torg 02 - The Dark Realm (8 page)

at some point in our careers, and we have all failed to stop him. So, we each must share a portion of the blame lot what has befallen these innocent worlds."

A murmuring started, quickly spreading through the chamber. The Guardian tapped his cane on the stone

floor three time, loudly cutting through the noise. The chamber fell silent again.

"I have devised our own way to travel to this newest

dimension," Frest continued. "But the systems are fragile, i mtested. At best, this will be a one-way trip. I'm not sure if I can duplicate the process once we reach this new world."

"Why us?" called a woman Cage recognized as Miss Freedom.

"Because," the Guardian answered, "someone has to do it. Afraid you can't cut it, lady?"

"No one is required to make this trip," Frest Interrupted quickly. "But those of you who do decide to iccompany us must make a pledge. That is my only request."

"What kind of pledge?" Cage asked as he weighed
his
options.

Dr. Frest stood as straight as he could, and his voice i.ing out with a power it never had before. "We, the Mystery Men of Terra, must pledge ourselves to each other and to our quest. We must fight to end Mobius' roign of terror, even at the cost of our own lives!"

Cage glanced from side to side, noting that while not ,ill of those present had raised their hands, more than half of them did. He added his own to the group and let his voice join the others.

"We, the Mystery Men of Terra, do pledge ourselves to each other and to our quest. We will fight to end Mobius' reign of terror, even at the cost of our own

lives!"

Dr. Frest smiled. "Help me down, my boy," he said to Cage. Cage did so, then followed the scientist over to a weird machine.

The machine was all controls and dials, connected to a frame that was attached to one wall of the chamber. When Frest threw a switch, blue and red light filled the inside of the frame.

"This is our gate to another world," Frest called above the hum of the machine. "Step through while you can, before the machine burns out and the gate closes."

Not waiting to see if anyone else was coming, the Guardian stepped into the light and disappeared. With a shrug Cage followed him, letting the light engulf him in its crackling embrace.

27

"Very good, Mara," the pilot said. "Very, very good."

Mara was pleased herself. She was finally handling the plane on her own, not through repetition via chip replay. Forced-learning drugs, administered to her throughout her days in school, made her mind more susceptible to new ideas and processes. She laughed out loud with the sheer joy of flight.

"That's Australia down there, so we'll have to start our approach," the copilot explained.

"I guess that means you want me to get up, huh?" Mara asked. The copilot nodded, and Mara slid out of the seat.

"H.M. A.S. Nirimba, do you copy?" the pilot said into his headset, trying to raise the control tower that would guide him into Australia.

A voice came back over the radio, welcoming them to Australian airspace and giving them heading directions.

Mara took it all in, trying to digest everything at once as her internal computer recorded the scene. But her joyous mood was cut short when she saw what was happening outside the cockpit. The dark ash clouds had been with them since they left California, but now a small storm

was forming in front of the plane. Black clouds swirled together, connected by flashing lightning. Driving rain pelted the windshield, and then the plane was submerged In the dark cloud.

"What's going on?" she shouted above the static that had replaced the control tower voice on the radio.

"Damndest storm I've ever seen," the pilot called back. Then he cried out, "My God!"

On the other side of the window, out of the rain and swirling mist emerged two vaguely human shapes. banshees! Mara thought. Like the monsters the Sims threw at us on Kadandra! These banshees were ghostly, with long, flowing hair that framed their heads, and transparent torsos which faded away below their stomachs. They raised spectral arms and floated toward T he windshield, apparently intent on crashing into the plane — or through it.

For a moment fear gripped at Mara's heart, and she hacked away from the horrors. But as the banshees slid I h rough the windshield and into the plane, she shook off l he paralyzation and moved forward. She wasn't fast enough, however, to save the pilots. The banshees reached into the pilots' chests with incorporeal fingers, opening their spectral mouths wide to let loose their screams.

Mara fell back, rocked by the supernatural sound. The pilots own screams joined that of the banshees, and Mara could only watch as the men began to wither and die. She watched their life force drain away, a thin mist leaving their mouths and entering the banshees. With each departing breath, the pilots became thinner, more corpselike. The banshees, in contrast, became fuller, less vague.

