The Tower of Endless Worlds (21 page)

Warehouse 13A, a massive grim structure of cinder blocks and corrugated steel, stood in the center of his complex. An electrified fence surrounded the warehouse, crowned with rolls of barbed wire. A slouching thug in a hooded motorcycle jacket stood at the gate. Wycliffe strode through, making a show of ignoring the guard. 

A limousine was parked before the warehouse’s massive steel doors. Kurkov sat on the hood, dressed all in black leather, a thick cigar in his hand. Dr. Krastiny stood nearby, conversing with two younger men. One man was tall and thin with a shock of dark hair. The other was short and broad with a bald head, his arms corded with thick muscle.

“Ah, Vasily,” said Wycliffe. “I hope you had a pleasant evening.”

Kurkov puffed on his cigar. “I am pleased. Good food and good women.”

“Senator.” Dr. Krastiny approached, his two younger cohorts in tow. “I mentioned these fine fellows to you earlier. May I introduce Mr. Schzeran,” he indicated the tall man, “and Mr. Bronsky.” 

Both men offered their hands, and Wycliffe shook them. “Ah…comrades from Dr. Krastiny’s KGB days, I assume.”

They looked at Krastiny. He nodded, as if giving permission.

“Yes,” said Schzeran. His Russian accent made his words almost incomprehensible. Bronsky remained silent. “Dr. Krastiny trained us. We do jobs together.”

Krastiny laughed. “You undersell yourself. Schzeran and Bronsky have been my strong right hands for many years. Both are some of the most highly competent and professional…ah, agents, I have ever encountered. And both have the rare quality of keeping their mouths shut. I don’t think Bronsky has said five words in as many years.”

Bronsky grunted. 

“So you gentlemen provide security for Mr. Kurkov?” said Wycliffe.

Schzeran had a serial killer’s grin. “We are bodyguards for Mr. Kurkov. If anyone gives Mr. Kurkov trouble, we give them twice as much trouble.”

Wycliffe nodded. “I imagine it’s useful, having three pet assassins. I don’t suppose you were involved with that assassination attempt on the pope in the early eighties?” 

Krastiny laughed. “Hardly. We would have been…more professional, let us say.”

Bronsky grunted. “We’d have done it right.”

“No doubt,” said Wycliffe. He turned to Kurkov. “Vasily. We never finished our tour a few days ago. I still have a few things to show you.”

Kurkov grunted. Schzeran and Bronsky moved to his side.

Wycliffe waved a hand at the warehouse. “Behold Warehouse 13A, my friends. It’s…how did you put it, Doctor? The foundation of my fortunes and yours?”

Kurkov scratched at his stubble-shaded chin. “This? How so?”

Wycliffe walked to the doors and produced an ID card. He swiped it through the lock. It clicked, beeped, and then the locking mechanism released.

“This,” said Wycliffe, waving his arm, “all of this, wasn’t here ten years ago. Ten years ago block after block of decaying apartments stood here. I lived in one of these buildings. It stood, in fact, right here, on the very spot now occupied by Warehouse 13A.”

Kurkov snorted. “How very interesting. A rags-to-riches story, as they say. Very American. But why should I care?”

Wycliffe smiled. “I’ll show you.” The warehouse doors began to slide open with the screech of metal on metal.

Wycliffe heard the clomping of heavy boots and turned. Two dozen slouching thugs gathered behind them. Between the enormous beards and the leather attire, they looked like attendees at a Harley rally. If Kurkov really knew what those beards and mirrored sunglasses hid, Wycliffe suspected that he would flee as fast as his limousine could take him. 

What Kurkov didn’t know could indeed kill him. 

Wycliffe stifled a laugh, and the doors slid open.

“Right this way, gentlemen,” said Wycliffe, walking inside. The Russians and the thugs filed after him. 

Inside the warehouse racks of florescent lighting illuminated stacks and stacks of wooden crates. A large glassed-in room had been built in the corner, alongside a row of industrial meat freezers. The scent of machine grease and cordite hung heavy in the air. Wycliffe pointed at a stack of crates. “Old Soviet-issue Kalashnikov rifles. Grenades. Grenade launchers. Mortars. Rocket launchers. Even some napalm. All provided by your organization, Vasily.” He pointed at pallets of cardboard boxes. “Winter and summer garments. Preserved foods and canned goods. Medical supplies. And some shotguns and small-arms, weapons I’m able to easily acquire in the States.” He grinned. “And over here you’ll see…”

Kurkov scowled. “What the hell is that?”

