Invaders

by Brian Lumley

  “Next problem: The Perchorsk Complex is still dry, the Gate stands open, and the Wamphyri are back in Sunside/Starside. Which means, of course, that the Gate has to be closed. But how, since Mikhail Suvorov’s gang of criminal ‘engineers’ are still in control up there, standing guard on the place and waiting for his return? Which brings up another question: how long before some of them decide to follow him through the Gate?

  “Well, despite that the complex is isolated, remote—still, I can’t attack it. Even if I had the military muscle I wouldn’t dare use it for fear of attracting the rest of Suvorov’s ‘colleagues’ to Perchorsk. There you have it: it’s a vicious circle, and frankly I can’t see any easy way to break out of it.”

  “Me neither,” said Trask, frowning. “But that doesn’t mean it’s hopeless. In E-Branch I have a good many first-class problem-solvers, and I promise I’ll do what I can. But first let me get it straight. No one else knows about Sunside/ Starside’s mineral riches?”

  “Now that Suvorov is dead, no. Not that I’m aware of.”

  “And there are no documents to lead anyone in that direction?”

  “None that I know of.” Turchin shook his head.

  “Then what it boils down to is this: you’ve got to find a way to tell Mikhail Suvorov’s cronies he’s dead, while simultaneously ensuring that they don’t go looking for him.”

  “What?” Turchin was at once alarmed. “And without telling them how or where he died, surely—that is, if you would save Nathan’s world from uttermost destruction! For if you think for a moment they wouldn’t go searching for Suvorov, you’re wrong. They would. And they would see what they would see, and having seen it … then they would turn a whole world into a nuclear, chemical, and biological wasteland!”

  “If they managed to get back here to tell about it,” said Trask. “But in any case you’re right: eventually we’ll have to get into Perchorsk and close the Gate, for good this time.”

  “Precisely. Until which time the problems remain … .”

  Trask was silent for a moment, then said, “As for the one we’ve just formulated, how to get into Perchorsk and close the Gate: I may soon have the answer to that one, at least. But not right now. It’s something I’m working on.”

  “Harry Keogh could have done it,” said Turchin knowingly, perhaps wistfully.

  “Harry’s dead,” said Trask.

  “But Nathan isn’t,” said Turchin. “And he owes me.”

  Trask shook his head. “No, Nathan can’t help us. Not right now. He has problems of his own in Sunside/Starside. And there isn’t any way we can contact him.”

  “But didn’t you say you were working on something?”

  “Something, someone, yes. Don’t ask me any more about it.”

  Turchin nodded. “I see … .”

  “But don’t lose hope,” Trask told him. “Like I said, we’ll do what we can. Meanwhile you’ll have to sit tight, play dumb.”

  “Play dumb?” Turchin snorted. “I may be the Premier, but I can’t hold these people off forever! Suvorov and a good many men, scientist and soldier both, have gone missing and they believe I have the answers. And when I won’t supply them, then they’ll think I’m involved.”

  “Then keep out of their way for as long as you can.”

  “I intend to,” said Turchin. “That is the other reason I’m here in Brisbane. Because it keeps me out of Russia. And that’s why those ‘friends’ of mine in the other car, those—”

  “Those goons?”

  “—Why those goons are here, yes.” Turchin tried to smile but it was a futile effort. “To make sure I’ll find my way back home again. Huh!”

  “You could seek political asylum.”

  “Which might solve my problem, but it wouldn’t solve ours, yours, Russia’s, or the world’s.”

  “So what will you do?”

  “These conferences look like they’ll go on forever. Certainly for the rest of this year. Here, and in London, Brussels, Rio de Janeiro, Calcutta, you name it. I shall attend them all, one after the other if that’s at all feasible. And of course I shall sweat and worry, and wait for you to come up with an answer.”

  “And at the same time do something for me,” said Trask.

  “Ah, yes! Your problems,” said Turchin. “I had almost forgotten that this isn’t a one-sided affair. So then, what can I do for you?”

