by Brian Lumley
So, they were all set to go, and the onset of hostilities, which must be imminent, might create a sufficient diversion in itself, allowing Malinari to insinuate himself into the mentalist girl’s mind without alerting the locator to his presence—but he thought not. Much better to be safe than sorry.
Let them be the sorry ones.
Earlier, before these people got here, Malinari had started a mist. His body and being—even his existence here in this or any world—these things were all contradictions of Nature. He was a poison that worked like a catalyst on and against any natural or mundane surroundings.
When he opened the pores of his metamorphic body and willed it, his pores would breathe a mist. Not only that but Nature would be made to respond, to answer his call. And even from the dry earth Malinari could call up a writhing mist like vile, airborne sweat, to disguise his presence. In Sunside it had served a dual purpose: to carry his probes more surely to their target (for the mist was like an extension of himself, or a medium for his mentalism), and also to hide him away should he have reason to make a covert exit—in short, a smokescreen.
But this time, so as not to draw attention to himself, he had merely started the thing, set it in motion. And now a fine, milky mist lay on the surface of the pools, and formed a barely visible ground mist in the gardens. But only let Malinari will it, it would spring into being at his command. And in the holocaust to come he would call it up in earnest to carry his mentalism, instill its primal terror, and add to the general confusion.
So then, it was time to set the wheels in motion. Time for his diversion. Time to let these fools know who he was.
He risked a quick, guarded probe, found one of his thralls inside the open doors to the casino, issued a command and withdrew … but with no time at all to spare! And even as Malinari felt his probe seized upon—and as he “heard” Chung’s gasp of startled recognition: “What the … ?”—so he tripped the first of his switches … .
Six or seven minutes earlier:
Inside the innocuous-looking—but in fact armoured—estate car, Ben Trask, David Chung, Ian Goodly, Liz, and the SAS major were each in their own way concerned. The major because the articulated ops truck and its backup party were some minutes late.
Chopper One had relayed the reason for the delay: the big vehicle’s engine had developed a fault; that and the steepness of the climb had combined to slow her down.
“The gradient,” Trask said, “but it could have been any of a hundred and one other logistical problems. Well, we made allowances for this kind of lastminute difficulty. It’s why we’re made up of three contingents: chopper, car, ops truck. Okay, so we’re four men short for the time being. But assuming our estimate of Malinari’s manpower is accurate, we still outnumber him three or four to one. And our firepower is awesome.”
And Chung said, “That bothers me a lot: what you just said about our estimate. For the fact is it’s my estimate, so really it’s all down to me.”
“No it isn’t,” Goodly denied it. “It’s our best estimate, and we’re each of us equally involved in this. Or we should be. And anyway, it’s like I told Ben earlier: at least your talents are working for you.”
Trask looked at him. “Still nothing?”
“Just confusion,” the precog answered. “And a feeling.”
“You and me both,” Trask said, and the others saw that he was actually chewing his top lip. “A feeling, yes … that this is all wrong. Okay, in a deserted resort we’d expect the lights to be out—why waste the energy? But the silence of the place, this feeling of a pent-up something, and this inactivity …”
“Ours, or theirs?” said Liz.
Trask shook his head. “I don’t know—really can’t say—what I was expecting. But it certainly wasn’t this. I mean, he must know we’re here, he has to. So what the hell is he up to? David,” he turned to the locator, “got any ideas? Is there any movement? What’s going on?”
Chung’s high brow was etched into deep lines of concentration. “It’s weird as hell,” he said. “I’m getting these momentary flashes. It is mindsmog, definitely, but from three or four different locations, and I can’t pin them down. Up there in the dome, that’s one of them for sure. But the others …” He looked out of his wound-down window at the night-shrouded cliffs where they climbed to the heights behind the resort, and frowned. “Up high, and down below … that’s as much as I dare venture.”
“Up high would be the bubble on top of the Pleasure Dome,” Ian Goodly, came in. But Chung only frowned.