The door behind Mara swung open and Father Bryce was there. "Sweet Jesus," he muttered. The banshees stopped their death call as the pilots collapsed into dust and bone in their seats. Then they turned toward Bryce and Mara, their hands outstretched to deliver another death-cold touch. Mara, still weak from the effects of the previous scream, could barely get her body to move. But Bryce was there, brandishing his cross before him to intercept the ghostly hand.

The banshee kept sliding forward, reaching out to touch Bryce's cross. Upon contact there was a flash of blinding light, and the banshee screamed. But this was not a death call so much as a scream of pain. The light rolled from the cross and up the banshee's arm, disintegrating the spirit as it traveled. In seconds, one of the creatures was destroyed. The other, more cautious now, held its distance and regarded the priest warily.

"Banish the monster, Chris," Mara demanded as she weakly unholstered her laser pistol. "Do it before it can scream again."

Bryce thrust his holy symbol at the spirit, trying to put as much faith as he could muster into the act. The banshee darted back and forth, remaining out of Bryce's reach. It opened its mouth wide, and fetid breath filled the cockpit. Then it screamed.

The blast of sound was like an icy wind. It knocked the priest back, stunning him, causing him to drop his cross. The banshee drifted forward, ready to finish off Bryce. Mara started to rise, hoping to place herself between the monster and the priest, but a strong hand

gripped her shoulder and pushed her back down.

"No weapon you have can stop a banshee, girl," Kurst growled. "The priest is on his own. If he fails, we are all dead."

"If I don't get to those controls," Mara reminded him, "then we're dead anyway."

28

Dr. James Monroe entered the operating room. His patient, Congressman Andrew Jackson "Ace" Decker, had been prepped and Monroe had examined the X- rays. The strange metal staves produced a shadow on the film that made it hard to see detail, but it appeared that they weren't lodged too deeply in Decker's chest. When Monroe physically examined the pieces of metal, he was intrigued by the arcane symbols carved into them, and by the weird patterns of light that ran along the staves. But more so, he was confused by the lack of blood, by the cleanness of the wounds. The staves simply appeared to have passed through Decker's flesh without puncturing it. The strangeness of the whole case bothered Monroe's logical mind, reminding him of his mental struggles with the Miller/Tolwyn case.

Monroe acknowledged the attendants with a curt nod. There were two nurses, Major Boot, and a doctor who was a general practitioner. All had their surgical masks in place.

"Is everybody ready?" Monroe asked lightly.

"I don't think we should try this, doctor," the general practitioner said. "His friends repeatedly warned me against trying to remove the staves. They said it could kill him."

Monroe turned his strong gaze on the general practitioner. "Were any of these friends doctors, doctor?

Were any of them a surgeon with my qualifications? I can see why they wouldn't want you to attempt this, but surgery is what I do. Now, either take your place to assist me, or get out of my operating room."

The GP stood indecisively for a moment, then he lowered his head and took his place beside the operating table. Monroe nodded.

"Good," he said. "Unless anyone else has any problems, let's get this operation over and done with."

Monroe began with a simple clamp assembly, attaching it to one of the staves. He applied pressure, but the staff refused to budge. "Must be lodged in the rib," he reasoned. "We'll have to open him up."

He asked for a knife, and Julie handed him one. She had moved in to replace the nurse as soon as the operation became more complicated. She dabbed Monroe's forehead with a cool sponge, wiping away beads of sweat before they could fall into his eyes. Then he lowered the blade to Decker's chest.

As the gleaming tip touched the patient's skin, Monroe screamed. Fire leaped from the glowing staves into the knife and up, engulfing Monroe in burning agony. He fell back, vaguely aware that the lights in the operating room were exploding. Julie used her own body to protect the patient as glass shards rained down. There was an electric screaming that seemed to come from every piece of machinery in the room at once. It mingled with Monroe's own scream.

He dropped to his knees, sure that the fire had melted away his flesh and was now working on his nerves as it ate toward his bones. The fire crawled over him like a thing alive, bubbling the soft tissue so that he could smell himself cooking. He closed his eyes and screamed again, praying for death to take him so that he didn't

have to suffer any more of this pain.

He wasn't sure how long he went on screaming, but gentle hand finally roused him from his pain. Julie was standing beside him. There was worry in her eyes. He blinked, realizing that the pain had stopped and the fire was gone. He carefully looked at his hand and saw that his flesh was whole, unscarred.

"Decker?" he managed to ask.

"No change," Julie answered.

