X's for Eyes

by Laird Barron

  His crushing handshake rivaled Dad’s grip. “I hear we’re on the threshold of a discovery.”

  “Tomorrow is breach day,” Mac said with as much cheer as he could muster.

  “You’ve got great timing, Uncle!” Dred said. He winked at Mac. “Dr. Bravery made the trip. Did ya see her? She sashayed that-a-way. Pickin’ out a wedding cake!”

  Mac’s collar tightened and his heart accelerated—and for a few moments the specter of imminent doom receded. Dr. Averna Bravery was the only woman he’d ever met in the flesh more beautiful than his mother, Theoris. Bravery had a pinup queen Betty Brosmer thing going on, except with glasses and no makeup. She didn’t need any. As one of Sword Enterprises’ best and brightest minds, she was all business all the time. The normally unflappable Macbeth Tooms lamented that her ice cold genial aloofness did nothing to mitigate the spells of moony-ness he suffered in contemplation of her charms.

  “Show me the way to the bar, lads,” Nestor said.

  Alpha Camp, as Dr. Slocum designated it, consisted of nine military-style wall tents, a generator shack, latrine, and pickets for the freight teams of Malamutes. Seventy-five men and women occupied the camp—researchers, skilled laborers, and a handful of support staff. The Tooms brothers installed their own private quarters; a smaller wall tent stocked with a few comforts of home. These comforts included a modest stash of bourbon and vodka, Elvis Presley records, and gentleman’s literature.

  Nestor went for the vodka. After two stiff belts, he leaned back in a camp chair and smiled at his nephews. “That was my plane you blasted from the sky on Darkmans Mountain.” He owned several warehouses loaded with machines of war. Chariots, tanks, and planes among other devices; museum pieces to contemporary models, many of them functional. He’d taught the brothers to drive a Panzer, pilot a Fokker, and operate a U-boat. Dad, Andronicus, and Berrien were the acknowledged close combat masters of house Tooms. When it came to flying, driving, riding, or sailing, Nestor was peerless.

  “Labrador’s goon did it,” Dred said. “Terribly sorry, Uncle. We’ll crack our trust funds and pay you back.”

  “Who was the pilot?” Mac sipped bourbon to conceal his worry. With Uncle Nestor, the conversation might veer anywhere. Like every other Tooms, the man always pursued an agenda. Perhaps he’d flown across the continent, and then some, for a jolly little reunion and to keep tabs on the expedition. Perhaps he meant to threaten the boys with exposure to Granddad and Dad. Perhaps something else entirely. Mac tried to balance on the figurative balls of his feet, ready to counter whatever was coming.

  “A mercenary,” Nestor said. “The fellow contracted with Black Dog Company on occasion.”

  “But not on this occasion.”

  “Not on this occasion. Scalawags stole the plane from my museum a week before it made a run at you boys on the mountain. There is a distressing pattern of thefts and hijackings of Tooms property these past few months. Mr. Nail worries it may escalate to kidnappings or assassinations.”

  “Ah, no wonder Mom and Dad didn’t kick when we scooted off the reservation,” Dred said with a scowl. “Everybody wants me and Mac gone.”

  “Miss your mama, huh?” Nestor grinned a trifle unkindly. “Yes, the powers got together and decided it’s best if you mischief-makers remain off the radar here in the Land of the Midnight Sun. The powers that be are investigating. This is serious as a heart attack, kiddies. I spied Mr. Shrike at HQ. He came out of a meeting with the Board. Damned near froze my blood.”

  Dred choked on his drink. Mac inhaled sharply. Both wisely kept quiet. Nestor watched them, his sly grin broadening until it almost attained the malevolent grandiosity of Uncle Andronicus’s or Granddad’s devilish own. “As I said . . . This is serious business, in case you didn’t know already.”

  Mr. Shrike was the codename of a legendary assassin who specialized in corporate warfare. Members of the Compact (the six most powerful corporations in existence, a reincarnated Hanseatic League, albeit commercial rivals rather than allies) employed him when times called for desperate measures. He commanded a prohibitive fee of goods and services in addition to cash and adhered to a severe code of ethics. Guild members agreed not to hire Mr. Shrike for direct assassinations or other disruptions as per the accord. This didn’t mean his presence augured anything pleasant for his employer’s rivals. Shrike’s presence didn’t even necessarily auger well for his own employer.