  “It’s all part of the same problem,” Trask told him. “Remember that and it might give you an incentive. First, call off your mind-spies. If we’re to work together—or at least on the same wavelength—you don’t need to be watching me. But on the other hand I do need them to be watching out for me. Or rather, for vampires. But there’s more than one kind of bloodsucker involved here. You mentioned the illicit drugs trade. It’s no big secret how the so-called Russian Mafia are flushing your people and your country down the toilet. But in another way, a different way, they’re also connected with our problem in general. So here’s what I want you to do … .”

  And he quickly explained what he wanted: information from Turchin’s side on the Moscow Mafia’s connection with Marseille, with specific reference to Luigi Castellano’s organization and its operation in the northern Mediterranean. And:

  “This man Castellano is of particular interest to us,” he finished up.”He’s a dark horse indeed. My people in the Branch haven’t so far been able to pin him down, and Interpol has next to nothing on him. I mean, it’s not unusual for a drugs boss to keep a low profile, but this one’s near-invisible. And frankly, I want his backside in a sling.”

  Turchin looked doubtful. “But doesn’t this smack of common or garden police work? How does it fit into the big picture?”

  “I’m trying to help someone who may soon be in a very good position to help me—or us,” Trask answered. “If I scratch his back, with a bit of luck he’ll scratch ours.”

  And Turchin nodded. “I’ll see what I can do. Is there anything else?”

  “You can try to find out just exactly what we’ll be going up against if or when we do try to take Perchorsk,” Trask said.

  The Russian Premier looked at him; indeed his dark, glinting eyes bored into him, as he inquired, “With a British force, do you mean? In which case you might require a route of access. Not to mention one of egress, an escape route.”

  “Good idea,” said Trask. “You can look into that, too, by all means. And you can think how to give us cover in the event of political flak,—that is, if we were seen to be involved. But at the moment I don’t see it as a problem. It’s like you said: Perchorsk is remote, isolated.”

  “Oh? And you can come and go into foreign lands and alien places at will, can you?” And now Turchin’s gaze was even more intense.

  But Trask only said, “We’ve talked enough, and our time’s up.” Then he switched on the intercom and said: “Mr. Smith, the hotel, if you please.”

  In a little while, Turchin said, “Well, it seems our business is done for now. But if that’s all you want, and if things eventually work out, it would appear I get the best of the bargain.”

  Trask looked at him and shook his head. “I understand what you’re saying, Gustav, but I think it’s a very narrow viewpoint. The way I see it, the whole world gets the best of the bargain. Which is to say, we all come out of it alive … and as men.”

  Turchin shrugged and answered, “Yes, yes, of course you’re right. Still, on a moment-to-moment basis, one’s skin is oddly precious.”

  But Trask only said, “How about one’s soul?”

  And a little later while Turchin thought about that, if he thought about it, the limo arrived at his hotel … .

  … And Trask was long gone before the second limo drew up where Turchin stamped “angrily” to and fro, waiting for his minders.

  “Huh!” He grunted as they got out of the car. “Couldn’t at least one of you have made an effort to stay with me?”

  “But Premier—” the senior man began to protest.


  “No buts!” Turchin snapped. “I shall report your inefficiency back in Moscow. And I’ll also be making a strong complaint here.”

  “A complaint?” The other’s jaw dropped.

  “Of course, fool! No, no, not about you, but my driver and this bloody conference official, this Mr., er—”

  “Smith?”

  “Indeed, yes!”

  “Both the driver and the official were Smiths?”

  “Eh? Yes, I know that, you idiot! Please try not to inform me of what I already know. But, damn! You’d think that at least one of them would know the way to the hotel, wouldn’t you … ?”

  By the time the precog Ian Goodly picked up locator David Chung from Brisbane’s international airport, Trask was in bed asleep. But he had left a message not to be disturbed, with a note that said:

  David, welcome—

  But I’m afraid you will have to start “swanning” in the morning. Right now we’re all badly in need of a few hours’ sleep. I imagine it must be pretty much the same for you, what with jetlag and all.

