The Source (16 page)

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Authors: Brian Lumley

BOOK: The Source
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Vyotsky almost had to jog to keep up with Khuv where his boss now diverted and made for Simmons's cell. “What is it, Major?” he said. “Where did that message come from and what was in it?”
“This telepathic sending we've just had reported to us,” Khuv mused, almost as if he hadn't heard the other's questions. “It isn't the first, as you're aware …” He strode urgently ahead, with Vyotsky close at heel. “Most of them have been merely inquisitive: the work of various groups of foreign seers or scryers trying to discover what's going on here. But they were very weak because the alien espers can't precisely pinpoint our location—that is, they have no definite point of focus—and also because we're protected by the ravine. Our own psychics have been able to break them up or block them easily enough. Ah, but if a foreign power could actually get an ESP-endowed
agent
inside
this place, then it might be a different story entirely!”
“But Simmons isn't talented that way,” Vyotsky protested. “We are certain of that beyond any reasonable doubt.”
“That's entirely true,” Khuv growled his answer, “but I believe they've found a way to use him anyway. In fact this message in my pocket confirms it.” He chuckled grimly, like a man who has just lost a piece in a game of chess. “It can only be the British, for they're the most advanced in this game. The people in their E-Branch are a clever lot! They always have been—and extremely dangerous, as our espers learned to their cost at the Chateau Bronnitsy.”
“I don't follow you,” Vyotsky scowled through his beard. “Simmons didn't worm his way in here; we
caught
him, and he certainly wasn't coming quietly!”
“Right again,” Khuv nodded sharply. “We caught him, and we brought him here—but believe me we can no longer afford to keep him here. That's why he must go—tonight!”
They had arrived at Simmons's cell. Outside the door an armed, uniformed soldier lounged, coming to attention as Khuv and Vyotsky approached him. In a cell next door to the prisoner's, a pair of espers in plainclothes sat at a table wrapped in their own thoughts and mental pursuits. Khuv went in and spoke to them briefly: “You two—I suppose Savinkov has told you what's happened? That calls for extra security. Be alert as never before! In fact I want the entire squad—all of you, Savinkov included—on the job from now on. Full time! These measures won't be in force for long, probably only a matter of hours, but until I say otherwise that's how I want it. Pass it on, and make sure the rosters are adjusted accordingly.”
He rejoined Vyotsky and the soldier on duty let them into Jazz's cell. The British agent was sprawled on his bunk, hands behind his head. He sat up as they entered,
rubbed his eyes and yawned. “Visitors!” he said, displaying his accustomed sarcasm. “Well, well! Just as I was beginning to think you two had forgotten all about me. To what do I owe the honour?”
Khuv smiled coldly. “Why, we're here to talk to you about your D-cap, Michael—among other things. Your very interesting, very ingenious D-cap.”
Jazz fingered the left side of his face, his lower jaw, and worked it from side to side. “Sorry, but I'm afraid you've already got to it,” he said, a little ruefully. “And the tooth next door, too. But we're healing nicely, thanks.”
Vyotsky advanced menacingly. “I can very quickly stop you from healing nicely, British,” he growled. “I can fix bits of you so they'll never heal again!”
Khuv restrained him with an impatient sigh. “Karl, sometimes you're a bore,” he said. “And you know well enough that we need Mr. Simmons fit and alert, or our little experiment won't be worth carrying out.” He looked pointedly at the prisoner.
Jazz sat up straighter on his bed. “Experiment?” he tried to smile enquiringly and failed miserably. “What sort of experiment? And what's all this about my D-cap?”
“Let's deal with that first,” Khuv answered. “Our people in Moscow have analyzed its contents: very complex but completely harmless drugs! They would have put you to sleep for a few hours, that's all.” He watched the other's reaction very closely. Jazz frowned, displayed open disbelief.
“That's ridiculous,” he finally replied, “Not that I'm the sort who'd ever have used it—at least I don't think so—but those capsules are lethal!” His eyes narrowed. “What are you up to, Comrade? Some silly scheme to lure me over to your side?”
Again Khuv's smile. “No, for I'm afraid we've no use for you, Michael—certainly not now that you've seen the inside of Perchorsk Projekt! But don't be so scornful of the possibility. I don't see that our side
could be any worse than yours. After all, they haven't treated you too well so far, now have they?”
“I don't know what you're talking about,” Jazz shook his head, stopped acting the comedian. “Why don't you tell me why you're really here?”
“But I have,” Khuv answered. “Part of it, anyway. As for what I'm talking about: I'm telling you that your people
expected
you to be caught! They couldn't be sure what sort of reception you'd get, however, and they had to be sure that you wouldn't kill yourself too soon.”
Jazz's frown deepened. “Too soon for what?”
“Before they could use you, of course.”
The frown stayed. “What you're saying feels like it's making sense even though I know it can't be making any sense,” said Jazz. “That is
if
what you're saying is true!”
“Your confusion is understandable,” Khuv nodded, “and very reassuring. It tells me you weren't a party to it. Your D-Cap was meant to fool you—ensure you'd play out your part to the full—just as it was meant to fool us! It was designed to slow us down as much as possible. I would guess your espers, British E-Branch, rigged the whole thing. And sooner or later they would also find a way to get through to you, if they had the time. But they haven't. Not any more.”
“E-Branch? ESP?” Jazz threw up his hands. “I've already told you I don't know anything about that sort of thing. I don't even
believe
in that sort of thing!”
Khuv sat down on a chair besides Jazz's bed, said: “Then let's talk about something you do believe in.” His voice was very quiet, very dangerous now. “You believe in that space-time Gate down in the magmass bowels of this place, don't you?”