  The boys had seduced Mr. Shrike’s dossier from Mr. Nail’s love-starved secretary, Ms. Parrish. Intelligence proved appallingly barren—a list of his known contracts and several muddy photographs. Mr. Shrike was tall, well-muscled, and enjoyed Italian suits. Possibly handsome; the pictures were slightly unfocused or blurred from his sudden motion.

  “Any idea who’s coming after us?” Mac said, innocuous as could be. Had Nestor and the others tripped across mention of the Cult of the Demon Sultan? Nestor was the type to pay out rope for his nephew to hang himself.

  “Lear and Nail will get to the bottom of it. Or Mr. Shrike will. Meanwhile, your granddad has questions. Why did you kids blow the barn to smithereens? Who killed the Navarro boys and their Nazi valet? What really happened at the henge? A few trivial inquiries.”

  “Granddad sent you to interrogate Dred and me.”

  Nestor drained his glass and sighed in appreciation. “I came, ostensibly, to debrief Dr. Slocum regarding his progress with uncovering useful information about whatever is under this ice. The real reason is, I’m fond of my nephews. Heed my warning, you impetuous little bastards—the Board will convene a star chamber when you return to New York. In fact, they may preemptively fetch you to New York if matters deteriorate. Get your stories straight, kids. There’ll only be one shot to not be shot.”

  THE WORST DAD WE EVER HAD

  Dred’s eyes rolled back in sleep and Dad visited him. For several weeks the boy’s dreams had featured the end of the world in seething acid smoke and rivers of blood. This was worse.

  Since their exalted station and devotion to the shadowy arts of the Mountain Leopard Temple precluded a typical formal education, the boys received the majority of their curriculum via a hypnotic Dreamtime program. This program, designed by their great grandfather Atticus Tooms, involved oversized headsets and type X red crystal technology. Upon retiring for the night, on went the headsets. Into one ear streamed an ultra-high frequency transmission of history, great works of literature, and philosophy. Into the other went mathematics, science, and Sword Enterprises corporate propaganda. Neural pathways cored through the lads’ developing gray matter and instigated phantasmagorical dream states. Mac said that despite headaches, earbleeds, and night terrors, it beat sitting in a classroom all the livelong day.

  In this particular nightmare, Dred reverted to his six year old self, clad in Babar the Elephant pajamas and lost in a wood steaming with magenta mist. The mist parted and Dad glided down from the canopy and landed softly. He wore his battle ensemble—a tight black jumpsuit, half mask, winged gloves, knee-high boots, and a black cape. The mask accentuated the regal cruelty of his diamond-hard eyes, hawkish nose, and thin, cold lips. The ensemble’s designers, Dr. Bravery and Dr. Navarro, guaranteed the fabric was flameproof, bulletproof, and capable of absorbing sufficient kinetic energy to withstand a collision with a two-ton truck. Best of all, it shifted color at Lear’s will, should he have need of camouflage. Their father’s dirty little secret? Dad didn’t really need the suit, he simply enjoyed the look.

  Dad loomed, the height and mass of a Greek titan—Kronos, devourer of his own progeny. He placed his hands on his hips. “My waking self hasn’t twigged to your shenanigans. I feel sorry for you when my subconscious and I put two and two together.”

  The boy tried to speak, but he was six and paralyzed with horror.

  “It’s my fault. I’ve failed to instill a healthy respect in you kids. No true sons of mine would dare keep secrets from their daddy. No true sons of mine would be idiotic enough to muck around with time and space.”
Dad shook his head and from beneath the folds of his cape produced the gray corpse of Arthur Navarro. He gripped it by the neck as one might a chicken carcass. “Causality, son. Causality!” His voice thundered. Arthur’s eyes popped open.

  Dred mewled. The only thing left for the boy to do was wet himself.

  The magenta mist darkened around Dad until his eyes blazed hellishly at the crown of a column of smoke. “Uncle Andronicus and Mr. Shrike are on the hunt. Gods have mercy should they turn their attention to you. My advice? Placate Nestor. Do something to amaze the family. Cross the threshold. Get back into our good graces before we realize you’ve fallen from them.” Dad’s form expanded into a whirlwind. The forest shook and branches crashed to earth and the universe dissolved.