  Ian: make sure the D.O. knows to wake me if anything important comes in during the night. Other than that, give me a shake when the sun’s up and there’s a pot of coffee on the go. Thanks …

  Jake Cutter had had his fill of sleep en route; so he thought. He sat up downstairs and played a quiet game of poker with the warrant officer commanders of the military contingent from the second jet-copter. By three in the morning, however, they were all yawning; then, deciding to call it a night (or a new day), each of them went off to his cramped sleeping quarters.

  Jake didn’t know it, but on the other side of his bunk’s thin, plasterboard panelling Liz Merrick had taken the cubicle next to his. Acting on Trask’s instructions, she was intent on getting into his mind and following his progress through whatever esoteric activities might take place in his—and whoever else’s—head or heads. Still not keen on what she was doing, Liz had nevertheless come to realize its importance.

  Frustrated when Jake stayed up, she had tried to wait him out and failed. But as finally he went to his bunk, and tossed and turned a while before settling down, she was disturbed and came awake. Following which it became a matter of establishing telepathic rapport. As Jake grew still and his breathing deepened, so Liz concentrated on strengthening her now instinctive connection with his subconscious mind, inviting his “detached” thoughts to mingle with her own.

  Then for a while there was nothing, just a vague uneasiness of psyche as Jake’s shields relaxed and his thoughts automatically sought to rearrange themselves into typical dream-patterns, or perhaps into something else. And before too long Liz found herself nodding again … .

  … Until she came starting awake to an unnatural psychic stillness or pent awareness which had its origin in Jake. Next door, he was motionless and physically asleep; but psychically his mind was something else. It, too, was still—breathlessly still—like a cat watching a mouse emerge nervously from its hole; or, more probably (Liz decided), like someone in an empty house, suddenly aware of an unusual sound in the night.

  He was listening to something—but so intently!—and for a moment Liz thought he had detected her presence. But no, while Jake’s attention was definitely rapt upon a subconscious something, it wasn’t focussed on Liz at all. On what, then?

  And so for an hour Liz “listened” to Jake as attentively as he was listening to some sensed but unheard other or others, but with little or no result, except on occasion he would come alive and ask, “Who are you?” Or he would say: “I know you are there—I hear you whispering—so why not talk to me instead of about me?”

  But even though Liz was given to understand something of this, she sensed rather than “heard” what he said, because (a) Jake wasn’t speaking to her directly, and (b) his recently discovered shields, while they weren’t fully engaged, were nevertheless shrouding his thoughts.

  Until, unable to bear the not-knowing any longer, she tried to break in on him and ask, “Who is it, Jake? Do you know them? What are they talking about?” At which the doors of Jake’s mind at once slammed shut and she found herself locked out entirely. For a while, at least.

  But lying there on her bed, Liz believed she knew who he had been trying to talk to. And that was knowledge that sent a shudder down her spine, so that even in the oppressive heat of this El Niño night, still she felt cold. And she also knew how he had detected her and shut her out. It was the difference.

  For the precog Ian Goodly had had it right when he’d said: “When you heard Jake speaking, or thinking, that was your telepathy working. You heard him because he’s alive. But the others … they were in a different category, using a different mode.”

  Deadspeak, yes. The difference between a live conversation and a dead one … .

  They were talking—arguing among themselves—about him, Jake Cutter. And Jake knew it. More than that, he knew or suspected who or what they were, which was something he had yet to remember and admit in his waking hours, perhaps because no sane man would ever want to admit such a thing. Well, with the possible exception of a handful of dubious psychic mediums.

  The dead in their graves were talking about him, and Jake could hear them like the buzzing of bees in a clover field, or more properly the rustle of dry leaves on a wintry garden path. For bees and flowering clover are redolent of burgeoning life, while the rustle of fallen leaves … isn’t.

  All of the voices belonged to strangers; he didn’t know—or hadn’t known—a single one of them. And while it was quite obvious that they heard him, no one bothered to answer Jake on the few occasions when he felt galvanized to break in on their conversation; but his brief bursts of eager questioning invariably found long-drawn-out silences following in their wake.

