Invaders

by Brian Lumley

  The elevator had lights, but as the doors hissed open Santeson saw that the corridor outside didn’t. Well, it did, but so low-key, so subdued, he might easily be in some ultra-low-class Hong Kong brothel.

  “This way,” said one of the minders … and something else that had been niggling at Santeson at once crystalized. It was their voices. Voices that rumbled out of them; they coughed or growled their words. They fired them at you; speech came bursting from them, literally impacting on you, or at least that was how it felt. Up in the casino in some kind of decent light, the effect was lessened—lessened by the light, maybe, or the accustomed surroundings—but down here in the near-darkness …

  … It was like these people belonged down here in the dark. Almost as if they were made for it.

  The minders led the way. Santeson couldn’t complain about that; it was oddly reassuring to have these two in front of him and not behind. But he’d only taken a few paces when he stumbled. And now that his eyes were growing accustomed to the gloom he saw why, and also why the place had reminded him of a brothel. It was the lighting.

  The corridor was lit by a string of small red lightbulbs, well spaced out on a cable that was hooked up to a low ceiling. But the ceiling was of stone, likewise the walls and the floor. Natural stone, hewn stone. And this wasn’t a corridor at all—except in the most primitive sense of the word—but a tunnel. A tunnel carved from the bedrock, and the floor was ridged and uneven.

  So? Santeson asked himself. What did you expect down here? You go far enough down and there’s rock, for Christ’s sake! And as he stumbled a second time:

  “Mind the floor,” one of the minders grunted, half-turning to glance back at him. Only half-turning, but Santeson got a glimpse of his eyes. And he saw that they burned like sulphur in the dark! He began to panic, and immediately got a grip on himself. It had to be a chemical reaction, some kind of gas down here. For all he knew, his eyes might be burning yellow, too! Or perhaps—again perhaps—it was the lights. Like those fluorescent lights in the disco that made his false front teeth glow.

  “How f-far is it?” He heard himself say. A stupid question, stupidly put. How long is a piece of string? But for no reason at all that he could give name too, Santeson’s nerve was going, and all of the smart talk lay dead in him. And in front, one of Milan’s minders chuckled like a file on broken glass, and answered:

  “Not very f-far at all!”

  The walls had widened out, disappeared into gloom; the ceiling was higher, and the light correspondingly dimmer. Ahead of Santeson, the broad backs of the minders were twin black silhouettes, moving unerringly, relentlessly through the darkness and leading him on like …

  … Like what?

  For suddenly, out of nowhere, there was this picture in his mind of a lamb with a noose round its neck, and in his nostrils a waft of slaughter house breath that stung like a slap. And as he tried to shut these scenes and sensations out, still he wondered: How do these people see in the dark?

  “Now be very careful how you go,” one of them said, and his voice echoed in what was obviously a large space, but one that was filled with a powerful musk and a strange rustling. And his colleague advised:

  “Step where we step.”

  “I can’t see a f-fucking thing!” Santeson husked, his voice a whisper in the darkness.

  Abruptly the minders paused, so that he almost bumped into them; they looked at each other questioningly, then turned as a man to Santeson. “Would you like to?” One of them coughed a query.

  “Eh?” Santeson stood there trembling. “L-like t-to?”

  “Would you like to see a f-fucking Thing?” said the minder, tilting his head in inquiry, his face gaping into such a grin as Santeson couldn’t believe.

  “Lights,” said his partner, moving swiftly—with a flowing motion—away into the darkness.

  “Camera,” said the one with the yawning cavern mouth, giving Santeson a small push in a certain direction. And:

  “Action!” came the other’s gurgling answer from some short distance away.

  Santeson’s balance was shot anyway. Weak as a baby, stumbling away from the one who had pushed him, he flailed his arms, fought to stay on his feet. But then he stepped on something—something that writhed or slithered underfoot—and at the same time was momentarily blinded as several neon tubes in the ceiling buzzed into life.

  After that … madness!

