by Brian Lumley
It was frequently the same with men of rare ability. Even in Jake’s few days with E-Branch he had been aware of it in Ben Trask’s espers, the ones he’d met, and of course in the head of E-Branch himself. The big Scotsman might not be as parapsychologically endowed as a true esper, but still there was that special something about him; in those eyes, mainly—those hypnotic eyes, and the way they studied a man … .
Jake suddenly realized that they’d been studying him, reading him much as he had been reading the other. Perhaps reading him more, or more cleverly. And breakfast was over now.
“So when’s it tae be?” McGilchrist stood up, stretched, and yawned. “God, but ye got me up early, Ben Trask! Ah wiz barely in bed … then up again, when yere chopper landed in mah backyard. Ah wiz expectin’ yere man, aye, but no at that hour.”
“I’m sorry about that,” Trask said, “but we never know how long we’ll be in any one place. And in fact we could be moving on at any time. I’m just waiting on some information from London, and then we’ll be out of here.”
He got to his feet; Jake and Liz, too, and she said, “Can I come in on this? Jake’s my partner, after all.”
“He might yet be your partner,” Trask answered immediately. “We won’t know that until we know.”
And Jake, as fidgety as ever, burst out, “Then for Christ’s sake let’s get on with it! For whatever it is, it seems my future’s hanging on it.”
“Yere future?” said Grahame McGilchrist, as Trask led them towards his tent. “Ah, no. Ye’d be better off askin’ the precog about that. And ye’ll find that even he isnae that sure. But as for the past: well, that’s different. What’s been has been, and it cannae be changed. But even if it’s been well and truly buried—buried in or by the mind, that is—we can usually dig it up again, aye. And as for me: Ah’m one hell o’ an archeologist!” He turned his attention to Trask.
“So then, but this is a verra different E-Branch to the one Ah used tae know. They pilots, talkin’ over there: Australians, aye? And a couple more fiddlin’ wi’ those vehicles there? Seems ye’re recruitin’ far afield these days, Benjamin.”
“No, not really,” Trask answered. “Not even if it was just our espers you were talking about. See, in E-Branch we’ve never much cared about colours, creeds, or nationalities. In that respect you could even say that we’ve always recruited far afield. For example: David Chung is of Chinese stock, you are Scottish, and poor Darcy Clarke’s forebears were French. As for Zek Föener, Zek …” Trask’s voice faltered and his face clouded over.
“Aye, Ah ken, and Ah’m sorry.” McGilchrist took his arm.
They had arrived at Trask’s tent. Freeing himself from the Scotsman’s grip, his well-meant but inopportune commiseration, Trask turned his face away, occupied himself in fastening back the entrance flap to let in the predawn light. And in a while:
“Currently the team consists of a small nucleus of agents, mainly from London HQ,” he went on. “But the backup squads are Australian military, and likewise all their gear. It’s not likely that anyone would know that, because the tac signs have been removed from the vehicles and choppers, and of course the men themselves aren’t wearing their standard uniforms. But the discipline is the same. And you’re quite right, Grahame, there have been several changes in E-Branch. For one, we’re no longer the shoestring outfit that we used to be. Financially we’re pretty stable now; when you can pay your own way, it gives you that much more clout.
“Five years ago, through our dealings with Gustav Turchin, the Russian Premier, we got ourselves accepted and well established. We could afford to come out of hiding—emerge, as it were, from the esoteric closet—but never too far. For let’s face it, an organization like E-Branch can’t remain secret if everyone knows about it.
“As for these Australians: obviously they’re all subject to their own version of the Official Secrets Act, and they’ve all been hand-picked for their loyalty, their unswerving devotion to duty and their country. Isn’t that just exactly how it should be? Who better to do … well, what I’m calling on them to do, than loyal subjects of the country under threat?”
“Under threat?” Suddenly McGilchrist’s tone was sharp as he took his seat at Trask’s small table.
Trask nodded gravely. “Perhaps the entire world,” he said. “Except the world doesn’t know it yet, and it mustn’t.”