  And the worst of it was that these voices seemed afraid to talk out loud: they whispered, so that he found it difficult to follow what they were saying. But they seemed to be arguing the pros and cons, Jake’s merits against his drawbacks, to what end he couldn’t rightly say.

  We don’t—we daren’t—let them in among us! one of the voices said quite clearly. While another mumbled:

  But he isn’t one of them. See, his light burns like a lantern in the dark, and we feel its warmth. Only the Necroscope—only Harry Keogh and his sons were ever like this—beacons in our everlasting night, or places to warm ourselves in the presence of the living; our only contact with the world and all the loved ones we left behind.

  And another voice said, But in the end even the Necroscope succumbed. Is that what you would have us do? Befriend this one and give him access to the dead? And if he, too, were seduced—what then? A vampire in our midst, and one who knows our every thought and secret? But the difference between a Necroscope and a necromancer … is vast.

  And monstrous! said yet another, whose voice shuddered. We can’t risk giving such a gift to anyone who would misuse it.

  But he already has the gift! said the voice, or its owner, who spoke in Jake’s defence. And given to him by Harry himself, if we can believe what she has said.

  Ah, but she’s not long cold. Naive in the ways of the long night, what can she know?

  She knew Harry.

  And what good did that do her? Like so many others before her, and like Harry himself, she too became a victim. No, she’s no guarantee. And as for Harry: don’t speak of him. The teeming dead know all about him.

  But Harry never harmed us! He was our friend and champion, right to … to the end. But here the defending voice grew very quiet and uncertain.

  And what an end, said another small voice, when the Necroscope must flee his own world in order to keep faith!

  She was the last of the living who Harry spoke to, the one who was unafraid came back. She says be made promises—and he kept them.

  True, said another, more doleful voice. But Harry isolated himself for the sake of the living, not for the dead.

  I say we should trust the woman, the other insisted.

  No, s
aid the doleful one. For in the end she brought down a DOOM upon herself. Why, she was fortunate that she only died! And now—if we trust this one on her word—perhaps she will bring a DOOM on all of us.

  At which point:

  “Zek?” Jake tried again to cut in. “Is it Zek you’re talking about? Zek Föener?”

  And again a long, cold silence. Until out of nowhere:

  I presented your case, Jake, and now we must let them talk it through. (Zek’s voice, which he recognized at once.)

  “Talk what through? I’m not with you.”

  If the Great Majority, the teeming dead, decide that they don’t want you to have or to use deadspeak, Zek explained, then you can talk all you like and they won’t listen. They’ll simply ignore you. Oh, they’re drawn to you—we’re all drawn to your warmth, Jake—but at the same time they’re afraid of you. They were afraid of Nathan, too, once upon a time, but Nathan proved himself, showed them they were mistaken. If he was here now … well, be could far better plead your case than I can.

  “And what about Harry?” Jake said. “Where is he? Couldn’t the Necroscope, er, ‘plead my case’—whatever that’s supposed to mean—even better?”

  Not any longer, Zek answered.

  “He did something to upset them?”

  Something … happened to him, she answered carefully.

  “So,” Jake tried to reason it out, “Harry is dead, but the Great Majority won’t have any truck with him. Yet you get along okay with him, and that thing in the sump was positively clinging to him. All very weird.”

  If E-Branch, or Harry himself, had wanted you to know certain things, then I’m sure they would have told you, said Zek.

  But Jake was still puzzling it out. “Trask, Ian Goodly, and Lardis—yes, and Liz, too—they’ve all had a go at hinting at something without being specific. They seem concerned that once I know the whole thing, or when I can see the big picture, then that I’ll run from it. But surely it would have to be something terrible to scare the Great Majority, who have absolutely nothing to lose! Yet even the dead won’t spit it out up front. They speak in whispers, as if afraid to even talk about it. Not only that but Harry Keogh, a once-powerful metaphysical mind, is now an outcast among his own kind. So what in hell did he do?”