E-Branch - Invaders Part 43

And then, losing it a little when their expressions didn't change: 'Er, h.e.l.loP' he said. 'I mean, am I getting through to you, or would you like me to draw some pictures? Maybe your on-switches are off or something, or I don't know the secret 481.

480 code that could lead us to a basis for some kind of mutual, kindergarten understanding!'

But in fact he had never had anything of an 'understanding' with them, not with these two. The rest of the Pleasure Dome's workers were regular folks, but these two ... everyone avoided them like the plague. Hah, even an Asiatic plague!

Santeson thought.

It was a funny thing, because when they had come here looking for jobs a couple of months ago, they had seemed like regular people, too. But now: they never strayed far from the elevators, and Milan wouldn't go anywhere without them. But come to think of it, he never went anywhere much anyway! And there was the same kind of look about him, too. So maybe they were blood relatives, but Santeson didn't think so.

Finally one of them spoke. 'Mr Santeson/ he said. 'We've already told you three or four times - Mr Milan won't see you. He isn't seeing anybody. He's expecting a busy night and wants to get some rest. If we ta ke you to him, it won't be you he'll get mad with - we'll be in trouble. So why don't you take some good advice, and ...' Pausing in mid-sentence, he gave a small but violent start, and a facial tic began jerking the flesh at the corner of his mouth. Then his face took on an odd att.i.tude of listening.

From the first word out of the minder's mouth, the spidery Santeson had backed off a pace ... mainly from his breath! The man had the worst case of crotch- or armpit-mouth that the private detective had ever co me across. His breath was so vile it literally stank like a cesspit, or maybe like a slaughterhouse? And now this. He stood there as if he'd been struck dumb, with his head turned a little on one side and his strange eyes rapidly blinking. But what was bothering him?

What was he listening to?

It lasted for maybe twelve to fifteen seconds, until suddenly h e gave his head a shake and straightened up. And smiling in a twitchy, nervous sort of way, he said, 'Mr Milan will see you now. We're to take you to him.' His eyes had stopped blinking. Earphone! Santeson thought. Direct communication with the boss. This guy is wired, definitely, and in more ways than one! But at least it gets the job done.

The other minder thumbed the b.u.t.ton and the elevator doors opened. Santeson got in and the goons followed on. Then the one with the earphone used his key, and the gla.s.s cage descended - down past the bas.e.m.e.nt level, then to a sub-bas.e.m.e.nt level (the last stop marked on the internal indicator) ... where to Santeson's surprise the elevator didn't stop! Not until the next sub-level, which wasn't even registered on the ind icator. And Santeson ha d to admire the brilliance of it, for anyone who wasn't wise to the system wouldn't even know that this nethermost level existed.

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-cla.s.s Hong Kong brothel.

"This way,' said one of the minders ... and something else that had been niggling at Santeson at once crystallized. It was their voices. Voices that rumbled out of them; the y 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 e ffect was lessened - lessend by the light, maybe, 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 rea.s.suring 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 light bulbs, well s.p.a.ced-out on a cable that was hooked up to a low ceiling. But 482.

483.

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.

O.

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 a t him.

Only half-turning, but Santeson got a glimpse of his eyes. And he sa w 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, tool 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 gla.s.s, 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 slaughterhouse breath that st ung 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 s.p.a.ce, 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-f.u.c.king thing!' Santeson husked, his voice a whisper in the darkness.

Abruptly, the minders paused, so that he almost b.u.mped into them; they looked at each other questioningly, then turned as a man to Santeson. And: 'Would you like to?' One of them coughed a query.

'Eh?' Santeson s tood there trembling. 'L-like t-to?'

'Would you like to see a f-f.u.c.king Thing?' said the minder, tilting his head in inquiry, his face gaping into such a grin as Santeson just 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 485.

484.

as easily as if he were a child. Tall, thin and spidery as Santeson was, his knees sc.r.a.ped along the stony floor as they bore him up and away, out of the cave of the seething Thing, t o Malinari...

Three hours earlier: Crouching low under the circular s.h.i.+mmer 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 pa.s.sed 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 t ake-off and closed the door to the merest crack. The choppe r lifted off, rose up and turned once, slowly, through a hundred and eighty 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 cho pper gained alt.i.tude, 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'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.

Moreov er, 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 s.h.i.+ t to m e!'

'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 b.i.t.c.h. If so, well, there'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 circ.u.mstances have let me show.

Please take care. Liz.

486.

487.

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 exp lain 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 dr eams, and he knew that to many others 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 fleshed-out ideas and concepts fro m his waking hours. And he wondered: How often does a man r etain detailed memories of what he 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 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! sai d 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 cras.h.i.+ng down to shut whatever it was - this thing, this Other, this Korath - o ut 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 th at 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 ballpoint and began to make shaky notes on Liz's sc.r.a.p 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 coastguard vessel. Now the two units met up for a final briefing.

The attack on the island would be two-p.r.o.nged. Along with WO II Joe Davis and four NCOs, Jake and Lardis Lidesci would be airborne; four more NCOs would be in the boat.

489.

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 lan Goodly, Liz Merrick, and the rest of the SAS men were trooping out to the jet- copter, their combat suits fluttering in the bl.u.s.ter of disturbed night air that stank of hot exhaust fumes.

At 6:15 Trask transmitted: 'Callsigns 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 answers 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, lan 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?'