Philip José Farmer's The Dungeon 06] - The Final Battle (33 page)

Movement was visible among the cars of the train. Clive strained his eyes for a clear look at what was going on. To his horror and astonishment, black-and-green-armored troopers like those he had seen near his ancestral estate at Tewkesbury were clambering from several cars, and were setting up patrols the length of the train.

"Enemies again!"

"We can face 'em, sah!"

"But if the Ren are those tentacled monstrosities we encountered on Q'oorna and the Chaffri are these mantislike creatures…"

"They take many forms, Clive Folliot. That you must surely comprehend by now."

"Of course," Clive managed, "of course. But then—" He shook his head, unable to continue.

A squad of the troopers had left the train and were jogging along at a brisk, military double-time, headed for the remnants of the glass car.

"So much for the Universal Neighborhood Improvement Association," Clive managed. He climbed from the car, carefully avoiding the shards of shattered glass and broken metal. "Come along, men!"

"Ain't we goin' ter fight 'em, Major?"

"It would be hopeless, Sergeant. We'll talk to them and see what we can accomplish."

"But they'll take us prisoner, sah!" Horace's eyes registered the terror and distaste with which he viewed that prospect.

Clive did not answer, for he was standing near the crumpled and blackened prow of the ruined vehicle.

The squad of troopers trotted to within a dozen yards of Clive and halted in perfect unison. The commander of the squad, his visor pushed back to the top of his helmet to reveal a remarkably boyish and good-looking countenance, stood face-to-face with Clive.

Before Clive could speak a word, he was astonished to see the green-and-black-armored officer snap a smart salute, and say in a youthful and cultured voice, "My commander's apologies to Major Folliot and his companions for the unfortunate damage to their vehicle. Full compensation will of course be paid—and my commander invites the Major and his party to join us aboard the train."

While Clive pondered his answer, the officer reached up with green-gauntleted hands and began unscrewing the gleaming black-and-green helmet as if it were a part of a diving costume. The helmet removed and clutched beneath one elbow, the armor-clad commander shook out "his" long blond tresses.

The commander was a young woman—hardly more than a girl!

"I accept your commander's apologies and the invitation you, convey as well," Clive responded. "But you have the advantage of me, Miss. You know my name and I do not know yours."

A winning smile creased the full lips that Clive no longer found boyish at all. "You do not recognize me?"

"I fear not."

"Well, I shall not tease you, Great-Uncle. I am your own flesh and blood, Clive Folliot. I am Anna Maria Folliot."

"Folliot!"

"Yes, Great-Uncle."

"But—but how—?"

"You are the younger brother of Sir Neville Folliot."

"I am that."

"Neville was my grandfather."

A frown creased Clive's brow. "How old are you, Anna Maria?"

"I am twenty."

"Then you were born in 1876."

The young woman's laughter tinkled like tiny silver bells sounding clearly through the crisp air of a winter morn in the English countryside. "You think so stolidly, Great-Uncle. Surely you must realize that time is neither so simple nor logic so straightforward as that."

Clive frowned. There was no end, no end to the surprises that the universe held. Every time he thought that he had found a simple and irrefutable truth, Nature proved him wrong. "I'm trying to calculate the year of your father's birth, Anna Maria. Your father, who would have been my nephew."

Anna Maria interrupted his thoughts. "He was born in 1858, Great-Uncle."

"But I never knew that Neville had married."

Again the beautiful girl laughed, and her laugh set Clive's blood rushing through his veins, his skin tingling in every limb. But no, this girl was his own flesh and blood! Once before he had come close to the unspeakable, before he had realized that Annabelle Leigh, his beloved User Annie, she of the incomprehensible speech and the irresistible manner, was his own direct descendant.

Anna Maria Folliot was
not
his direct descendant, but she was the granddaughter of his brother, and that knowledge forced Clive to abandon a certain line of thought that had barely opened to his contemplation.

"I don't mean to be discourteous, Great-Uncle, but we haven't the time to stand here and trace our family history. There's too much to do, too little time in which to do it. We can catch up on bloodlines and family gossip later on."

