The Last Aerie (87 page)

“Who …?” The husband looked at his young wife.

“What…?” Her eyes were big and round.

And with all the force and feeling Nathan could muster—yet with compassion, too, that same compassion which had made his father the champion of the dead—and with Zek coupling her own telepathic drive to his, he told them:
You are right, she lives, but in worlds beyond, where she has friends galore. Don’t ask about it but believe. She can be happy there, if she knows that you are happy here.

Cynthia’s father shot to his feet, moved quickly yet stumblingly about the room, knocked a small coffee table over in his haste. He searched … in vain. For of course there was no one there. And: “In my head!” he said.

“Mine too!” his wife cried.

In
both your heads,
Nathan said.
Now, do you believe? It’s a very simple thing—

“— Called faith!” cried the woman, fainting.

Her husband caught her before she could fall, and looked up, looked all about the empty room. “I … I never believed.”

But now you do?

“Yes! Oh, yes!”

Then she’ll be happy.

“But… where?”

In worlds beyond. Except, you must never think of following her,
Nathan cautioned
. For you’re forbidden, until your natural time. And then she’ll be waiting. But not alone, for all of her friends are waiting with her.

The man let himself down onto a couch with his wife in his arms. “Who … are you?” he sobbed then.

A friend of Cynthia’s,
Nathan answered, simply.
Just one of … of a Great Many …

And as the man began sobbing, and crying: “God forgive me that I haven’t believed! Thank you, thank you!” so Nathan withdrew his telepathic probe.

On their way back to the car, Zek said, “Will they be all right?”

“We’ll return at first light and see,” Nathan answered.

They did, and they saw. Wood smoke rose from the chimney and the husband was in the garden in his shirt sleeves, dismantling the swing. Cynthia wouldn’t be needing it any more, not now that she was with her friends in the worlds beyond. In a little while, as they watched, the man’s wife came out of the house and threw her arms round his neck. Talking, and holding tight, they moved inside …

Returning to the hotel, Nathan requested that Trask park for a moment or two outside the cemetery in Blackball Road. Then, as they drove off again:

“Her mother and father will be fine now,” the Necroscope sighed, relaxing and closing his eyes in the back of the car. “And so will Cynthia …”

Back at the hotel, a Special Branch man came running from his anonymous-looking car. “Sir?”

Trask could tell by the look on his face that it was important. “What is it?”

“Message. Urgent. Came in over our radio.” He handed over a note and went back to his car. Trask watched him go, thinking:
His is not to question why
. Then he read the note:

For Bravo-Tango:

Golf-Tango requests to speak to you about Tango-Tango at your earliest. Suggest you use a blender, preferably ours …

Delta-Charlie.

It was David Chung telling him that Gustav Turchin wanted to chinwag about Turkur Tzonov, ASAP “Blender” was Branch jargon for a communications scrambler …

VIII

Doors!

The drive down to London was uneventful. Back at E-Branch HQ, at three o’clock in the afternoon, Trask got Turchin on-screen; also, in the background and slightly out of focus, the Ministry Responsible’s “Man in Moscow”.

The Russian Premier was short, blocky, apparently unshakable. In his position he had to be. Currently he “presided” over food riots in Kazakhstan, massive radiation pollution in the Black Sea, terrorism in the Ukraine, Mafia-style gang wars in Moscow itself, and minor territorial and border disputes just about everywhere.

“And now this,” Turchin said, his words clipped, pared to a minimum, allowing for no misunderstanding, no misrepresentation. “In response to your timely—warning?—I found a way to access certain restricted information. So far as I am able to ascertain, your fears with regard to a high-ranking official of the USS’s security services … no, let us simply say Turkur Tzonov, are borne out—apparently. There is some evidence of modest weapon shipments to the Perchorsk Project, and —”

“Modest?” Trask put in. “I’m sorry, Mr. President, but we saw more than a ‘modest’ arms cache in Perchorsk! In fact —”

“Please!” Turchin held up a hand. “I have a good idea of what you saw. But modest, yes, in terms of the ordnance of a full-scale war.”

