her heart just a day ago.

  Sukara fired again, and again, closing her eyes with each shot and with each shot screaming out loud in pain.

  The pistol jammed, or she had used up all the bullets. She opened her eyes. Many of her shots had missed, but enough had hit the target.

  Osborne lay on his back, his arm held out, stilled now, in what might have been a futile gesture of entreaty.

  Sukara dropped the pistol. In a daze she moved across the deck to Vaughan. He lay face down, a gaping hole in the base of his skull. She made out a bloody mess of wires and miniaturised machinery hanging from the wound like some excised organ.

  Sukara knelt beside him, weeping for Vaughan and for herself, and reached out to touch his body.

  * * * *

  THIRTY

&n
bsp; SUNLIGHT

  Silence absolute...

  He tried to scan, but nothing came. He tried to send out a probe, but all around him was silence. He sensed it as a vast and endless plain, white with frost. In his confusion he thought he was on Verkerk’s World again, north of Vanderlaan where he had first experienced the blessed balm of mind-silence. He relaxed, revelled in the calm and placid medium of the ineffable quiet that surrounded him: no mind-hum, no background noise at all. Just silence.

  Then he recalled what had happened in the lair of the Vaith, the confrontation with the alien creature, and then with Osborne. He had faced the fact of his death with equanimity, with a certain sense that it was fitting he should go like this. He had had no complaints. He was quite prepared to die.