  Wind battered the tent. Dred tore free of the Dreamtime mechanism and sat on the edge of his cot. Sadly, he had indeed wet his nightclothes. Hands trembling, he unstrung a yak hide pouch stashed under his pillow. The pouch contained a mixture he referred to as Paan, although this variation substituted a rare species of lotus and an equally rare blend of hashish. These he rolled into a leaf and either smoked or chewed depending on the circumstances. On this occasion he smoked. The drug had an immediate salutary effect; chiefly, banishing the image of Dad from his consciousness.

  Across the way, Mac snored softly, nestled in a beehive headset that emitted a soft red glow of Athena’s war eye as it transmitted the Iliad and the Odyssey in Greek to his brain. His arms and legs jerked occasionally and he muttered protests. Mac refused to speak of nightmares. When the subject arose, he thinned his lips in a reflexive gesture of their father’s, and claimed his recollections of Dreamtime were of a smooth, bottomless void. He subscribed to the John Wayne aesthetic of manly stoicism. Conversely, Dred seldom resisted the urge to divulge his dreams to sum and sundry, eagerly soliciting interpretations from complete strangers.

  Dred changed clothes, pulled on his favorite mukluks and anorak, and left the tent and his slumbering brother.

  Dawn light tinted the glacier pink and blue. The tents and the men and dogs cast long, jagged shadows. Hastened, no doubt, by the arrival of an officer of Sword Enterprises, today would be the day the research team redoubled its efforts and breached a deep pocket within the glacier. Dr. Slocum and Chief Engineer Ophir were manically proud of the drilling machine they’d developed and employed to dramatic effect. The diamond-toothed titanium-alloy plasma-seething bore had thus operated like a hot knife through butter, or, in this instance, a plasma-stream through ice.

  “Safety is paramount, gentlemen!” Dr. Slocum, cartoonish as a military propaganda actor, made this ritual admonishment at the daily camp briefing. He waved his left arm stump to reinforce the point. Everybody knew the tale of how Doc Slocum lost his hand: it got pinched above the wrist as he reached for a dropped satchel (that supposedly contained the last vial of Emerald Ichor of Life known to exist) and the crack in a sheet of Antarctic ice slammed shut. Bruno Hopkins, the Malamute wrangler, scoffed and privately explained Slocum actually got it lopped with a tomahawk by a jealous tracker from Nova Scotia after the doctor got caught during a heavy petting session with the tracker’s sweetheart.

  To date, the team had succeeded in minimizing accidents—three casualties and a dozen injuries was cause for celebration six weeks into a hell-bent for leather expedition such as this one.

  “It’s a ziggurat,” Telemachus Crabbe said as he spooned salted porridge into his mouth. He was a sinewy, tow-headed lad with the sober demeanor of a government clerk. Mariners, merchants, and soldiers of lineage dating to medieval times, Crabbe’s immediate family hailed from the Dutch West Indies before the territory got sold to the USA. Crabbe followed family tradition and had at the tender age of fourteen established himself as a skilled sailor, diver, and crack demolitionist. “Made out a metal. Huge, too. Fifteen, sixteen stories. Gotta be thousands of years old if the bloomin’ glacier covered it.”

  “Slocum say so?” Dred whispered in case any of the men crowding past decided to eavesdrop. The boys hunched over their bowls at a mess hall bench. Drilling would commence within the hour.

  “Nah, nah, Slocum’s pal, Kowalski. I heard him gabbing to someone in the radio shack. Heh, probably your grandfather, or somebody else back home.” Crabbe glared at his empty bowl as if it had slighted him. Despite his rawboned frame, he could out-eat any three roughnecks in camp. “What’s more, it may be a mate to another one they found six months ago in the Atlantic, off the coast of New England.”

  “There’s some scuttlebutt. Doesn’t sound like anyone has explored it yet . . . ”

  “Too deep. Our subs can’t descend without getting crushed.”

  Dred didn’t argue the point. Sword Enterprises seeded disinformation among its own ranks as a matter of protocol. R&D had built various robots and at least one experimental submarine capable of withstanding the deepest oceanic pressure. If the Atlantic structure existed (and who could say?) and hadn’t been breached, it bespoke of skullduggery or mysterious possibilities, mostly unpleasant.