“I can accept the evidence of my own five senses, yes,” Jazz answered.
“Then accept this also: tonight you go through that Gate!”
Jazz was stunned. “I
what?
”
Khuv stood up. “It was my intention all along, but I wanted to be sure you were one hundred percent recovered from your injuries before using you. Another three or four days at most.” He shrugged. “But now we've had to bring it forward. Whether you believe in that sort of thing or not, the world's E-Branches are very real. I am the appointed monitor and watchdog over just such a group of psychics, and several of my espers have been deployed here with me. Your people in the West are trying to use you as a ‘mirror' on our work here; so far they have not been successful; tonight we will ensure that they never are.”
Jazz jumped to his feet, stepped toward Khuv. Vyotsky put himself in the way, said: “Come on then, British, try me.”
Jazz backed off a pace. He would dearly love to “try” the big Russian, but in his own time, his own place. To Khuv he said: “You force me through that damned Gate and you're no more than a murderer!”
“No,” Khuv shook his head. “I am a patriot, devoted to my country's welfare.
You
are the murderer, Michael! Have you forgotten Boris Dudko, the man you killed on top of the ravine?”
“He tried to kill me!” Jazz protested.
“He did not,” Khuv shook his head, “—but if he had tried at least he would have had the right.” And here Khuv feigned outrage. “What? An enemy agent engaged in espionage, deep inside a peaceful country's borders? Of course he had the right! And we also have the right to take your life.”
“That's against every convention!” Jazz knew he had no argument, but anything was worth the shot.
“On this occasion,” Khuv answered evenly, “there are no conventions. We
must
dispose of you, surely you can see that? And in any case, it will not be murder.”
“Won't it?” Jazz flopped down again on his bed. “Well, you can call it an experiment if you want to, but
I call it murder. Jesus! You've
seen
what comes through that sphere or Gate or whatever! What chance will one man have in the world they come from?”
“A very small one,” Khuv answered, “but better than none at all.”
Jazz thought about it, tried to imagine what it would be like, tried to get his suddenly whirling thoughts into order. “A man alone,” he finally said, “in a place like that. And I don't even know what ‘like that' means.”
Khuv nodded. “Sobering, isn't it? But … not necessarily a man alone …”
Jazz stared at him. “Someone's going in with me?”
“Sadly, no,” Khuv smiled. “Shall we say instead that someone—three someones—have already gone?”
Jazz shook his head. “I can't keep up with you,” he admitted.
“The first was a convicted thief and murderer, a local man. He was given a choice: execution or the Gate. Not much of a choice, really, I suppose. We equipped him, as we'll equip you, and sent him through. He had a radio but never used it, or if he did the Gate was a barrier. But it was worth a try; it would have been something of a novelty to receive radio transmissions from another universe, eh? He also had food concentrates, weapons, a compass and—most important —a great desire to live. His equipment was all of the very highest quality, and there was plenty of it—far more than I've mentioned here. You shall have no less, maybe even more. It's all a question of what you can carry, or what you're willing to carry. Anyway, after a fortnight we wrote him off. If there was a way back, he didn't find it—or maybe something found him first. I say we've written him off, but of course he may still be alive on the other side. After all, we don't know what it's like there.
“Next we tried an esper—ah, yes! One of our very own élite! His name was, perhaps still is, Ernst Kopeler, a man with the astonishing power to see something of
the future. What a waste, you are thinking, to send such a man through the Gate! Alas, Kopeler could never see eye to eye with our way of life. Twice he tried to—how do you say it—defect? That's how
you
say it, yes, but we call it vile treachery. The fool; with a talent like his, he expected freedom, too! His real reasons in the end were most ironic: he had apparently looked into his future—and had found it monstrous, unbearable!”
Jazz considered that. “He knew he was going through the Gate,” he said.
Khuv shrugged. “Possibly. But, how do the Spanish say it?
Que será será?
Men cannot avoid their tomorrows, Michael. The sun sets, and it rises again for all of us.”
“Except me, eh?” Jazz gave a snort of self-derision. “What about your third, er, ‘volunteer'? Another traitor?”
Khuv nodded. “Perhaps she was, yes, but we can't be sure.”
“She?” Jazz found it hard to believe. “Are you telling me you actually sent a woman through there?”
“I am telling you exactly that,” Khuv answered. “And a very beautiful woman at that. A great pity. Her name was or is Zek Föener. Zek is short for Zekintha. Her father was an East German, her mother a Greek. In her time she had been the most proficient esper of them all but … something happened. We can't be certain what changed her, but she lost her talent—or so she said. And she kept saying it for all of the six years she spent in a mental institution, where she was troublesome to a fault. Then she spent two more years in a forced labour camp in Siberia, where espers kept an eye on her. They swore that she was still a telepath, and she as vehemently denied it. All very annoying and a terrible waste. She had been a brilliant telepath, now she was a dissident, refused to conform, demanded the right to emigrate to Greece. In short, she had become a problem in far too many ways. So—”
“You got rid of her!” Jazz's tone was scornful.
Khuv ignored the acid in the other's eyes. “We told
her: Go through the Gate, use your telepathy to tell us what it's like on the other side—for we've people here who will hear you, be sure—and if you're successful and after you've done all these things to our satisfaction, then we'll bring you back!”
Jazz stared coldly at Khuv, said: “But you didn't know
how
to bring her back!”
Again Khuv's shrug. “No, but she didn't know that,” he said.
“So we are talking about murder after all,” Jazz nodded. “Well, if you'd do that to one of your own, I can't see how I can expect any better. You people are … hell, you're
shit!”

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