"Then let's get him back to his room," Monroe said. "I've got to think about this before we resume the operation."

29

Andrew Jackson Decker's dream of choices continued. He walked through another door and found himself in a barren field of crumbled rock. Next to him, standing where only a second ago nothing stood, was the Gaunt Man.

"I'm getting tired of this dream," Decker said, kicking a stone across the field.

"But it has only just begun, stormer," the Gaunt Man laughed. "And I must say, you are doing extremely well."

"Doing?" Decker asked. "What am I doing?"

Before the Gaunt Man could answer, a burst of flame erupted from Decker's chest — from the metal staves, actually — flashing brightly before it dissipated into the air.

"I see someone tried to remove the rune staves," the Gaunt Man said. Decker turned to him, concern etched deeply in his face. "Oh, don't worry," the Gaunt Man said with a dismissing wave of his thin-fingered hand. "They would need to rip them out of you before any harm would befall your body. The person who attempted the action, however, may not be so lucky."

"What are you after?" Decker demanded. "What do you want with me?"

The Gaunt Man gestured and more doorways appeared in the barren field. "I need your choices," he explained. "I need you to distinguish one possible event from another. Take this field for example. In mere minutes the ground will start to shake, fissures will appear, and you will more than likely be swallowed into a deep, rumbling pit. Unless, of course, you choose which door does not have this outcome behind it."

Decker couldn't believe it. He was stuck in a dream obeying the dictates of a madman! No, he decided, I will not let my subconscious mind turn me into someone's slave!

"Make your own decision," Decker shouted above the rising wind. Somewhere in the distance a deep rumbling began to build. It rolled like a wave beneath the ground, shaking the landscape as it passed by.

"Very well, Mr. Decker, this is your dream," the Gaunt Man said, straightening his long coat and adjusting his wide-brimmed hat. "If you have no regard for your own life, who am I to tell you differently?"

The Gaunt Man started to walk away as the ground shook and cracked wide. Long crevices split open, releasing foul, long-trapped vapors into the air. Decker lost his footing and hit the shaking ground hard. He remained that way for long seconds, trying to regain his breath. When he did move, a fissure opened in the place he departed.

On his feet again, Decker watched as the Gaunt Man walked across the field as though the ground was not shaking violently. Decker, meanwhile, was doing everything he could to stay upright and avoid the ever- widening cracks. He turned back to the doors. Already a number of them had been knocked down or swallowed into the dirt. If he didn't move soon, he wouldn't have any choices left to make. He turned again to the Gaunt Man.

"It is your choice to make, Decker," the Gaunt Man called above the roar of the earth. "It is your decision. Choose a door and life, or choose to stand where you are and die."

Decker stepped back as the earth shifted in front of him, throwing up a mound of rock. Then, without another moment of hesitation, he dashed through one of the remaining doors.

30

The banshee floated closer, and Father Christopher Bryce tried to control the fear that raged through his body. He was shaking badly, acutely aware that he had no weapon with which to battle the specter. His cross, which handily dispatched the other banshee, was lost somewhere on the floor of the cockpit. Even if it were close by, he doubted he could reach it before the grave- cold hand touched him and drained away his life force.

The ethereal arm reached toward him, spreading ethereal fingers wide. Bryce desperately forced his mind to think through the problem facing him. What was the cross that it was able to destroy spawns of hell? What power did it possess? Perhaps, he reasoned, it only possessed what he gave it, focusing his faith into a tangible field of good that no evil entity could withstand. Did he need the cross to duplicate the feat? Rationale told him no, but faith was a leap beyond the rational.

The hand was closer still.

Bryce began to pray aloud fervently, imagining the power of the words cloaking him with holy armor. "Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil..." he shouted, and the banshee flinched. He continued the prayer, each word striking the ghostly creature as if bullets from a sling. He stepped forward, filled with the power of his faith, and the banshee shrank away.

"In thee, O Lord, do I put my trust," Father Bryce said with conviction and power. "Let me never be ashamed; deliver me in thy righteousness." He saw that the banshee was growing smaller, less substantial. He was doing it! His prayers were being answered! He could stop this monster!

The plane took that moment to jerk wildly. Bryce lost his balance and hit the cockpit wall with his shoulder. His concentration dissolved with the shooting pain. Before he could clear his head and resume his prayer, the banshee struck. Floating as it was, the rocking plane was no obstacle. It touched Bryce's arm with its ghostly fingers and the priest screamed. Never had he felt such cold! In that touch was his death, and Bryce's faith crumbled only to be replaced with a numbing fear.