  Santeson no longer believed any of this. It had to be dazzle from the sudden glare, or his imagination, or anything. But it couldn’t be real. What lapped at his feet … that couldn’t be real. And what humped in one corner of the cave, tossing and heaving … that wouldn’t interface with reality at all—

  —Until it looked at him and said, “H-h-help meeeee!” And then he knew it was real!

  As his eyes rolled up and he flopped, so the minders were there beside him, taking him under the arms, bearing his weight as easily as if he were a child. Tall, thin, and spidery as Santeson was, his knees scraped along the stony floor as they bore him up and away, out of the cave of the seething Thing, to Malinari … .

  Three hours earlier:

  Crouching low under the circular shimmer of the jet-copter’s fan, and calling Jake’s name, Liz Merrick was buffeted by a blistering whirlwind of heat where she ran across the helipad to where Chopper Two was making ready to take off. Jake shouldn’t have been able to hear her over the high-pitched whining of the engine and vanes, but he “heard” her anyway.

  Sliding a gunner’s door halfway open, he clung to a strap, leaned out and down, and took the fluttering envelope that she passed up to him. And with a last long look into her eyes, seeing the pain in them, he felt the slight tremor that warned of imminent takeoff and closed the door to the merest crack. The chopper lifted off, rose up, and turned once, slowly, through 180 degrees.

  Liz came back into view. She’d moved into a safe position at the edge of the helipad and was waving up at him. He opened the door a fraction more, waved back. But then, as the chopper gained altitude, keeled on its side a little, and headed north, she was lost to sight.

  Jake closed the door and took his seat beside Lardis Lidesci. And thinking hard—thinking about Liz, and thinking at her—he said:

  Take care of yourself, Liz. You be sure to take very good care of yourself.

  You too, she told him, quite clearly. And also: I … I’m sorry, Jake.

  It was in Jake’s mind to ask her what about, but since he believed he already knew, there wasn’t much point in it. Moreover, he knew that it wasn’t her fault, that she really didn’t have anything to be sorry about. It was the job that kept coming between them—Ben Trask and E-Branch—and E-Branch would always come first.

  But a picture of Liz stayed in his mind—her night-black hair, cut in that boyish bob; her intelligent, sea-green eyes; her curves of course, and her smile like a ray of bright light—standing there at the edge of the helipad, waving, and gradually dwindling into the distance. And despite that it was all in his mind’s eye, Jake knew that in fact she was still there, watching the jet-copter right out of sight.

  He had put the envelope in his pocket. Now, as the rumble of the chopper’s jets took over and he felt forward acceleration, he took it out to read what Liz had written on the single leaf of paper that was folded inside. But as he unfolded it:

  “From Liz?” Lardis grunted.

  “Mind your own business,” Jake answered.

  “She thinks a lot of you.”

  “That cuts both ways,” said Jake. “Can you read our language?”

  “Some,” said Lardis. “When it’s printed. But handwriting? Not a chance. It looks like spider shit to me!”

  “Good!” said Jake. And despite the Old Lidesci’s sideways squint, he read what was written:

  Jake—

  It’s a bit late, but you asked me to remind you of a name—the name was KORATH. You may not remember it, but if you do you’ll probably think I’m a treacherous bitch. If so, well, ther
e’s not much that I can do about it. But it seemed to me you thought this was pretty important. And since we don’t know what’s coming, it could be a question of now or never, my one chance to put things straight—

  —Or to mess them up completely.

  I care for you more than you know, and a lot more than circumstances have let me show.

  Please take care.

  Liz

  Jake read it through again. Korath? The name rang a bell, but it was a far and almost forgotten clamour. Something he’d dreamed? Well, that was what she was talking about, obviously: the fact that she’d been snooping on him again, when he slept. But so what? It was her job and he would simply have to learn to accept it—and Liz would have to learn to accept whatever she found in there, in his subconscious mind, like it or not.

  His recurrent nightmare? Well, that would explain yesterday’s coolness, certainly. But Korath … ?

  Again Jake heard the ringing of that distant bell—perhaps a warning bell? And this time more insistently—and he frowned as he tried to recall whatever it meant back into the focus of his memory. Was it something that he’d dreamed?