“A secret invasion?” McGilchrist looked from face to face, trying to fathom their expressions. “As bad as a’ that, is it? Than ye can only be talkin’ about one thing. Oh, Ah dinnae need tae ken it a’, but is it … Them?” An ex-member of the Branch, he’d had access to the files on their long-term war against the Wamphyri; indeed those files had long been required reading for all Branch operatives and senior affiliates.
“Grahame, you weren’t part of the Sunside/Starside thing,” Trask told him, “and from past experience I know how dangerous it could be to put you in the picture now. So please let it be. But yes, it is … Them. And now perhaps you’ll forgive me for getting you out of bed in the middle of the night? As for Jake Cutter here, he could be very important to us—but very important—in the work we’ve still to do.”
The big Scot had heard enough and was suitably impressed. “Then we’d best be at it,” he said. “But tell me, just what am Ah supposed tae be lookin’ for? Can ye no offer a wee clue?”
Trask looked torn two ways. He glanced first at Jake, then turned back to McGilchrist. “I can, but that would mean telling Jake, too.”
“What’s that? But doesnae he have a right to know?” McGilchrist frowned. And Jake said:
“Huh! My point exactly.”
“But,” Trask countered, “If he does have such a right, why doesn’t he already know? If he’s been denied access, it must be for a reason. In which case, what right have I to give him access now?”
McGilchrist shook his head, frowned again. “Well, doubtless ye ken well enough what ye’re on about, but Ah’m as much in the dark as Jake here! Can ye no gi’ me a startin’ point?”
“Oh, yes,” Trask answered. “That I can do. Just a week ago Jake was in jail in Italy, Turin, when—”
“Undercover?” The hypnotist cut in.
“Er, no,” said Trask, and the big Scot sat back and scratched at his beard musingly. “Anyway,” Trask went on, “Jake escaped from the prison, barely. But it’s the way he escaped that interests us. And it’s where he escaped to …”
“Eh?” said McGilchrist. “Escaped to … ?”
“To Harry’s Room, Grahame,” Trask told him. “You’ll remember Harry’s Room, at E-Branch HQ?”
“Ah!” The other stopped scratching on the instant, stared hard at Trask, and harder still at Jake. “He escaped there, ye say?”
“Arrived there,” said Trask. “But the question is, was he brought there, or did he come of his own volition … or was he sent? And if the latter, by whom was he sent?” And again:
“Ahhh!” said McGilchrist. “Verra well, then that’ll be our startin’ point: the prison, the escape.” He unbuttoned a tartan shirt pocket, took out a small vial and uncorked it, gave it to Jake and said, “Sit down here and swally that.”
Jake sat, looked at the colourless liquid in the vial suspiciously. “Do what?” he said.
“It’s only a wee drug.” McGilchrist was completely matter-of-fact about it. “We’ve had truth drugs a long time now, stuff ye had tae inject. But we’ve come a ways since then. This isnae a truth drug, but it does open the mind … it lets ye see more clearly intae yere own past. Aye, and it lets ye talk about it! Oh, and one other thing: it enhances mah power over ye.”
“Your power over me?” Jake didn’t like the sound of that, especially since he’d already poured the draft down his gullet.
“It simply means that unless there’s a verra strong post-hypnotic block on yere mind, ye’ll gi’ me all the assistance Ah require. Ye willnae hold anythin’ back.”
“And if there is a post-hypnotic block? Will that
mean I’ve been hypnotized before?”
“Well, if no hypnotized, ye’ll have been got at, certainly.”
“And you’ll be able to clear it?”
“Man, Ah cannae make ye that kind o’ promise.” McGilchrist was honest about it. “As Ben here will tell ye, there’s hypnotists … and then there’s hypnotists. And if what he fears has been here first …” He shrugged.
“I understand,” said Jake, though in fact he didn’t.
“Now, that’s a fast actin’ drug that’s in ye,” McGilchrist continued, “so Ah’d best be tellin’ ye one or two things. Ye’re tae sit verra still and upright in yere chair; oh, dinnae fret, Ah wouldnae let ye topple over. And ye’re tae look at me, at mah eyes. Verra big and black, mah eyes, are they no?”