“Well, possibly,” he said, “for it’s as strong a source as any. But there are shields in use, I’m sure of that.” And:
“Malinari!” Trask grunted, grimly. “His aerie. Solar-panelled on the outside, painted black, and probably curtained on the inside, for his protection. Well, the murdering bastard will be needing all he can get of that!”
“So that’s up high,” said Liz, “but what about down below? It looks like Jake was right, and according to the plans of the place it’s a real maze down there.” And turning to Trask: “Ben, I wish you’d let me try to corroborate David’s—”
“No way!” Trask snapped, turning to her at once. “That’s right out of the question. No telepathic contact, not with Malinari. Only if it becomes absolutely necessary, maybe I’ll use you then—but not until. Look, this is a mentalist who ranks alongside Janos Ferenczy. And it’s one mind you won’t be entering of your own free will!”
The E-Branch team had been offered radio headsets; Trask had turned them down, explaining to the major: “Now’s the time when our talents come into play and we need clear, uncluttered heads. In the middle of a firefight, it would be too easy for Liz Merrick to confuse a voice in her ear with one in her mind. The same goes for Goodly: we can’t afford to have him listening to a headset, so concerned to stay tuned in on what’s going on this minute that he fails to see what’s coming in the next! As for myself: I smell something fishy here, so when the truth becomes apparent I want to see it right away. I don’t want to be distracted by all of that military jargon on the airwaves. And then again, we plan to stick close to you and your men throughout. So while I appreciate the offer, this is one time when the gadgets can really get in the way of the ghosts.”
But they did hear the faint crackle of static as suddenly the major held up a hand. And a moment later: “The big artic is in sight.” He sighed his relief. “They’ve had a long hard haul, but they’re getting here.” As he got out of the car he went on, “It’s time we had a little fresh air, but take cover behind the vehicle. We’re in a direct line of fire from the casino.”
“Absolutely!” Chung agreed, coughing the word up from his suddenly dry throat—made dry by the mindsmog that he’d detected even as the major was speaking. “And up those steps, right in through those doors,” he went on, “that’s another source!”
“You’re sure?” The major grasped his elbow.
“In there,” Chung began to sweat. “Somebody—something—is waiting!” And in fact, and despite that it was cool and even chilly now, they were all sweating.
Abandoning radio procedure, the major spoke into his headset. “You men on the doors had better be aware. There’s a reception party waiting for you. Before you go in there, a couple of stun grenades might help clear the way a bit. The rest of you: if you missed it from Hawkeye, here’s a sitrep: the backup has arrived. The next time you hear from me it will probably be the go ahead. Stand by for that, over?”
“Roger that,” a multitude of terse, tense replies came in, then more static and radio silence … .
Seconds ticked by, but oh-so-slowly. Then:
There came the rumbling growl of a straining motor, a hissing of air-brakes, and finally the message that the major had been waiting for: “Zero, this is the backup squad. Sorry we’re late. We’re moving into our locations now.”
The major turned to Trask, said, “The show’s about to commence. Anything you’d like to say to them?”
“Your men?�
�� Trask shook his head. “Just wish them the best of luck.” And the major did it.
And Trask thought, Damn it! I don’t even know this bloke’s name! Some of his men, but not bim. But that’s bow it goes with these people. In their way they’re much like E-Branch: the less we know about them, the better their security.
There was swift, sporadic movement in the night: the shadowy figures of men, keeping low, moving forward, strengthening the assault force surrounding the casino. Using nite-lite binoculars, the major watched them take up their positions, turned to Trask and said, “Are we ready?”
Trask nodded. “Let’s do it,” he said. “Christ, the longer we wait, the worse it feels!”
“Right,” said the major. And then, into his headset, “This is Zero to assault group. We’re going in. Attack! Attack! Attack! At which all hell broke loose—if not exactly as expected—and it all seemed to happen at once.
The locator David Chung gave a massive start. As his eyes opened wide, he pointed at something—some nonspecific point high on the face of the cliffs at the rear of the resort—and gripped Trask’s elbow. And as Trask looked at him in astonishment, Chung gasped, “What the … ?”