“But sufficient,” Trask wouldn’t be put off, “to mount an invasion on a technologically defunct country—or world! And let’s face it, there is no other requirement. Not in Perchorsk. The precautions against any kind of incursion from the Gate are more than adequate as they stand. So why —”

“—Why … is the big question, Mr. Trask. Yes, I have to agree.” Turchin had gone very quiet, which warned Trask that even his diplomatic patience had its limits. His dark eyes were glinting under bushy black eyebrows, and his thin lips had tightened. “Please let me finish.” And in a moment: “I did say that your fears were well-founded, did I not? Indeed, I have had my eye—several eyes—on Mr. Tzonov for quite some time. Alas, it is not my position to prosecute but merely to advise, in certain circumstances, prosecution. When the evidence is to hand, then there will be time enough to —”

“— But not yet?” Again Trask interrupted. I’m sorry, Mr. President, but surely time is of the essence. Tzonov is known to have megalomaniac tendencies, and in at least one instance we know him to be guilty of murder! Or at the very least attempted murder.”

“Siggi Dam —” the Premier paused and his lips tightened more yet, “— is
missing
, yes.” He half-turned from the screen, then faced it head-on. “Fled to the West, according to Turkur Tzonov, rather than face an inquiry into her part in the —”

“Escape of an alien from Perchorsk? But didn’t we tell you that would be his excuse?”

“Yes,” Turchin nodded. “And as excuses go, it would appear to be a good one. For after all, you do have the alien.”

“The … alien?” Trask countered. “He’s here, of course. But if he hadn’t been treated like an animal, not to mention threatened with Tzonov’s machine, he could just as easily be there, in Moscow. Ergo: Nathan ‘the alien’ is where he wants to be. But isn’t that his right, in a Europe with no borders or passports or persecution? And isn’t it obvious how Tzonov would build all of those old barriers again, and draw an iron curtain across the world, if he were given the chance to further his cause? Don’t give him that chance, Sir!”

“I don’t intend to. He
is
under scrutiny. Both Tzonov and … his cause.” The glint in Turchin’s eyes was now dangerous. “But slowly-slowly catchee monkey, Mr. Trask. Slowly-slowly.”

“That’s an old one.” Trask wound down a little, allowed himself the luxury of a strained smile. “But if I may advise, not
too
slowly.”

“Tzonov’s cause, yes.” Turchin didn’t acknowledge Trask’s smile. “Treason, if we’re correct. But he has many tentacles, reaching out into almost every province of the USS. I can see how eventually he might even use insurrection to further his ambitions—if he could find a way to fund it.”

“Indeed,” Trask nodded. “And I think he believes that he has found just such a way. Sunside/Starside is rich in gold. There, it’s a common metal…”

“But just as I have my—what, informers?—so he has his spies, too.” (Turchin still didn’t appear to be listening too well; but just looking at him, Trask’s lie-detector told him that he was.) “In fact he controls some of our best intelligence agents. Mindspies, Mr. Trask, in your parlance. Or perhaps, ‘the Opposition’?”

“In the old days, yes. And Tzonov would bring those old days back again. Except we can’t allow that, which anyone but a raving lunatic—or a megalomaniac—must surely see. But the damage he could do in the attempt…”

“Is unthinkable, I know. He could destroy what we’ve all been trying to rebuild for fifteen years, and in so doing destroy my country.”

“My apologies, Sir.” Trask shook his head. “But you seem to have missed the point. Much as I appreciate your concern for your country, my concern is for the whole world. To be frank, I wouldn’t mind a bit if Turkur Tzonov went through the Gate into Starside tonight. I would quite like it—if I could guarantee that he wasn’t going to come back. Or that if he did come back, it would be
as a man!
It’s not what he plans to steal from the vampire world that worries me, but the fact that he’ll advertise
this
world to whatever is waiting in there for him. That’s what really worries me: that he’ll bring something back inside him!”

