Necroscope 4: Deadspeak (49 page)

The Challenge—

Thralls

B
EFORE HE WENT TO SLEEP,
H
ARRY TRIED AGAIN TO CONTACT
Möbius. It was useless; his deadspeak went out to Möbius’s grave in Leipzig, but no one answered. One of the reasons Harry had delayed pursuing Janos was that he’d hoped (hope against hope) to regain his numeracy—and through it access to the Möbius Continuum. This had been his plan but … it was fading now, possibly into oblivion.

Still worrying about it, eventually he slept.

But his obsession of the moment was carried over into his dreams where, separated from the lesser problems and diversions of the waking world, Harry continued to transmit his thoughts across that Great Dark Gulf which men called Death. Many of the teeming dead in their graves heard him, would answer or comfort him, but dared not. None of them was the one he sought; communication for its own sake would be pointless; they knew that their commiserations, even their inevitable approbations, would only constitute obstructions in Harry’s path. For the Necroscope had never been able to refuse conversation with the dead, whose suffering of solitude he alone of all living men understood.

There was one among the dead, however, who—for all that she loved him more than the rest—stood much less in awe of him. Indeed, on a good many occasions she had chided him. The mothers of men are like that.

Harry?
her deadspeak touched him.
Can you hear me, son?

He sighed and abandoned his search for Möbius. There had been that in her tone which commanded his attention.
What is it, Ma?

What is it?
(He could picture her frown.)
Is that how you speak to me, Harry?

Ma,
he sighed again, and tried to explain,
I’ve been busy. And what I’m doing is important. You don’t know how important.

Do you think so?
she answered.
Do you really think I don’t know? But who knows you better than me, Harry? Well, I know this much, anyway—that you’re wasting your time!

Harry’s dreaming mind played with her words and found no explanation for them. Nor would he unless she was willing to supply one. She picked that up at once and flew at him in the closest she’d ever come to a rage.
What!? And would you take that attitude? Would you take your impatience out on me? Well, the dead might prize you, but they don’t know you like I do. And Harry, you … are
… a …
trouble!

Ma, I—

You, you, you! Always you! And are you the only one? Who is this T you’re always mentioning, Harry? And why is it you never speak of “we”? Why must you always think you’re alone? Of all men
you are not alone!
For a million years men have died and lain silent in the dark, thinking their thoughts and following their solitary designs, each separate from the next but joined in the belief that death was an airless, lightless (oh, yes, and painless too!) but relentless prison … until a small bright light named Harry Keogh came along and said: “Why don’t you talk to me? I’ll listen. And then you might like to try talking to each other!” Ahhh! A revelation!

Harry remained silent, didn’t know how to answer. Was she praising or chastising him? He had never heard her like this, not even when he was awake. She had never been so angry. And his Ma picked that up, too.

Why am I angry? I don’t believe it! For years you couldn’t speak to me if you wanted to—not without killing yourself for it and finally when you
can
speak to me—

Now he believed he understood, and knew that she was right, and hoped he also knew how to deal with it.
Ma,
he said,
the others need to know about me, need to be reassured that there’s more than just loneliness in death. And they need to know that there’s safety in it, too. From such as Dragosani and the Ferenczys, and others of their sort. But there are so many of the dead—I have so many good friends amongst them—that I can’t ever hope to speak to them all. Not until I’m one of them, anyway. But you don’t need to know these things because you
already
know! Yes, and you’ve always known … that I love you, too, Ma.
She was silent.

So if there’s ever a time I don’t contact you, it’s because something very,
very
important is getting in the way. And Ma, that’s the way it’s always going to be … Ma?

She was full to the top, which was why she wasn’t answering, but at least she wasn’t crying. Harry hoped not, anyway. And eventually she said:
Oh, I know that, son. It’s just that I… I
worry
about you so. And the dead … they ask after you. Yes, and because they love you they go out of their way for you, too. Don’t you know that? Can’t you understand that we all want to help?-And don’t you know that there are experts among us—in
every
field—whose talents you’re wasting?