At the same time:
Fifty or so feet behind the group where they sheltered on the “safe” side of the armoured car, a ball of brilliant light lit the night; following hot on its heels, there came the deafening roar of an explosion, and the death cry of a soldier.
The savagery of the blast was such that it hurled them all against the side of the car and rocked the vehicle on its shock absorbers. All eyes blinked, and hands were thrown up to shield startled faces. Then, as debris began to rain down, they looked back. The SAS man was in midair, a human catherine wheel spinning there—torn almost in half, black and burning—and quite obviously dead.
Bricks from the low wall where the NCO had taken cover—which had at least sheltered Trask and his group from the worst of the blast—were showering down; a jagged half-brick struck Chung on the forehead, threw him a second time against the side of the car. He slid to the ground in a hail of lesser debris.
“Jesus Christ!” the major straightened up, went to stagger toward the spot where his man’s body lay in a crumpled, smoking heap. Trask stopped him, croaked:
“You saw what I saw. You can’t help him now.”
“But what the hell … ?” The major asked helplessly, of no one in particular. “A mortar, a grenade—an accident? Jesus, it must have been a fucking accident!”
And meanwhile, the night had come deafeningly alive.
From the casino, a withering stream of automatic fire sent bullets ricochetting off the far side of the car, and from somewhere in the night a soldier shouted, “I’m hit! God—I’m hit!” It hardly sounded like the cry of a man, but more like a small, bewildered child.
Then the casino’s entrance was lit by twin balls of brilliant white tight—the blinding flashes and shattering reports of stun grenades—and figures were glimpsed briefly, silhouetted in the swift-dying glare.
There were explosions from all around the Pleasure Dome as two-man units hurled grenades to breach the outer wall and gain entry, and covering fire as men went in through smoking holes.
“We have to go in, too,” said the major. “We need to know what’s going on. But first let’s see to your man.”
They laid Chung on the rear seat of the car. Mumbling to himself, the locator was already regaining consciousness. The major gave Liz a field dressing, said, “Staunch the blood. He looks okay, but stay with him. Where’s your gun?”
Liz took out her Baby Browning, cocked it and laid it on the rear windowsill of the car within easy reach.
Trask leaned inside the car to touch her shoulder. “You’d better do as he says,” he said. “And when we’re gone, lock the doors.” For the moment shaken, disoriented, and concerned for Chung, Liz did as she was told. Through the window, she watched the major, Trask, and Goodly move off toward the casino.
In a little while Chung opened his eyes, looked up at Liz and said, “He’s up there … up high … Malinari!” He managed to lift himself up a little as she applied the field dressing. He was looking at (or perhaps looking beyond?) the casino. The way he rolled his not-quite-focussed eyes, it was hard to tell.
“The bubble on top of the dome?” Liz answered, and nodded an affirmative. “We know. They’re going in after him now.”
“No!” The locator tried to shake his head. “Not the Pleasure Dome, but up there! Up … up there …”
“Up there?” Liz had the dressing in place now. Tying off the bandage, she looked where Chung pointed a shaky hand. “The mountain?”
“The cliffs,” he mumbled. “He’s … he’s in the cliffs!
After that it was all instinct, and almost instantaneous. Liz didn’t think twice but sent out her telepathic thoughts to follow Chung’s line of sight, to be guided like a laser-assisted missile to his target. Except that in this case the target was far more dangerous than the missile. And:
Ahhhbhh! said a voice in Liz’s mind—a voice like steam escaping from a kettle, or the hiss of a volcanic vent—It’s the sweet little telepath herself! And Liz could actually feel the patterns of her mind being scrutinized, fingerprinted, and memorized. She erected shields and felt the hideous, sluglike presence of Malinari withdrawing, dwindling, gone! Then:
“My God!” She exploded into frantic activity, grabbed her gun, scrambled backwards out of the car. “I have to tell Ben!” But then, pausing to lean back inside: “David, I—”
“It’s okay.” Chung was really coming out of it now, beginning to make good sense. “Go find them, Liz, and tell them Malinari’s in those cliffs. If they call the chopper down, and get the pilot to use thermal-imaging, he’ll spot the bastard easily enough.” He managed to sit up, however groggily.