For a moment Turchin was silent, thoughtful. Then he said: “Is the threat really
that
terrible?”

And Trask told him, “I know as much about it as any man of this world, and you may believe me that there is no greater threat! The Gates are doorways to pestholes; they could release a plague that would sweep across the entire planet, and destroy or enslave each and every one of us. Eventually, we must find a way to seal those Gates forever. Even the Perchorsk solution isn’t good enough; no way, not with men like Tzonov around. And especially not with him in charge of it! Why not simply recall him, get him out of there, give him a job in Moscow where you can keep an eye on him?”

Now it was Turchin’s turn to smile, however grimly. “Ah, if only it were that easy. But do you know how limited my real resources are? If I told you, you wouldn’t believe me. And you advise me to recall him? Tzonov comes and goes as he pleases, Mr. Trask. He’s a power in his own right. And the last thing I want to do is frighten him, perhaps precipitating … whatever he intends.” He shrugged, but not negligently. “Please don’t forget: Perchorsk is a fortress.”

Trask was mystified. “So if we’ve already reached the same conclusions, why are we having this conversation?”

Turchin sighed, perhaps wearily, and his shoulders slumped a little. “I love my country too,” he finally said. “I mean, I love it as well as Tzonov—no, better than Tzonov. Because I love it for itself, not for
my
self. And so I am torn two ways. You are worried about the Wamphyri … quite right, so should we all. But there is also this question of the exploitation of another world. What I’m asking is, which is the greater worry? As you and everyone else knows, my country has been desperately depleted. Could it be you’re afraid we’ll get there first, and that Russia will be strong again?”

Trask shook his head, maybe in disgust, perhaps in disbelief. “Let me repeat myself,” he said. “Getting there isn’t the problem. Containing what’s there already is. If we—I mean, if E-Branch—ever has cause to send men into that vampire world, it will be as a last resort, or an attempt to destroy the Wamphyri at their source. It will
not
be for exploitation.”

“And you’ll let me know if that time should come?”

“You’ll be the first to know.”

“Very well. And in future we must speak—like this, face to face—on a more regular basis.”

“We might very well have to,” Trask told him.

“As for now … well, as you can see, I have a great many things to do.”

“I’m sure you do,” Trask replied.

Throughout, the Ministry Responsible’s man had remained a blurred, silent figure in the background …

Days became weeks became months. Nathan was so immersed in his studies, he scarcely noticed the days flying by. But that was a cliche, for of course he noticed them. And indeed they flew! Seven complete cycles to one of Sunside’s … the sheer
velocity
of the sun across the sky was a never-ending wonder to him. He could actually see it move!

He studied engines, but only those which would have application on Sunside. Steam-engines fascinated him especially, and he acquired a tiny model to take home with him. The benefits to the Thyre would be enormous! Couple a thing such as this to the long-dead artisan Shaeken’s Wheel of Irrigation; why, the furnace deserts could be made to bloom!

Nathan could see it clearly in the eye of his mind: with a bank of wonderful Thyre mirrors focused on the boiler of an engine through all the long hours of daylight—not to mention the heat of the desert itself—the requirement for solid fuel would be minimal. And as for water: no lack of that with Shaeken’s Water Ram and Hydraulic Hoist, and the Great Dark River to draw upon where it coursed its way through black bowels of rock deep beneath the surface.

He looked at agriculture, the incredible variety of cultivated vegetables, and remembered the tales Lardis Lidesci had told of The Dweller’s garden: its wonderful produce. And every chance that came his way, he procured seeds to take back with him. Oh, the Szgany grew their own crops, be sure, but never in such abundance, with the consistency, yield and high quality of these. The potato was quite amazing, and completely unheard of on Sunside!