torg 02 - The Dark Realm (6 page)

good against his cheeks and forehead, and he closed his eyes and sighed. But his reverie was short lived, for a strange voice broke through the calm.

"Come, come, Mr. Decker," said-the accented voice. It reminded Decker of a British accent, but there was an undercurrent of some older, darker brogue. "You've made scores of choices to get to this beach, and now the true work must begin."

The voice belonged to a man sitting in the sand some few yards off. He wore a Puritan-style coat and shoulder cape, and a wide-brimmed hat rested on his head. His outfit was totally black, and Decker wondered how he could stand the heat in such garb. Then he remembered this was a dream, and that made the scene more understandable. As Decker walked closer, the dark- cloaked man stood up. He was skeletal thin and very tall, and he grinned evilly from the shadows beneath his hat. He carried a walking stick with an ornate head carved in the shape of the Carredon, the creature that had wounded Decker and caused him to be trapped in this unending dream.

"How can you wear such clothing in this heat?" Decker asked.

"Heat does not concern me, Mr. Decker," the tall man replied, twirling the cane so that the congressman could see the blue and red stone that the carved Carredon held in its open maw.

"What does concern you, mister ...?"

"Lord Byron Salisbury, Earl of Waterford," the tall man said, mocking Decker with a slight bow. "That is one of the names I am known by. Others call me the Gaunt Man. But you may refer to me by my newest title."

"And that is?"

"I am the Torg."

"A unique title. I'm surprised my mind conjured up such an image for this dream. When the Carredon mentioned you I pictured someone much ... different."

"This is a dream, stormer," the Gaunt Man laughed, "but it operates by my rules, not by the feeble workings of your paltry mind."

Decker didn't like the direction this dream was taking. He tried to conjure up a different setting, but the scene refused to change.

"You should have accepted my offer, stormer," the Gaunt Man declared. "Instead, you chose the runes."

The Gaunt Man gestured and Decker looked down. Twin staves of metal jutted from his chest, and he remembered the last moments of his battle with the Carredon. There was no pain associated with the staves, only a draining feeling as though they were letting something slowly leak out of him.

"Those make you mine," the Gaunt Man continued, obviously pleased with Decker's sudden discomfort. "They connect you to a very important device of my own creation. A machine that sorts possible outcomes for later use. Much too technical for you, I'm sure. But with those staves, you become an integral cog in the mechanism. Behold!"

The Gaunt Man nodded toward the beach that stretched past the dune. As he did so, dozens upon dozens of doorways appeared. The doorways looked out of place without any walls, just standing in unorganized rows along the sand. But they beckoned to Decker, taunting him with their hidden secrets. Open us, they seemed to say. See what lies beyond our closed doors.

"They call to you, Decker," the Gaunt Man teased.

each door wants you to choose it over the one standing beside it. As for me, I really don't care which of them you open. Just as long as you do open one."

Decker tried to hold himself in check, tried to turn away and walk back across the beach. But his legs stepped forward and his hand shot out to grasp a door knob.

"Yes, Decker," the Gaunt Man laughed. "Yes, stormer. Choose!"

And Decker swung the door he chose wide.

And the dream of choices continued.

19

James Monroe stepped off the bus into the heat of a Californian desert. Even with the ash cover, the temperature was soaring. Along with the rest of the passengers, Monroe was directed toward a long, one- story building. He hoped the air conditioning was working.

He was a tall man, on the young side of forty, and he had left his home in Philadelphia to escape the invaders that had taken New York. But it was just his luck that his flight had been one of the last commercial planes allowed to land in San Bernadino before air traffic had been prohibited. Now he found himself in the Mojove Desert, impressed into military service on a base not all that far from where the same invaders were attacking in the west.

He glanced around at the other people that had ridden with him, all professionals from a dozen different fields. But he hadn't gotten to know any of them during the brief indoctrination and the drive into the desert. He had other things on his mind.

Specifically, his thoughts kept returning to a woman

with emerald eyes.