  Jake had read a few things about dreams, and he knew that to many they were of special significance. To him, however, dreams had usually been trivial, easily forgotten things, the scurf or sloughed-off skin of more fully fleshedout ideas and concepts from his waking hours. And he wondered: How often does a man retain detailed memories of what be dreams, and for how long?

  Nightmares were one thing (for they left lasting impressions, if only through the emotion of fear), but common or garden-variety dreams? And again he thought: Korath? But this time it was a very deliberate thought, and unguarded.

  And it was deadspeak.

  Immediately there was someone—or some Thing—there in his mind. Shadows sprang into being, and It came with them.

  You called! said a glutinous voice that was both surprised and pleased, causing Jake to start. And you remembered. But how much have you remembered? It’s all there, Jake, just waiting to come back to you. But I feel your sense of shock—the way you recoil from me—and I wonder, do you really remember? What is it, Jake? Why did you call out to me?

  “What in the name of … !?” said Jake, and at once, instinctively, brought mental barriers crashing down to shut whatever it was—this thing, this Other, this Korath—out of his mind.

  The other fled or was banished at once, and Jake heard him go: his frustrated cry of rage, denial, as he disappeared into the deadspeak aether:

  No, Jake, no! Don’t send me away! You’ll know soon enough how much you need me. And you must always remember: I have the numbers! I have the numbers, Jake, and I know the waaayyy!

  Then he was gone.

  “Eh?” said Lardis, staring hard at Jake, at a face turned pale and gaunt. “Eh, what? Is there something? You gave a start just then. You said something. And the way you look …” But:

  “Shhh!” Jake shook his head, concentrated, and remembered! Remembered it all, but most of all that he’d almost made a deal with a vampire. And he remembered something else: Harry Keogh’s warning that even a dead vampire is a dangerous thing that you should never, ever, let into your mind!

  “You look peculiar,” said the Old Lidesci.

  Jake looked at him, swallowed hard, and slowly got a grip of himself. “It was … it was nothing,” he said. “Nothing that I want to talk about now, anyway. Later, maybe—to Liz and Ben Trask—when tonight’s business is over.”

  And between times … he dug out a ball-point and began to make shaky notes on Liz’s scrap of paper.

  For while he still hadn’t quite come to terms with everything that was happening to him, and whether or not this latest manifestation was some kind of daydream, mental quirk, evidence of a dual personality, or whatever, still Jake knew that it was something he must remember in detail, something that he really couldn’t afford to forget … .

  Chopper Two disembarked its task force in Gladstone and refuelled. Earlier that day, three SAS men had made the long drive up to Gladstone to check that all was in order with the coast guard vessel. Now the two units met up for a final briefing.

  The attack on the island would be two-pronged. Along with W.O. II Joe Davis and four NCOs, Jake and Lardis Lidesci would be airborne; four more NCOs would be in the boat.

  Zero Hour—the time scheduled for the launch of simultaneous attacks on both the Capricorn Group island and the mountain resort of Xanadu—had been set for 6:30 P.M. The weather was good and the sea flat calm, and with just ninety minutes to go to Zero Hour, the boat cast off.

  And an hour later, with the light failing as the sun sank down behind the Great Dividing Range, Chopper Two got airborne again.

  At the same time, at the Brisbane flying club, Chopper One was warming up, ready to go. Ben Trask and the SAS major, joint operational commanders, were in a hangar using a radio in one of the vehicles. The precog Ian Goodly, Liz Merrick, and the rest of the SAS men were trooping out to the jet-copter, their combat suits fluttering in the bluster of night air that stank of hot exhaust fumes.

  At 6:15 Trask transmitted: “Call signs One, Two, and Three, signals—over?”

  And the answers came back: “One, okay—over.” (The locator David Chung’s voice, from the Xanadu approach road.)

  “Two, okay—over.” (Joe Davis’s voice from Chopper Two.)

  “Three, okay—over.” (The senior NCO on the boat.)

  “Sitreps,” said Trask.