“Lock the doors when I’ve gone,” she told him. And crouching down low, she ran for the casino … .
33
TRAPPED!
Chopper One’s pilot had heard the major’s call for action, seen the explosions, heard something of the messages passing between the men on the ground. The assault on the Pleasure Dome was proceeding just a few minutes behind schedule; it was time to give the ground forces a little aerial support. Bright searchlight beams—aimed inwards on the casino, to blind anyone trying to escape from that place—swept down from above.
Like all the rest of the attacking force, Liz wore phosphorescent patches front and rear of her combat suit. It wouldn’t do for anyone to be shot dead by “friendly” fire. Lit up like human neon, gun in hand, she ran toward the doors at the top of the steps. Hanging askew, the doors were still giving off smoke from the grenades. Of soldiers there was no sign, but she could hear the occasional burst of gunfire from within … .
A few minutes earlier, not far inside the same shattered doorway, Trask, Goodly, and the major had found a wounded NCO sitting on the floor with his back to a slot machine. He had taken a bullet in the leg but had seen to the wound himself. “This’ll keep,” he told them through gritted teeth. “I’m okay here—but you should take this with you.” Trask accepted the man’s flamethrower and pack, and the precog helped him into the gear. The wounded man retained his machine-pistol; when they left he was slapping a fresh clip into the magazine housing.
Then, moving deeper into the smoky gloom of the place, the major spoke into his headset: “This is Zero. My group is inside the main doors and advancing. Sitreps, over?”
And the answers came back:
“Zero, this is Alpha Group. We’re on the stairs on the far side, going up one level. No opposition.”
“Zero, this is Bravo Group. Stairs your side, going up one level. No opposition.”
“Zero, this is Charlie. We’re ahead of you toward the central spindle. We have a man down inside the doors—and we just found something nasty.”
“Zero for Charlie, how nasty?”
“Charlie for Zero, not life-threatening—but nasty.”
“Charlie for Zero, we couldn’t stop. We’re in hot pursuit. Our target is still in here somewhere. Toward the elevators, we think.”
“Zero for Charlie, wait there,” said the major, and moved on with Trask and Goodly close behind.
Throughout the casino’s ground floor, mainly on the perimeter, several hissing phosphor flares had been lit; they gave light but also made smoke, which in turn made for a very eerie, shadow-etched atmosphere. Charlie group (which was now made up of just two men, W.O. II Red Bygraves and an NCO) was waiting midway between the doors and the central column of elevators. And indeed they had found something nasty. Zeroing in on their reflective patches, the major’s group of three found the soldiers keeping well back from their gruesome discovery.
Hanging by its ankles, upside down from a chandelier, the corpse of a thin, spidery male figure turned slowly on a triple loop of electrical cable. The man’s throat had been cut ear to ear, and his flesh was like snow, drained of blood. But on the floor, only a very few scarlet droplets had been spilled … .
Despite that the body was inverted, Trask recognized him at once. “Liz Merrick’s watcher,” he said grimly. “So much for working for a vampire! This will have to be burned. On our way out we’ll burn this whole fucking place!” And the major turned to him and said:
“Trask, steady up now, okay? Now listen, all of you. This group is now five strong. We’re all armed and we have a flamer. We have men climbing the perimeter stairs, closing them off. We know our main target’s trapped in the bubble on top of the casino, and that he has at least one soldier, guardian, or—” He looked to Trask for help.
“Thrall,” Trask told him hoarsely. “Call him a thrall.”
“One thrall,” the major went on, “—the one you men were pursuing—watching his back down here; which might mean that he was guarding the elevators to keep his boss safe. So that’s where we’re heading, the elevators. But remember: this guy has the advantage of being able to see in the dark, and your flak-jackets only give you so much protection. So spread yourselves out, but stay well within sight and sound of each other.” As he finished, the major turned and headed deeper into the casino. And the others spread out on his flanks.