Monroe entered the building, relishing the brief burst of cold air as it hit his skin. But the relief it provided didn't last long. While the interior was cooler than outside, it was far from comfortable. Even military air conditioners designed for use in the desert couldn't keep up with the simmering heat. He stood for a moment, looking around the large room that had been converted into a reception area, when a uniformed soldier with a clipboard approached him.

"Your name, sir?" the soldier asked.

"Monroe. James Monroe."

The soldier scanned the list on his clipboard, then made a check mark with his pen.

"Welcome to Twentynine Palms Marine Corps Air Ground Combat Center, Dr. Monroe," the soldier said. "Your personal belongings will be transferred to your sleeping quarters. Is there anything I can do for you?"

"Yes, you could get me a ticket on the next plane out of this war zone," Monroe said, hoping that he was making it clear how much he detested being here.

The soldier ignored the sarcasm and calmly replied, "Twentynine Palms isn't in the war zone, Dr. Monroe. It is being used as a staging area and as a backup hospital, however."

"Look ..." Monroe started to say, but a woman was suddenly standing beside them, clearing her throat. She wasn't decked out in full uniform, like the soldier. Instead she wore a green T-shirt and pants to ward off some of the heat. Her brown hair was cut short, and she was pretty in a frazzled sort of way.

"Private, did I hear you say this gentleman is Dr. James Monroe?" she asked the soldier with the clipboard.

The soldier saluted. "Yes, Major Boot."

"Doctor, if you'll follow me ...?" the woman asked, l>ut her tone indicated that it was an order.

Monroe nodded to the soldier and followed the woman. She led him back out into the heat and across I lie compound to another building. When she opened I he door to the building, Monroe was assaulted by the familiar smell of antiseptics that marked all hospitals I he world over.

"Funny, you don't look like a major," he said at last.

"That's all right. Drenched in sweat, you don't exactly look like a Philadelphia doctor," she shot back casually. Monroe liked that.

She stopped in front of a door and gestured for Monroe to enter. He looked at her questioningly.

"The locker room and showers, doctor," she sighed, somewhat perturbed that she had to explain it to him. "Get cleaned up. Then I'll take you to meet your patient."

He started through the door, then paused. "You're putting me to work already?"

"Dr. Monroe, there is a war going on out there."

He started forward again, then turned to her once more. "I don't even know who you are."

"Major Julie Boot," she introduced herself, "head nurse of this facility. Now please, doctor, go get ready."

20

Dr. Hachi Mara-Two was in the cockpit of the transport, watching the pilots manipulate controls. She had a learning chip in one of the slots beneath her ear. It was recording every movement the pilots made so that she would have a textbook to refer to later. Or she could download the data during sleep to facilitate learning. Probably, Mara thought, she would do both.

She asked a question, and the copilot answered her.

As she listened, her hand went to the data plate in the pocket of her jumpsuit. On the plate were microcircuits filled with her memories, images of the world she left behind. Plugging in the chip allowed her to ease her homesickness for a time, and adding memories to it kept her occupied during lulls in their activity. But there was no lull now.

"Might I try?" Mara asked.

The pilots glanced at each other, shrugged. Then the copilot rose and offered his seat to the teen.

"Well, little lady," the pilot said, "if you can fly half as good as you know the theories behind it, you shouldn't have any problem."

Mara smiled. Data flowed across the inside of her eye, calling up details she had recorded earlier. Then Mara did as the pilot had done ...

... and the plane jerked and bucked like an ornery animal. Mara's eyes went wide. She had done just as the pilot had. She replayed the data and tried again. And the plane jerked again.

"You can't just imitate me," the pilot explained. "Flying requires the right touch as well. Here, try this."

The cabin door swung open and Father Bryce pushed his way into the cockpit. His face was red and sweat had gathered on his bald forehead. He looked nervous, and his voice was filled with anxiety.

"Who's driving this contraption?" he shouted. He saw Mara seated at the controls, and she smiled at him. The red left his cheeks and he paled considerably.