Clive looked at Sidi Bombay and at Horace Hamilton Smythe. Clearly, either of his companions was prepared to lift from his shoulders the responsibility for making such decisions as had to be made. There were earlier times in which they had taken the initiative, and there might be later ones in which they would do so again. But for now, Clive Folliot alone bore the responsibility of leadership. The responsibility of decision.

"Let's go!"

"You have no gear to remove from your car?" Anna Maria asked.

Clive shook his head.

The two Folliots, Clive in his London clothes of 1896 and Anna Maria in her gleaming armor, fell in side by side and began tramping toward the train. Clive cast a single glance over his shoulder. Behind them, Sidi Bombay and Sergeant Horace Hamilton Smythe were being marched by Anna Maria's armor-clad troopers. The relationship and manner of march could be interpreted as that of an honor guard—or that of troops policing prisoners of war.

Sidi Bombay had returned to the wreckage of the car and retrieved something. As Clive watched, he waved it once around his turbaned head, then placed it conspicuously in his breechclout. It was the cyberclaw which Sidi Bombay had obtained on Q'oorna, and which Clive had not seen since leaving that black planet. How Sidi Bombay managed still to have it, Clive thought, was merely one more of the endless mysteries of the Dungeon. But if Sidi Bombay felt that the cyberclaw might again be of use, Clive was pleased to see him carrying it.

At the train the party halted. Anna Maria took Clive's arm, separating him from his companions and herself from her command. At her encouragement, Clive climbed the steps to a seemingly undamaged car. Anna Maria followed close behind him.

She stood beside him, facing a splendidly uniformed man who sat behind an ornate desk.

"Grandfather," Anna Maria said to the older man, "Great-Uncle Clive is here at last."

Neville Folliot looked up from his desk and smiled at his younger brother. "So nice to see you again, Clive. Would you like a glass of brandy?"

 

Stunned, Clive stood gaping at his brother. He was unable to speak.

"Have you been deafened by some incident, Clive? Can you not hear me? I offered you a libation."

"What are you doing here, Neville? I saw you last at Tewkesbury. You and Father. And Annabelle Leigh, my great-great-granddaughter."

"But Clive, you have come to see me—not I, you. Why must I explain myself?" Neville's lip curled in a smile that was not unmixed with a sneer.

Clive's mind raced. Was this truly Neville—or a simulacrum? Or was he merely an illusion created by a Ren or a Chaffri? Clive had encountered all three. In fact, he had been told that the father and grandfather he had seen in Tewkesbury were false, as was Annabelle Leigh—the Annabelle Leigh who had accompanied him to the country manor. He stared at Neville, trying to determine whether or not he truly beheld his brother.

"What is the matter, little brother? Little Miss Minnie got your tongue?"

Little Miss Minnie
! Yes, a variation on the expression,
cat got your tongue
? Little Miss Minnie had been Clive and Neville's childhood pet. Their love for the plump black and white feline was one of the few things upon which they had ever managed to agree. Both boys had adored the little cat, had doted on her, competing for her affection.

No simulacrum could know about Little Miss Minnie, no clone would possess that information. As for an illusion, that was more difficult to determine. If Neville were really an alien, drawing the image and the very recollections from Clive's mind, then the emotionally charged memory of Little Miss Minnie would be a powerful tool for use in controlling him.

If only there were someone he could ask—someone to offer advice.

A ghostly voice whispered in Folliot's mind.
Clive, he is real
.

Du Maurier
? Clive queried mentally.

No Clive. It is I, your brother Esmond.

Esmond? But how do I know… how can I trust
…

There comes a time, my brother, when one must trust. One must! For you, that time has come, my brother. For you, that time is this very moment.

"It was your space-train that collided with the car in which my companions and I were traveling," Clive said to Neville.

"Oh, yes. I hope no one was badly hurt?"

"Through no agency of yours, Neville! It was sheer fortune that Sidi Bombay and Horace Smythe and I survived. I still—"

"You've made the acquaintance of your grandniece, I see."