They were very big and black, and Jake’s head was beginning to spin oh-so-slowly, languidly at first, but gradually getting faster; as if he were drunk, flat on his back on a bed, and the room spinning around him but without the sick feeling.
“And here’s me bringin’ mah eyes closer, lookin’ at ye, and lookin intae ye.” McGilchrist’s voice was so very low now, like the growl of a great wolf. So low, so dark, and so close. “Ah’m lookin’ intae ye, and yere lookin’ intae mah eyes, or is it mah eye? For see, there’s only one o’ they now! The two have merged intae one, like a wee swirly black hole in mah face. Or maybe a big black hole? And it’s suckin’ at ye, Jake, suckin’ at ye …”
It was indeed. That blackest of black holes, spinning faster and faster. And Jake felt its lure, its attraction. God, if he could back out of this now he would! But he couldn’t. And:
“Dinnae fight it, laddie,” said a voice that burned in his head. “Just let it go, and come to me. Open up to Grahame.” And then:
The black hole had him! He was sucked in and whirled like a bug down a plug hole. It was as quick as thought; it happened before he could even cry out, if he had been able to … .
Paulo has slid a length of rubber tubing over the links of the chain to deaden its clanking. Now be looks at me, gives me the nod, and I cup my hands for him. He steps into my hands, and I can smell his groin … be smells of fear, and I imagine I do, too. Thank God there’s no moon!
He’s up on my shoulders now, swinging the chain. I hear it swish through the dark night air … hear it clatter, too, just the once but enough to make me grit my teeth. And now there’s a scraping sound as Paulo hauls on the chain, flattening the roll of barbed wire to the top of the wall. But be’s done it! Paulo is on his way up the chain!
I look up; his head and shoulders are silhouetted against the black horizon of the wall. He clings to the chain with his right hand, takes the blanket from around his neck and lobs it up and over. The wire is covered. Damn! The man’s a genius!
Now he’s balanced up there with one leg over the wall, and he’s reaching down for me. My heart is thudding, hammering away in my chest, but at last I’m on the chain. Up I go, and I reach for Paulo’s hand. But what? What? He withdraws it!
I don’t believe it! (But I do, I do! I just knew it was too bloody easy!) And I cling to the chain and look up at him, look into his eyes, that are looking down into mine. Except now they look beyond me, into the night.
And dangling there, I glance over my shoulder and see them: prison guards, armed and taking aim across the exercise yard. I look up at Paulo, and his sweat falls on me like rain. He gives a shrug, says: “I sorry, Jake, but they promise me …” And then be jerks as I bear the shot. And now Paulo’s blood splashes me as his right eye turns black.
He’s falling, taking me with him … we hit the ground like a ton of bricks! Paulo’s body is on top of me, which is just as well, because I can feel it jerking, shuddering to the sound of more gunshots. I struggle under his dead weight, somehow manage to throw him off and rise into a crouch. But God, I’m a dead man—I have to be! Fat white sparks light the night like angry fireflies where bullets ricochet off the wall and spit concrete splinters at me. But now—
—Now there’s a spark that … that isn’t a spark! I don’t understand it, haven’t the time to understand it. But it hovers there like a golden dart, level with my eyes, only twelve inches away, seeming to follow my movements as I dodge bullets. And now it moves, too. And I know that it has to be a bullet after all, because it smacks me right between the eyes!
And I fall face-first, but I can’t feel it when I hit the ground. Of course I can’t feel it, because you don’t feel anything when you’re dead.
Dead and weightless and rushing somewhere, rushing out of my body I suppose. Rushing to heaven or hell, if I believed. I wish I had believed now … and I’ll bet I’m not the first man who thought that! But Jesus, I’m not going out without a fight … not Jake Cutter! I struggle and twist and tumble. But this can’t be right, because I can feel myself. I’m not dead yet!
And now I see a light in the darkness. I rush towards it, fall into it … no, I fall out of the darkness!
My head! God, I’m sick, dizzy, and my head … !