"I should have guessed," he moaned. "Do you have any idea what you're doing?"

Mara began to say something, but the priest waved her off.

"No, don't answer that," he sighed. "There are some

things I'm better off not knowing."

21

Monroe let the water wash over him, rinsing away the day's sweat and grime. It would return, of course. I he heat would see to that. But for the moment, the cool water felt good against his skin. He knew that Major I toot was waiting for him, but he allowed himself a few seconds more under the shower spray.

As he washed, he thought back to his last days in Philadelphia, to a scene that was forever etched in his memory. It was just a few days after New York had gone silent. Refugees were pouring in, and the hospitals had railed in every available doctor to work the emergency rooms — even the high-priced specialists like himself. I le was in the ER in fact when the cop and priest wheeled in the young woman.

She had been hit by a car and was in very bad shape. He remembered fighting to save her life, remembered the pang of defeat and sadness as that life slipped away. The monitors flatlined. He lost her. Then the priest was shouting at the woman, telling her to live. He tried to calm the man, tried to help him cope with his grief.

And then the monitor resumed its normal pattern of beeps and the woman sat up. Most of the damage he noted was gone, and what few cuts remained were healing rapidly. To this day, Monroe had no explanation for what happened. He supposed it could have been a miracle. Perhaps the priest's prayers had been answered.

But there were some strange events related to the incident. The young woman, whose driver's license identified her as brown-eyed Wendy Miller, claimed her name was Tolwyn of House Tancred. And her eyes were a sparkling emerald green.

The hospital officials released her before he could finish all his tests, claiming that she was healthy and they needed the bed space for those who weren't. She left then, off to chase the dream she had spoken of to everyone who would listen. The priest went with her, of course, and the cop. But Monroe could not get her out of his mind, and he left Philadelphia shortly after they did.

He turned the faucets and cut the flow of water to the shower. Once he stepped out of the stall, he would again be dealing with life and death. He wondered what he would discover this time.

22

Major Julie Boot was waiting when Monroe emerged from the locker room. While it was evident he had cleaned himself up, she could see the heat already beginning to work on him anew.

"Look at this," he complained. "I'm sweating again."

"Come on, doctor," she said, grabbing his arm and leading him down the corridor. "It's time to meet your first patient."

She led him to a private room, and she noted his surprise when he saw that there was only one patient within. He walked over and stood at the foot of the bed, not asking any questions, not examining the chart. He only stood there, staring at the staves that jutted from the patient's chest, then glancing at the patient's face. After a time, the doctor walked over to the chair that rested in the corner and collapsed heavily into it. His head dropped into his hands and Julie could hear him sigh.

"Doctor, is something wrong? Aren't you even going to look at his chart?" she asked.

The doctor looked up, and his eyes had a hollow cast

to them. "I can't take this case, Major."

"Excuse me?"

"1 think my words were clear," he said. "I cannot work on this patient."

"And why not, doctor?"

Monroe stood and walked back over to the bed. He had grown weary since entering this room, and his shoulders sagged noticeably. She felt pain coming from
him,
an unspoken sorrow that she didn't understand. Initially, he spoke.

"He's my brother."

23

Bryce marveled! True, he had been nervous at first, hut his long love affair with flying finally overcame his 1repidation at seeing young Mara at the throttle. (And it didn't hurt that she had gotten the hang of it — at least time what — and the plane was no longer responding like a bucking bronco.)

Flying was one of those things, he believed, that a person just can't get enough of. Like a great-tasting meal: even if you numbed your taste buds by too much indulgence, all you had to do was stop for a while and let your nerves recharge. Then you could go right back and eat some more, and enjoy it just as much as that wonderful first bite. How some people could be frightened by being up in the air he didn't understand. That kind of thinking was alien to his nature, to his inborn curiosity.

It was a thrill being in the cockpit. For Bryce, it was a boyhood thing, a dream of sorts — all those switches, dials, lights and power bars waiting to be flicked, read, noticed and adjusted. It was so ... exciting! And then there was Mara.