  And three identical situation reports came back one after the other: “On schedule, and all systems are go.”

  “Synchronizing watches,” said Trask, then waited a second. “Set your watches to 6:17. I say again figures sixer, one, seven. Counting down, I now have—three, two, one, zero—6:17 precisely. Good hunting, and good luck. Over?”

  “Roger that, and out,” from the same three sources. And:

  “Let’s go,” said Trask. He and the major ran out under the gleaming vanes of the jet-copter and boarded her. Moments later she took off and headed south for Xanadu … .

  In Chopper One Trask had just minutes left to talk to Liz, Ian Goodly, and the major. “I’m concerned,” he said. “There’s something wrong and I don’t know what it is. It’s a feeling that—I don’t know—that everything we’ve done or we’re trying to do is somehow misguided, as if we’re on the wrong track, or we’ve been misled, or there’s something we’ve overlooked.”

  “That sounds like your talent at work, Ben,” said the precog. And then he sighed. “Well, I’m glad that someone’s talent is working!”

  “And you?” Trask looked at him. “Nothing?”

  “Just trouble,” Goodly sighed again. “Just problems, frustration, confusion. But as you know, I can’t force it; it comes when it comes. But in your case . . is it anything specific?”

  “No,” Trask shook his head. “So it seems we’re in the same boat—or airplane! It’s a feeling, that’s all. I had it today up at the observation post on the mountain road. When I looked up the road, toward Xanadu … it was all so quiet, so normal. Perhaps too quiet, too normal.”

  “A lie?”

  “More like I was deceiving myself,” said Trask. “This is a covert operation, but it didn’t feel like one. Especially after that incident with Liz’s watcher.” He glanced at her—a guilty look, she thought—and said, “I should have paid more attention to you.”

  “But I wasn’t that sure myself,” Liz said. “And anyway, I’m the new kid on the block; I could have been wrong.”

  “That’s what I mean,” said Trask. “We all have our talents, and I should have listened to yours. If we had turned back and I had seen that fellow, I would have known at once. But we didn’t, and I didn’t. I blame myself.”

  At which the major, looking more than a little concerned, came in with, “Miss, gentlemen, I have some difficulty following you—these skills of yours, you understand—but are you saying the operation is in jeopardy?”

  Trask
shook his head, then changed his mind and said, “Any operation concerning these creatures is hazardous. But we have to go in no matter what. It’s all set up, and we mightn’t get a better chance. But with our weapons and providing everyone remembers the drills, I can’t see what can go wrong.”

  Liz glanced at her watch. “Five minutes,” she said. And as at a signal the intercom began buzzing.

  The pilot was saying: “Message from Call sign One. The mindsmog has been ‘awake’ but more or less static for some time. Now it’s on the move, but only locally. Call sign One is also mobile. His ETA on the target area is five minutes.”

  Trask answered, “Tell him roger that. We’ll see him there, and not to forget his nose-plugs.” Then, turning to the bulk of the helicopter party, “And you mustn’t forget yours.”

  They hadn’t forgotten. Aerosol sprays were hissing; a fine garlic mist filled the air, settling on everyone’s clothing; it was almost a pleasure to insert filter plugs like fat cigarette tips deep into their nostrils.

  In Xanadu, from a position some two hundred feet up the almost sheer rock wall of the mountainside, Lord Malinari of the Wamphyri looked down on the sprawling dark cobweb of the deserted resort, and at the single road that wound its serpentine route up the steep mountain contours to Xanadu’s gates.

  Malinari’s vantage point was a roughly-hewn “room” carved from the solid rock at the head of a natural chimney. When Xanadu was being built, it had been Jethro Manchester’s intention to create a special entertainment here. There was to have been a ski-lift or cable car from the gardens up to this point, and a series of aquachutes back down to the pools. The chimney had been fitted with a spiralling service- and/or emergency-staircase behind a facade constructed to match the flanking cliffs, so disguising the chimney’s vertical fault, and work had commenced on this room or landing stage. At which point technical difficulties had caused the project to be abandoned.