"Back, creature of the night!" a strong voice called out. "Back in the name of Dunad!"

The touch was gone then, but the cold remained. It raged through his arm and shoulder all the way down to his hand, causing it to hang limply at his side. Bryce opened his eyes to see Tolwyn standing between him and the banshee. She held her sword before her, commanding the monster with the authority of her god, Dunad. She did claim to be a paladin, Bryce thought detachedly, a holy knight. Of course she would have some miracles to call upon. Didn't Lancelot have such

I lowers in the stories of the Knights of the Round Table? ()h the cold hurt so bad! But Tolwyn and the others needed him. He had to shake off the effects of the banshee's touch.

"Dunad add power to my sword!" Tolwyn called as ••he swung her blade at the banshee. The power her own faith granted her was limited, however, and the sword passed through the insubstantial form without doing any damage. The banshee screamed then, aiming the full fury of its voice at the paladin. She doubled over, attempting to protect herself from the painful sound. Hut Bryce could see on her face that it hurt her terribly. And the banshee was drifting forward, intent on bringing its death touch to bear on Tolwyn.

"Here, Chris," Mara said, handing him his cross. "I found it. Hurry. I have to reach the controls and I can't do that with the banshee in the way."

Bryce took the holy symbol with his good hand and advanced on the ghost. Already he felt the power returning. He shoved the cross into the specter and shouted loudly. "Begone!" With a terrible wail, the banshee collapsed inward and vanished with a popping sound. Bryce looked down at the cross with amazement. He barely noticed Mara leap past him to grab the controls of the descending plane.

"You handled yourself well, priest," Kurst said from beside him. "If not for you, we would have died like the pilots."

Bryce nodded weakly. He had much to think about. Was his faith, even after all that had happened, dependent on relics and symbols? Could he only manifest it through a metal cross? And, if that were the case, would he really be able to provide the others with the help they needed in the place they were going?

As usual, Bryce had no answers for himself. Doubt began to gnaw at his newfound resolve, and he was suddenly very afraid.

31

Coyote sat by the window, looking out into the compound of the base. On his lap sat the gray cat with the red collar. It was Tal Tu's pet, but right now the youth needed its companionship more than the edeinos did.

"You've been through a lot, huh fella?" Coyote asked the cat. It regarded him with big eyes, then rubbed its head against his hand. "I hope they're all right, cat," he whispered. "I wish we were with them."

Outside, there was suddenly a lot of activity. Coyote glanced around, trying to see what was happening. He notice Major Boot coming toward him from down the corridor.

"Julie," he called, "what's going on?"

"Casualties," she said. She looked dishevelled and sleepless. "Incoming casualties," she repeated. "We were hit really hard up north, and there are too many for Edwards, China Lake, and Fort Irwin to handle."

Coyote pictured the map he had been studying and recalled the three military installations to the north and west. He saw something in the nurse's eyes as she spoke, something that hadn't been there before. It looked like fear. "We're losing, aren't we?" he asked.

She shook her head. "No, we're not losing. But we're not winning either. Look, I've got to go. Casualties ..."

"Can I help?" Coyote asked, gently placing the cat down.

Julie smiled. "If you think you're up to it."

"I helped Father Bryce in Philadelphia," he said

proudly.

"Philadelphia?" Julie asked. "We just got in a new doctor who's from Philadelphia."

"What's his name?"

"Dr. Monroe."

A wide grin spread across the teen's face. "Dr. Monroe! That was Tolwyn's doctor! Maybe he's the same guy. Come on, let's go see him!"

"First let's go help the wounded," she suggested.

Coyote's smile disappeared and he nodded. He followed Major Julie Boot toward the helicopters landing in the compound, wondering why Dr. Monroe had come all the way to California.

32

In the steamy jungle clime of central Borneo, there was a shallow valley that stretched leisurely down into .1 great depression. A canopy of rain forest kept the area hot and moist — perfect growing weather. Thratchen walked beside the master planter, inspecting the field. The trees had been cleared away in a small swath that ran down the side of the depression; it was a place the master planter had judged to be perfect for rainwater drain irrigation, and it also was near enough to the keep to make harvest easy.