A raised metal platform stood against the far wall. A pair of steel grill staircases and a hydraulic lift led to the platform’s top. A massive slab of dark stone stood upright on the platform’s center. Strange symbols and diagrams covered its surface, marking it with a bizarre tangle of lines, angles, and glyphs. At times faint green light glimmered from the slab’s edges, and occasionally a flicker of white light flashed from the carved symbols. 

“What the devil is that?” said Krastiny. “Some sort of stele?” His thin eyebrows knitted. “I don’t recognize those inscriptions.”

“Nor do I,” said Wycliffe. He walked to the base of the platform. “Here. Right here. This is where my apartment once stood.” He climbed up the metal stairs. “And…right about here, maybe a little to my left, is where my living room closet once stood. Where I first met Lord Marugon.”

Krastiny folded his arms. “So this is supposed to be the door you told us about?”

“Quite right,” said Wycliffe.

Kurkov laughed. He made a show of walking behind the platform. “There is nothing behind that rock, Wycliffe. That is no door. That is just a piece of old stone.” He laughed again. “So it is true, then. All rich Americans are crazy.”

“Undoubtedly,” said Wycliffe. “So you’re sure, then? This is just an old slab of stone? And I dreamed that a man in a black robe came out through the slab and told me to buy guns and bombs?”

One of the slouching men chuckled, a sound like sliding rocks. 

Kurkov shrugged. “Most probably. America is a land of strange people. Why, I remember hearing about an American cult on television. They thought if they killed themselves, they would fly to heaven on a magic spaceship.”

Wycliffe nodded. “Heaven’s Gate?”

“Yes, that was it,” said Kurkov. He grinned. “We do profitable business, Wycliffe, but you are a nut.” 

“Ah,” said Wycliffe. “So, Dr. Krastiny, do you agree with your employer? Do you think I am a nut?”

Krastiny frowned, his eyes darting to the corner. Gloaming sat huddled behind a crate, gnawing on a dead rat. “I…am not so sure, Senator.”

Wycliffe grinned. “Well, Vasily, if I am a nut, how do you explain this?”

He put both hands against the door’s carved surface, braced himself, and pushed. 

Nothing happened.

Kurkov’s chuckles redoubled. “Careful, Wycliffe. You will push your expensive rock over.”

The door swung open. 

A dazzling shaft of white light stabbed out. Wycliffe took a step back, covering his eyes. A chorus of curses rose from Kurkov and Schzeran. The light faded, revealing a vast, pillared gallery stretching into infinity. Pale green light gleamed against the dark stone. 

Kurkov stared at the opened door. His contemptuous mask dissolved in astonishment. “What in hell?”

Krastiny muttered something in Russian. Both Bronsky and Schzeran had their guns out. “What the devil is that?”

Wycliffe laughed at their reactions. He stepped to the side, sweeping his arm out. “Behold, gentlemen. A corridor within the Tower of Endless Worlds.”

Kurkov shook his head. “This must be a trick. Yes? You are tricking us. This is…a trick with light, what is the English…”

“An optical illusion?” said Krastiny.

Kurkov snapped his fingers. “Yes. That is it. This is an optical illusion.” 

“Indeed?” Wycliffe turned. “Gloaming!” The imp growled. “Fetch me that crowbar.” Gloaming sneered. “Gloaming!”  Wycliffe let a bit of the Voice slip into his speech. “I command! Fetch!” His words echoed like icy thunder. The imp whined, scooped the crowbar, and flapped to Wycliffe’s side.

Kurkov let out a startled curse in Russian. Schzeran and Bronsky leveled their guns. Krastiny waved them to calm.

“What the hell is that…is that thing?” said Kurkov. 

Gloaming glared at him with burning eyes. “Screw you.”

Wycliffe chuckled, picked up the crowbar, and kicked Gloaming off the platform. The imp screeched and took to the air. 

“Hideous little beast, isn’t it?” said Wycliffe. “A native to Marugon’s world, Vasily, an imp of the Wastes. Unpleasant little devils, certainly, but they can be tamed.”

Kurkov managed to nod. 

“An optical illusion, you say?” said Wycliffe. He hefted the crowbar. “Then how do you explain this?”  He flung the crowbar through the open door. White light flashed. The crowbar hit the marble floor, bounced, and skidded a good forty feet. “You can go look behind the door…oh, I’m sorry, my expensive slab. Look for trick wires, look for smoke, look for mirrors, look for whatever your heart desires. But you will not find anything.”

Kurkov shook his head. He climbed up the stairs, the metal clacking beneath his boots. “I must see this for myself.”

Krastiny stepped forward. “I’m not sure that’s safe…”

“Nonsense,” said Wycliffe. Kurkov climbed to the platform’s top. “You only wish to step through a short distance, I assume?”

“Correct,” said Kurkov.

