The Messiah Choice (1985) (36 page)

"Time is up. Choose," said the Dark Man.

"I—I will go with you, you monster of evil," she told him. "I will play your games and, as you say, leave the fight now to others. I give up. I have no right to cost him his life or limb for my pride."

Greg MacDonald almost passed out with relief.
I
owe you one, honey,
he thought, still worried and fearful but feeling a little better.
More than one. And I'll repay it.

"A good decision. And I will in fact keep my part of the bargain. Now, rise and come with me, Angelique."

She did so, and together they walked to the door, then stopped.

"Turn and face me, Angelique," he ordered, and she did so.

"By the oaths and spirits which bind all and rule all, do you agree to come with me, without protest, without resistance? We do not ask that you convert, only that you no longer fight. Do you swear?"

She hesitated a moment and swallowed hard. "Yes. I swear."

There was a sudden roaring of the wind outside as if the storm had returned, and it seemed to Mac Donald that it penetrated the room and made it chilly. It was gone in a second, and the Dark Man reached over, opened the door, then turned back to the man on the bed.

"Our one compromise is this, Mr. MacDonald," the Dark Man warned. "You do not really figure prominently in our plans from this point. If you come again, there will be no one to save you." And, with that, both he and Angelique stepped over the body of Maria, snoring on the floor, went out, and closed the door behind them.

He could feel the presence leave, feel will and strength coming back into his body. Suddenly he leaped up, ran to the closet and pulled out his rifle, then ran to the door and outside, almost tripping over Maria.

He shouldered his weapon and looked around, ready to kill even Angelique to save her from this fate, but there were no cars visible except the van and two others parked in front of rooms down the block.

There was a sudden, great flapping noise, as if some impossibly gigantic bird had launched itself into the air above him. He turned and looked up, and for a moment saw a shape there, a huge, dark, terrible shape of a creature that was more monstrous than he could ever imagine, rising with incredible speed into the night sky. Before he could react, it was gone in the clouds.

He lowered the rifle, cursed, and spat. He needed Bishop and Rook. He needed a drink. No, he needed a distillery. He suddenly was aware of the cold and chill and looked down. Before any of that, he realized, he needed some pants—if he hadn't inadvertently locked the damned door behind him.

Poor Angelique!
he thought sorrowfully.
What will they do to you now?

13

A SMALL, DEVOUT BAND OF SCOUNDRELS

"Why is it," Bishop Whitely asked grumpily, "that it is impossible to get a decent coddled egg in any restaurant in this country?"

"Because they ran away from home and mother when they were too young and turned their back on culture," Lord Frawley responded. "On the other hand, why are the best restaurants in London run by foreigners?"

Gregory MacDonald smiled and shook his head, although he wasn't in much of a mood for smiling. These two old men acted like doddering British codgers most of the time, and it wasn't an act. It was just difficult to take them all that seriously, and they were at heart very serious men indeed.

"So he really said to you, 'Why this is Hell, nor am I out of it?' " the Bishop asked between bites of toast.

"Or something like that. Why? Is it important?"

"It's Goethe," Whitely responded.
"Faust.
It's what Mephistopheles tells Faust when they're discussing the bargain and the demon's pressed on just what Hell is like. He may have a point, too. This world is going to hell. You can see it, sense it, feel it."

"It's been going to hell since I was a boy," Lord Frawley noted. "It hasn't gotten there yet."

"Ah, but that's a relative thing. I've been studying the news since I've been here, and I've called in for correlations. Did you know, for example, that those grisly murders in San Francisco made page fourteen of the
Chronicle
and didn't even rate a mention in the national news or in other papers? Not long ago that would have been headline news. Even Tass would have covered it as evidence of how lawless and savage and decadent the West was. Now it's barely a mention.