  Crabbe pushed away from the table. “I have to blast off for the site. See you in a bit?”

  “I’ll be there with bells on.”

  POLE OF COLD

  Macbeth dreaded entering Dreamtime. A fragment of his waking self inevitably calved from its subconscious and wandered at loose ends. Mother once said it was the influence of Isis, whose constellation had ascended the evening of his conception. He should learn to manipulate the phenomenon.

  In this lately recurring nightmare, he was a withered gray caricature of himself, yet no wiser. He and Dr. Amanda Bole (why couldn’t he at least dream of Dr. Bravery?) passed through galleries of the vault that housed Big Black’s mainframe. The vault, a huge, partially worked cavern three quarters of a mile beneath Sword Enterprises HQ, connected to a subterranean cave system that extended through the roots of the Catskills. One gallery hosted a series of upright metal tubes with thick glass portholes. An indistinct figure floated inside each tube, suspended by murky fluid. Rising and falling voices chanted Latin.

  Dr. Bole frightened Mac, awake or dreaming. He hadn’t decided why, except that sometimes when he glanced at her from the corner of his eye, she resembled someone else. She was pale, albeit not unhealthy any more than a daylight-shunning salamander is unhealthy; her brows were heavy, her features somewhat coarse, reflective of a tribe much nearer the common primordial bog, and her knuckles were large as a boxer’s. Thick of waist and thigh, her awkward gait and empty smile suggested an ageless, predatory creature, either torpid or exercising restraint as she moved among the herd. She smelled faintly of chlorine and saltwater.

  “Did Uncle Andronicus murder my brothers?” Mac said. He hadn’t considered the possibility in a long while and it snuck up and pounced upon him from the gloom of his subconscious.

  “Isn’t that a question for your father? Or Mr. Nail?”

  “Dad and Mr. Nail aren’t here.”

  “Curiosity skinned the cat and boiled it in pitch. Even if I revealed the truth, it would only place you in jeopardy. Further jeopardy, that is.”

  “Surely you’ve brothers or sisters.” Mac tried to make his eyes large and earnest.

  Dr. Bole’s frown softened. “My brother is dear to me. He chose to manifest masculine gender traits. I finally understand his motives. Male/female gender paradigms complement our relationship in surprising ways.”

  “Er, I’m happy for you?”

  “Andronicus hunted the twins like wild pigs. He ran the boys to ground and slaughtered them as one does if one is an unadulterated psychopath. He copulated with their corpses, field dressed them, and roasted their guts over a fire. Your uncle would render likewise unto you if afforded the opportunity.”

  “Does he hate us so much?” Mac said. “Could our own blood harbor such villainy?”

  She laughed incredulously and walked on.

  A brightly lighted operating theater occupied the far end of the gallery. Arthur Navarro sat naked in an
iron chair, manacled hand and foot. He recognized Mac, Mac’s decrepitude notwithstanding dream logic.

  “Don’t let her do this to me,” the boy said. He flexed mightily against the chains and then collapsed with a groan.

  “I’m sorry—” Mac was stricken with renewed grief at the sight of his deceased friend.

  “Hush, Macbeth,” Dr. Bole said. “He has no memory of what happened in the barn. Arthur, that’s quite enough. You’re the culmination of an eons-old breeding program.” Dr. Bole cupped Arthur’s chin in her splayed fingers. “Head high, son. Function over form. Now, be a good lad and fulfill your function in service to your betters. What are your plans once we’ve restored you completely?”

  Arthur said, “I’m forsaking engineering for chemistry. My father will cry a river. He prefers the brute applications of scientific inquiry.”

  Big Black said through a speaker, The Pole of Cold is reorienting. I await.

  Arthur’s flesh blistered and melted. “This is false, Mac! This is false! Save me! Come into the dark! Cross the threshold!” He began to scream.

  The Dreamtime program ended. Dr. Bole, Arthur Navarro, and the entire vault dissipated. The Latin chant severed, mid-utterance. Mac came awake violently. He was alone in the tent as morning light illuminated the screen. After taking a few moments to compose himself, he dressed and went outside. His program had run long—workers were already done with breakfast and hard at morning duties. Three teams of Malamutes receded to tiny silhouettes against the southwestern rim of the glacier—the drill crew headed to the excavation site.