What? Wasted talents? The dead wanted to help him?

But didn’t they always? What had she been up to?
What’s that, Ma?
he said.
About the dead? And what did you mean: I’m wasting my time?

In trying to contact Möbius, that’s what I mean,
she immediately answered.
If
only you’d stay in touch you’d know! Why, we’ve been trying to get hold of Möbius for you ever since you got your deadspeak back!

You what? But … how? Möbius isn’t here. He’s out there somewhere. He could be anywhere. Literally anywhere!

We know that,
she answered,
and also that anywhere’s a big place. We haven’t found him yet. But if and when we do he’ll get your message and, we hope, get back to you. Meanwhile you needn’t concern yourself about it. You can get on with other things.

Ma,
said Harry,
you don’t understand. Listen: Möbius is probably in the Möbius Continuum. The dead-even the massed thoughts of
all
the dead—couldn’t possibly reach him there. It’s a place that isn’t of this universe. So you see it’s not so much that I’m wasting my time, but that you are wasting yours!

He could sense her shaking her head. And:
Son,
she said,
when Harry Jr. took away your deadspeak and your mathematical intuition, did he also addle your brains?

Eh?

When you use the Möbius Continuum, how much time do you actually spend in it?

And he at once saw that she was right, and wondered: is logic linked with numeracy in the human mind? Has my son diluted my powers of reason, too?
No time,
he said.
It’s instantaneous.
Möbius wasn’t in the Möbius Continuum—he merely used it to get wherever he was going.

Exactly. So why waste your time aiming deadspeak thoughts at his grave in Leipzig, eh? It’s like you said: he’s out there somewhere. An astronomer in life, death hasn’t changed him. So right now there are an awful lot of us directing our thoughts outwards to the stars! And if he’s there we’ll find him, eventually.

Harry had to give in to her.
Ma, what would I do without you?

I was only putting you straight, Harry. Telling you that between times you should get on with other things.

Such as?

Harry, you have access to the most extensive library in the world, books which not only hold knowledge but can also impart it. The minds of the dead are like books for you to read, and their talents are all there to be learned. Just as you learned from Möbius, so you can learn from the rest of us.

But that was something Harry had long ago considered, and long since turned down. Dragosani had learned from the dead, too. Thibor Ferenczy had instructed him—in evil. Likewise, as a necromancer, Dragosani had stolen the talents of Max Batu, and the secrets of the Soviet E-Branch from Gregor Borowitz. And yet none of these things had helped him in the end. Indeed, Batu’s evil eye had assisted in his destruction! No, there were certain things, like the future, which Harry preferred not to know. And these thoughts of his were deadspeak, which of course his mother read at once.

Maybe you’re right,
she said,
but still you should keep it in mind. There are talents here, Harry, and if and when you need them they’re yours for the asking …

Her voice was fading now, dwindling away into dreams. But at least this time Harry would remember their conversation. And at last, weary now in mind and body both, he relaxed, let go, sank down even deeper into dream and lay suspended there, simply sleeping. For a little while. Until—

Haaarry?
It was Möbius! Harry would know his dead-speak anywhere. But even by dreaming standards Mobius’s voice was … dreamy. For this was a very different Möbius, a changed Möbius.

August Ferdinand? Is that you? I’ve been looking for you. I mean, a great many of us have been searching for you everywhere.

I know, Harry. I was … out there. But you were right and they were wrong. I
was
in the Continuum! For as long as I could bear it, anyway. The thoughts of your dead friends reached me as I emerged.

Harry didn’t understand.
What’s to bear?
he asked.
The Möbius Continuum is what it is.

Is it?
Möbius’s voice was still mazed and wandering, like that of a sleepwalker, or a man in some sort of trance.
Is it, Harry? Or is it much more than it appears to be? But … it’s strange, my boy, so strange. I would have talked to you about it—I wanted to—but you’ve been away so long, Haaarry.