Single murders, ordinary ones, and most rapes don't even get a line any more. Now people take it upon themselves to drive into crowds and play 'smash the pedestrian' in many major cities. It's almost common. Serial killers used to rate big play—they're still talking about Jack the Ripper, after all. Now there are so many that the media is hard pressed to come up with macabre new nicknames for them. Assassinations and assassination attempts are so commonplace it's odd when there's a day without one. No, Pip, it's on the move."

"Modern times, that's all. It's the price we pay."

"No, there's a pattern. It's well distributed, and the incidents are almost geographically uniform and patterned out. The beast is loose. People are going mad in droves, and the rest of the population is increasingly terrified. Nowhere is safe. We're being primed with violence." Whitely paused a moment and looked over at Greg. "He didn't ask you who the King was?"

"No, that was the most insane part of it. He as much as said that they let her run loose at least partly to expose the organization, yet he didn't ask me a single question about it. It was as if it didn't matter any more."

"Perhaps it didn't. Perhaps he already knows all he needs to know and has other plans. Perhaps he needs an opposition. Indeed, he may just have known that you don't know who the King is."

"But that's just the point," MacDonald said, slowly drinking his coffee. "I
do
know. And I would have spilled it, I have to admit. I would have spilled
anything
at that point. Until now, I've never really believed that somebody could be pure evil, but I've met him now."

"Rubbish," Pip sneered. "Evil is a relative term related to goals. This fellow had all sorts of electronic gimmickry to use and to disguise himself, but did you feel that he was supernatural, somehow? Or was he in fact a human being?"

"Well, Hitler was a human being, so I suppose it's not too far off. Yes, I'd say he was human.

He wears boots, anyway. I could tell by the sound when he walked out. He has that power—

tremendous gobs of it—but you could tell he really hated to use it. He much preferred the pistol and the physical threats and torture. He was such an arrogant, totally self confident bastard that you wanted to strangle him, but he was a pro. He knew exactly what he was doing and what buttons to push."

"After all she's been through, though; to surrender that easily. ..." Frawley muttered.

"But that's the point, isn't it?" the Bishop responded. "I mean, he set her up for alternate rises and falls. He gave her physical freedom, but took away looks and communications abilities. He let her run free, even gave her a taste of power and killing, knowing that she'd be forced to give that up and lock herself in just to foil them. Then he lets her run, gives her plenty of rope—too much, as he admitted, a price of that arrogance and self-confidence—but at the very moment of consummation he appears to first show her closest friend in the world to be a Judas and worse, then to taunt her not with any more horrible things to her but rather to him, once she's really committed herself for love. Considering her background, her extreme naivete, it's a wonder she didn't crumble before this."

"Many brave men and women are dead because they preferred it to crumbling," Frawley noted.

"But many more aren't. The threat of death is still the strongest one. Consider—ask a group of women what is the worst crime that they fear and nine out of ten will say rape right off. Yet the vast majority of women who have been raped are still alive and even healthy. Why? They were given only two choices—the rape, which was incredibly repugnant, or death.

That's the same principle the Dark Man uses. He finds the thing you fear the most, whether it's death or perhaps paralysis and total helplessness, as in Angelique's case, and he gives you two choices. Let your mind and body be raped at will by him, or choose what you truly fear the most.

It's quite effective, and it's an old story. He's just far better than most at determining your worst fear."

"He's got a computer to analyze his victims for him," MacDonald pointed out. "Funny. He quoted Orwell, too. I thought that was about as appropriate as could be, under the circumstances."

"I'm quite a bit more interested in how our friend here explains what happened to Maria," the Bishop commented a bit smugly. "No odd laboratories, no big computer or giant radiation dishes, nothing. Here, in the middle of nowhere, the Dark Man is not only able to appear at will but also exercise those considerable powers of transmutation."

"I don't know the explanation, damn it," Lord Frawley growled. "I don't know how the process works, but it's self-evident that it does. With that sort of disguise, anyone could play Dark Man, even with the Dark Man broadcasting his voice via satellite. There's a logical explanation for what happened, if we only knew and understood the physics—I feel sure of that. Who knows what kind of transmitting and generating systems the corporation might now have all over the place, ready to be deployed as needed?