But I’m not dead yet.
I’m not dead yet.
Not dead yet.
Not dead.
Not.
No.
!
“It’s been an hour,” said McGilchrist’s voice. “Ye ought tae be comin’ out o’ it now, Jake mah lad.”
Jake remembered where he was and would have jerked erect, but since he was already erect—sitting upright in his chair, just as the “doctor” had ordered—instead he became aware of incredible cramps in all his limbs, whose pain was physical and of course far worse than the imagined thump on the head that he had “experienced” for the second time around just a few moments ago.
He opened his eyes, tried to reach up and touch his head, maybe cradle it in his trembling hands, but even the slightest movement caused violent shooting pains in his arms and shoulders, freezing him in position.
“G-God Almighty!” he groaned, his throat dry as kindling.
McGilchrist dropped two white pills into a glass of water, swirled them, and watched them dissolve. “These’ll do ye a power o’ good,” he said.
“And I … I should believe you?” said Jake, blinking rapidly as his eyes grew accustomed to the full dawn light.
“Eh? But they’re only wee aspirins, man!” McGilchrist told him. “For yere headache, ye ken? Which is a side-effect o’ that draft o’ mine. What, d’ye really think Ah’d poison ye?”
Slowly, Jake allowed himself to slump in his chair. And as his blood began to circulate and pins and needles took over from the true pain, so he took the glass and drank. And then he remembered not only what had gone before, but also something of his regression.
Again he straightened up, but much more carefully now, and said, “That dart. A golden dart or splinter. I seem to remember it … it entered my head?”
“Just like you told me,” Liz Merrick sighed from where she sat close to him. “Except you didn’t call it a dart.”
Jake carefully turned to squint at her through the tent’s luminous air. And Ben Trask said, “I think that’s all we needed to know. It makes any further questions I might have academic, conjectural, meaningless. For the time being, anyway.” He, too, was seated—looked like he needed to be—and his voice was trembling to match Jake’s limbs.
“Great,” said Jake, unsteadily. “Fine. So now that all of your questions are answered, how about mine?”
“Yours?” said Trask, stopped dead in his tracks. And: “Ah, well! We’ll deal with those shortly, yes. And Jake, I’m really, really very sorry about that—I mean, that I had to be so secretive. I’m sure you’ll understand when you know it all.”
“But for the next few minutes,” said McGilchrist, with his massive hand on Jake’s shoulder, “ye’re tae take it easy, until ye’re back on yere feet. And then ye should stop worryin’ about what’s happened tae ye. Ye’re in the verra best o’ hands, after a’.”
The stiffness was draining from Jake’s limbs and his headache was in
recession. “Did I do okay?” he said, looking at Ben Trask. “Did you get all you wanted? It was that dart, right? It was that dart that I thought was a bullet. What in hell was the thing?”
But while Jake was beginning to feel okay, Trask was still shaken. “It’s not so much what it was,” he replied, “as what it is, but definitely. And what that makes you.”
“Makes me?” Sensing something of Trask’s quandary, perhaps his reluctance to accept whatever he was having to accept, Jake had stopped feeling okay on the instant. Now, frowning, he said. “How do you mean, what it makes me? What I am is plain: a fugitive from so-called justice, hiding out under the protection of E-Branch. Unless you’ve changed your mind, that is. Is that it? Did you learn something that makes you want to throw me back to the wolves? Am I in fact the sick, psychotic killer that people have been made to believe I am?”
And perhaps Trask would have started to tell him there and then, but at that moment Ian Goodly’s piping, excited voice was heard from across the clearing:
“Ben, Ben!” the precog was calling. “Those serials. I know which ones are missing. And I think we’re in a lot of trouble!”
“Think?” Trask called from the open door of his tent.
“I know we are.” Goodly was closer now, and his voice commensurately less strident. “I’ve seen it coming, Ben,” he said, heading towards Trask’s tent at a fast, agitated lope. “Trouble with a capital T, yes. So whatever it is you’re doing, put it aside for now. This is just as important—maybe more so—and I think you need to hear me out.”