"If you will be so kind as not to interrupt me, brother! We are working in the interest of all mankind. Of all mankind and more! The Gennine—"

"Please!" Neville held up his hand. "Please, little brother. I'm sorry I've upset you. I understand your being upset, of course. But—"

"What happened at Tewkesbury? What happened after I departed for London? Where is Annabelle? What of Father?"

Again, Neville interrupted by holding up a hand. In an odd moment of abstraction, Clive found himself concentrating on the intricate patterns worked into the cuff of Neville's sleeve. At first blush, the metallic threads were embroidered in a wholly abstract and even random pattern, but upon closer examination an orderly arrangement became visible. Buried within the swirls and streaks of the embroidery was the familiar spiral of stars.

"Please," Neville said, "seat yourself and be comfortable, little brother. We are not squabbling schoolboys any longer. At least, I hope we are not."

Fuming, Clive complied with Neville's request. The brothers locked eyes. Clive said, "I make no warrant to you, Neville. The stakes are far too high for me to bind myself to petty rules. But for the moment, at least—proceed."

Neville Folliot inclined his head. "Fair enough, brother Clive. Father is dead."

"Dead?"

"I spoke clearly, I believe."

"In what manner did he die? And when?"

"He was an old man when last we were together at Tewkesbury. The end came shortly after you took your leave. It was a peaceful end, Clive. In the midst of our ordinary rustic existence, Father slipped away quite quietly and peacefully. He was napping, and when it came time to waken him, the old man had simply ceased to live."

"Together at Tewkesbury? I do not recall such a meeting—unless you refer to an occasion in 1868 or earlier, Neville."

"I refer to our meeting less than twenty-four hours ago, little brother. Our meeting in the library at Folliot Manor."

"Was that truly you, Neville? I thought that was some surrogate of yours?"

"No, Clive. What gave you that idea?"

What had given him that idea, indeed? His conversation with Horace Smythe and Sidi Bombay. Had they, his two dearest companions, lied to him? Or had they been mistaken? Or was
Neville
the liar? Was his older brother lying
now
?

Esmond Folliot whispered in Clive's mind.
Trust him, brother. Now
is
the moment. You must trust him
.

"Never mind, Neville," Clive forced himself to say. "Never mind all that. It was you, then, at Tewkesbury. I trust you."

Clive dropped his head into his hands. Though he and his father had been less than close, though the old baron had favored Neville over Clive and blamed Clive throughout his life for the death of his mother—a tragedy for which Clive was by no means culpable—still, he had been bound to the baron by the closest tie of blood, that of parent and offspring. The loss of his father affected him more powerfully than he had expected it ever would.

"I shall never see him again, then, Neville."

"Oh—you may!"

Clive raised his eyes to those of his brother. "What do you mean?" Perhaps, he conjectured, Neville, too, had been in communication with their never-born brother Esmond. Clive's own contacts with Esmond had been few and faint, more tantalizing than fulfilling. And yet… and yet… what an irony, if the disembodied soul of their never-born sibling should prove the great link that reunited the estranged brothers Folliot!

There were also Clive's contacts with George du Maurier. Those disembodied dialogues had commenced before du Maurier's death. Perhaps it was the forging of the mental bond with du Maurier while he still lived that permitted the more nearly complete exchange of thoughts to whatever realm it was that lay beyond the veil…

"I mean," Neville Folliot said, "that to those who can travel through the web of time and space, all men are both dead and alive. Yes, both dead and alive. Father and Mother, you and I, your various sweethearts…"

Clive sputtered in protest at Neville's casual use of the term
sweethearts
.

Neville smiled. "Clive, you got a child upon Miss Leighton, then you abandoned her to go chasing off after… who was that strange creature with the death-white skin and the forest-green hair?"

"The Lady 'Nrrc'kth," Clive whispered. "She told me that she knew you, Neville."

A wistful smile brushed Neville's face, then departed. "That is true, brother Clive. The Lady 'Nrrc'kth and I were acquainted, and the pleasure was altogether mine."

Clive clenched his fists and his teeth, holding himself in check. When he was able once more to speak, he said, "The Lady 'Nrrc'kth was a finer woman than you are worthy to consort with, Neville. She was brought into this matter against her will, she served nobly and she died bravely in the struggle against the Chaffri and the Ren."