“If you were to go wandering the corridors of the Tower alone, then, yes, we would never see you again,” said Wycliffe. “But a quick step through is perfectly safe.”

Kurkov grimaced, shook his head, and stepped through the door. There was another flash of white light. Kurkov stepped into the Tower and shuddered, gasping for breath. He looked around, his eyes wide. Wycliffe admired his courage. In almost ten years Wycliffe had seen dozens of men step through the door, yet had never quite summoned the courage to try it himself.

Kurkov grinned and picked up the crowbar. He paused and stared down the corridor for a moment, then shook his head and stepped back through the door. The white light flashed, and then Kurkov stood on the platform once more. Kurkov handed the crowbar back to Wycliffe. “Amazing. If it is a trick, it is very well done.”

Wycliffe laughed. “But it’s not a trick, is it?”

Kurkov snorted. “No. To think, for all those years I thought you were crazy, but it turns out you were telling the truth.” He frowned. “I thought I saw something coming towards us…some men, and horses…”

Wycliffe smiled. “Good.”

Gloaming perched on the platform’s railing.The creature gave Wycliffe a sullen look. “Lord Wycliffe of Chicago. Lord Marugon of the Wastes comes.” 

Wycliffe peered through the door. “We have some time yet. Distances can be deceptive within the Tower’s corridors.” Dr. Krastiny climbed up to the platform, his face furrowed in a frown. Wycliffe chuckled. “A bit rattled, Doctor?”

“A bit,” said Krastiny. “I confess, the underpinnings of my worldview have just been rather severely shaken.”

Wycliffe leaned against the railing. “Mine were, at first.” Gloaming hopped a safe distance away, and Kurkov lit a cigar. “But I adapted, and even thrived, as you can see.”

“I may take up religion,” said Krastiny.

Wycliffe laughed. “Don’t. I doubt you’d have quite the same mental acumen if you took up Christian fundamentalism.”

“That white flash, when someone passes through the door,” said Krastiny. “What is it?”

Wycliffe shrugged. He had seen the flash so many times that he no longer paid it any mind. “I’m not certain. I suspect it has to do with warding spells inscribed upon the door.”

“Warding spells?” said Krastiny.

Wycliffe strode to the door’s slab. “You’re still not entirely comfortable with the idea of magic, I see.” He ran his fingers along the carved symbols, feeling the power thrumming through the stone. “These symbols, you see, are wards.” Krastiny looked puzzled. “Ah…spells designed to keep something out.”

“Why are there wards on the door?” said Krastiny. Kurkov wandered away, bored with the discussion. “Did Marugon there put them there?” 

Wycliffe shook his head. 

“Who, then?” said Krastiny. “The persons who constructed the Tower?”

“Possibly,” said Wycliffe. “But not even Marugon knows who constructed the Tower.”

Krastiny blinked. “He does not?”

Wycliffe shrugged. “I don’t think Marugon even entirely knows what the Tower is, exactly. He told me once…he said that the Tower was part of all worlds and yet none, that it existed in every world and yet touched none of them. So far as I am able to gather, the Tower is infinite. A man could spend his entire life wandering its corridors.”

Krastiny folded his arms over his chest, still staring through the open door. “Infinite, you say? Then how do the caravans find their way from Marugon’s world to ours?”

“Marugon left markers to show the correct path,” said Wycliffe. “His personal sigil, I believe, burned into the stone.”

“Useful,” said Krastiny. “But how did Marugon find his way to Earth in the first place?”

Wycliffe laughed. “Sheer chance. That’s the damnable thing of it all. Sheer and utter chance.”

“Remarkable,” said Krastiny. His wispy eyebrows knitted. “It seems like this should be a more common occurrence.”

“How so?” said Wycliffe. The distant shape of the caravan drew nearer, close enough that Wycliffe could make out the shapes of horses, mules, wagons, and men. 

“If this Tower is infinite, as you say,” said Krastiny, “should not visitors from other worlds stumble upon ours more frequently?”

“No,” said Wycliffe. “You see, most of the doors in the Tower are one-way. They can only be opened from within the Tower. And they usually swing shut a few moments after they are opened.”

Krastiny blinked. “But you opened this door.”

“I did.” Wycliffe pointed at the intricate symbols etched on the stone slab. “When Marugon came across one of the doors to our world…”

“There are others?”

“Four others,” said Wycliffe. “We don’t know where they open…we’ve never bothered to trace them. After all, they can’t be opened from Earth. But when Marugon first came across this door, he realized the design of the seals on the doors and damaged them. Thus the door can be opened from both sides.” He shrugged. “No doubt he wanted an escape, should this world prove inhospitable. But I believe he was already thinking in terms of revenge. Perhaps he hoped to find something that could aid him against his enemies on his world.”