That wasn’t my fault,
Harry told him.
Icouldn’t keep in touch, wasn’t able to. Something had happened to me—to my deadspeak—and I was cut off from everyone. And that’s one of the reasons why I had to contact you now. You see, it’s not just that I’d lost my deadspeak, but also my ability to use the Möbius Continuum. And I need it like I never needed it before.

The Continuum? Need it?
Still Möbius wasn’t entirely himself, far from it.
Oh, we all need it, Harry. Indeed, without it there’s nothing! It is
EVERYTHING!
And … and … and I’m sorry, Harry, but I have to go back there.

That’s all right,
Harry desperately answered, feeling Möbius’s deadspeak sliding off at a tangent.
And I swear I wouldn’t be troubling you if it wasn’t absolutely necessary, but-

It … it talks to me!
Möbius’s voice was an awestruck whisper, drifting, fading as his attention transferred itself elsewhere.
And I think I know what it is. The only thing it can be. I have … to
…
go … now … Haaarry.

Another moment and he had gone, disappeared, and not even an echo remaining. So that Harry knew Möbius had returned to the one place above all others which was now forbidden to him. Into the Möbius Continuum.

Finally Harry was left alone to sleep out a night which, for all that it was dreamless, was nevertheless uneasy …

The next morning, on their way in Manolis’s car to see Trevor Jordan, something which had been bothering Harry suddenly surfaced. “Manolis,” he said, “I’m an idiot! I should have thought of it before.”

The Greek glanced at him. “Thought of what, Harry?”

“The KGB knew I was going to Romania. They knew it almost before I did. I mean, they were waiting for me when I landed—goons of theirs, anyway. So, someone must have told them. Someone here on Rhodes!”

For a moment Manolis looked blank, but then he grinned and slapped his thigh. “Harry,” he said, “you are the very strange person with the
extremely
weird powers—but I think you will never make the policeman! Yesterday, when you told us your story, I thought it was understood that I must arrive at this selfsame conclusion. And of course I did. My next step was to ask myself who knew you were going other than your immediate circle? Answer: no one—except the booking clerk at the airport itself! The local police are looking into it right now. If there is an answer, they will find it.”

“Good!” said Harry. “But the point I’m making is this: the last thing I want is that someone should be waiting for me in Hungary, too. I mean, if it works out that I must go there.”

Manolis nodded. “I understand your concern. Let’s just hope the local boys turn something up.”

Neither Manolis, Harry, nor Darcy had any way of knowing that at that very moment the police were at the airport, talking to a man who worked on the passenger information desk; to him and to his brother, against whom they’d long entertained certain grudges and suspicions of their own. Talking to them, and not much caring for the answers they were getting, but sure that eventually they’d get the right ones.

At the asylum a Sister met the three and took them to Jordan’s room. He had a room now as opposed to a cell: a small place with high, barred windows, and a door with a peephole. The door was locked from the outside; obviously the doctors were still a little wary. The Sister looked through the peephole and smiled, and beckoned Harry forward. He followed her example and looked into the room. Jordan was striding to and fro in the confined space, his hands clasped behind his back. Harry knocked and the other at once stopped pacing and looked up. His face was alive now, alert and expectant.

“Harry?” he called out. “Is that you?”

“Yes, it is,” Harry answered. “Just give us a moment.”

The Sister unlocked the door and the three went in. She waited outside.

Inside, Jordan took Darcy’s hand and shook it; he slapped Manolis on the back, then stood stock still and slowly smiled Harry a greeting. “So,” he said, “and we have the Necroscope back on our team, eh?”

“For a while,” Harry answered, returning his smile. And: “You scared us, Trevor. We thought he’d wrecked your mind.”

Darcy Clarke, after the initial handshake, had backed off a little, but unobtrusively. Now he mumbled: “Will you excuse me a moment?” He went back out into the corridor, with Manolis following quickly on behind. In the corridor Darcy was standing beside the Sister—or rather, he was leaning against the wall. And his face was white!