Still, it doesn't change the basic situation. He can do what he claims to, no matter if he hides behind satanist claptrap or really believes it. They can re-make and transform whole populations into slaves of any design, reward with youth and beauty or punish with age and infirmity at their whim. It's a terrible weapon."

"I still can't understand why he left me whole and unchanged," MacDonald put in. "I mean, he had me cold, and I represent a demonstrated and very real threat to him, if not the power to thwart his plans, at least the threat of doing damage that might be very inconvenient. If I'd had him at a similar disadvantage I know I wouldn't have let
him
go."

"Oh, I suspect that was for Angelique's benefit," the Bishop replied, sipping his tea. "She had to be reassured that you were whole and safe or the bargain would have been invalidated. If he'd done anything, he wouldn't have your paralysis as a threat to hold over her any more. I suspect he thinks he's put a sufficient scare into you at this point that he doesn't really worry about you that much. If anything, you're the price he paid for getting her complete cooperation."

"You know how that makes me feel. The question is— now what?"

"We must take direct action against the buggers, obviously," Lord Frawley stated flatly. "We must put them out of business."

"Yeah," MacDonald responded, "but that's easier said than done. It was tough enough getting
off
that
island. Now you're telling me we have to get on it and do a lot of operations when their power's strongest there and they can even sic invisible monsters on you at will."

"Exactly so," Frawley agreed. "An air strike is out. We might get some buildings and lots of innocents but we wouldn't touch that computer—and it could bring massive defensive armaments to bear on any such attackers. A full sea landing, assuming we could convince some nation of the extreme danger and get their troops, would be just as bad and couldn't be hidden. A nuclear missile or bomb would do it, but even if we could get one it's unlikely we could deliver it without going through the sort of channels SAINT can control and counter. Actually, I might be able to use some of my old terrorist contacts to actually
get
a small and dirty bomb in a few weeks, but those little monsters still weigh a few hundred pounds and would have to be assembled on the spot by experts. How would we get it there and in? They have radiological monitors that are the best in the world to keep ships and boats with such things away, and a whole naval force to intercept. They'd take no chances—we'd be blown out of the water."

MacDonald thought it over. "Not necessarily. Remember, my primary job at Magellan before all this blew up was to test and if possible penetrate security at company installations. I only failed once, and that was in the middle east against an adversary who was clever and of whom I knew nothing. With Jureau gone, Ross is the top security man there and just the type to play ball with any of them. I know him well, and I know what types of things he'd employ. I beat their system once, and recommended how to plug the holes. What do you bet that they implemented that report?"

Frawley almost choked. "Good Lord! You mean they are defending themselves on the standard level according to a plan
you
devised?"

"I'd almost bet on it. Oh, they'd modify it a good deal, and they have these powers that will have to be taken into account, but Ross is not very creative and he's also quite literal-minded. His ego, arrogance, and self confidence also fits in with that crowd now running things. And, if that's true, we have a built-in edge."

"Indeed? What is that? I'd be delighted to find any edge for our side at this point."

"I made my living by making fools of the professional security men. If I failed again and again, I'd have been fired. I had to succeed to prove my worth to the company."

"Obviously."

"Well, I plugged the major leaks and openings, of course, but I always left something else open or slightly flawed so that if I ever was ordered to try the same place again I could still beat the system. I figured three separate ways to get into the Institute and picked the easiest last time. I succeeded, then plugged those holes, but I made only token changes against the other two ways, sufficient to foul up somebody who didn't know they were there but easily bypassed by me. Now, I can't
take
the installation, but I can get a small group of experienced infiltrators in with equipment—even, possibly, your bomb."

"Pip," Frawley was rubbing his hands in glee. "Why, this is marvelous! Marvelous!" He
looked over at Whitely, and stopped and frowned. "So what is wrong with you?"