The Map of Time Collection, page 168
“Er . . . the truth is we didn’t talk about it much, Gilliam,” Wells faltered.
Murray looked at him askance.
“I know you well enough to be able to tell when you are fibbing, George! What is it you aren’t telling me? How does Baskerville know that the world in the mirror isn’t his? Why is Emma still alive? Is it possible that in his world there was no accident and she and I are still together?” Murray had seized Wells by the shoulders and was shaking him with each question, but after the final one his energy seemed to drain away. “No, that can’t be true, can it? Otherwise you would have told me the good news. So . . . ,” he surmised, stifling a sob, “there are infinite worlds, but Emma and I aren’t happy in any of them, damn it!”
“I didn’t say that, Gilliam,” Wells hastened to reassure him, feeling a lump rise in his throat. “All I meant was that I had a lot of questions to ask, and your coachman was fading so fast that—”
“Of course you had a lot of questions! I can think of several myself,” said Doyle, who didn’t consider it an opportune moment for anguish or melodrama. “For example, who is this invisible man? Did you ask him that, George? Perhaps he comes from another dimension as well.”
“Of course I did, Arthur!” Wells retorted, peeved that Doyle doubted him even as he noticed Murray move away from them slightly, a forlorn expression on his face. Clearly he was no longer interested in their conversation. “But he told me that he didn’t know him. That as far as he knows he has never come across an invisible man before today. However, he is convinced that there is a link between that creature and the mysterious men who have been pursuing him for the past two years, apparently with the intention of killing him.”
“Good Lord, and I thought my life was full of excitement!” Doyle exclaimed.
“He calls them the Hunters,” Wells went on. “And we saw them, too. Do you remember the incident at the opera house, Gilliam, when you saved Jane’s life?”
“Naturally: How could I forget the day our friendship began?” Murray replied sullenly.
Wells sighed.
“Then you will also remember the strange man dressed in a cloak and hat who startled the horses before quickly vanishing down a side street.” Murray nodded disdainfully. “Well, he was one of those Hunters. And guess whom he was pursuing? Baskerville! Because Baskerville was there, right behind us, eavesdropping on our conversation. That was how he found out that you intended to dismiss your coachman, and so he applied for the job. As I already told you, one of his greatest consolations was to watch over Jane and me from afar, but also over you and Emma, because in his world you were two of his closest friends. He knew you called yourself Montgomery Gilmore now, and he even watched your theatrical proposal of marriage from the top of a hill. And do you remember the figure we saw on the moor the day we went to Brook Manor, which we all assumed was a prison guard?”
“It was another Hunter,” deduced Murray, who seemed to have laid aside his annoyance. “That explains why Baskerville was behaving so oddly that morning.”
“Precisely. For the past two years, the Hunters have been tightening the net around him, forcing him to change names and jobs, although he has always eluded them, mostly through luck.”
“And what is the connection between his pursuers and the monster that attacked us this evening?” Doyle wanted to know.
“The Map of Chaos,” said Wells. “When Baskerville was alerted to our cries and came running, he heard the creature demanding I hand over that book, a book he is familiar with and that bears an eight-pointed star on the cover, identical to the one on the Hunters’ weapons.”
“Baskerville knows about the book! Then he must know its whereabouts as well as what it is for,” Doyle exclaimed excitedly.
“Er . . . I suppose he must,” Wells said gravely, “only he lost consciousness before he was able to tell me,”
“I don’t believe it!” cried Doyle. “So you are saying that all we have is a long list of facts that are apparently meaningless?” Wells shrugged, avoiding Doyle’s flashing eyes until he seemed to calm down. “Good. Let’s not get agitated. We have two Wellses from two different worlds, both of whose lives are in danger, for reasons unknown to us, and the only thing linking their strange pursuers is a mysterious book whose whereabouts are also unknown . . . It is obvious which piece of the puzzle is missing. And it is regrettable, dear George, that you didn’t manage to wheedle it out of Baskerville during your little chat.”
“Let me remind you that his words were those of a dying man, dear Arthur. He kept losing the thread, or simply repeating himself . . .”
“All the more reason for you to have reflected a bit more about what you were going to ask him. A good investigator must always make the person questioned discover that he knows more than he thinks he knows.”
“I agree with Arthur entirely, George: I don’t think you asked the right questions either,” Murray chipped in. “If it had been me, I would have remembered to ask about my best friend’s fate in whatever world.”
“Oh, I beg your pardon! Forgive me for being such a disappointment!” Wells exploded, raising his arms to heaven. “I am sure any one of you would have done much better in my place. Oh, yes, I can just see you: confronted by your twin from another world, discovering the true nature of the universe, while your two closest friends do battle with an invisible villain inside a burning house, and yet perfectly able to ponder each question calmly.”
At that moment, a terrible crash from the house shook the night, and they turned as one just in time to see the roof begin to cave in. As the house gradually collapsed in on itself, it seemed to cower, like a bludgeoned animal. Then, from among the rubble, flames appeared, reaching up to the sky as though intending to burn that, too. The din slowly began to die away, and they heard Jane’s cries.
“Bertie, he has come round!”
The three men hastened to where the old fellow was lying. Reaching him, they paused uneasily, less because of the extraordinary miracle of knowing they were in the presence of a man from another world than because they were confronted by the solemn, distressing spectacle of death. The old man had opened his eyes and was gazing at them as if he could see right through them.
“George, is that you . . . ?” whispered Murray, who had knelt down beside Jane.
The old man nodded, smiling at him weakly, his eyes suddenly lighting up.
“Gilliam, my dear friend,” he said in a croaky voice, “how happy it made me to find you again! Despite how bothersome it has been calling you ‘sir’ for the past two years—”
He broke off, a brief coughing fit obliging him to turn his head and spit out a gobbet of blood; then, wearily, he closed his eyes. Murray hurriedly shook his arm, which earned him a disapproving look from Jane.
“George, George, don’t you dare die . . . I beg you, there is something I need to ask you.”
The old man opened his eyes with great difficulty.
“You always were a pain in the neck, Gilliam . . .” His voice sounded distant, as if he were already speaking to them from the Hereafter. “As an employer, as an enemy . . . I think I can only tolerate you when you are my closest friend.”
“You are also a better friend than you are a coachman, George,” Murray chuckled, relieved that the old man had opened his eyes again. “But there is one thing I do need to know . . . Were Emma and I happy in your world? Tell me the truth . . .”
“Gilliam, please,” Wells interjected behind him, “there are more urgent matters to—”
The dying old man and his younger twin exchanged a glance. A glance so subtle and swift that Murray, who was waiting for the least sign that his coachman was fading to shake him to life again, didn’t notice it. But Doyle did, and his heart sank as he also saw the young Wells shake his head imperceptibly in response.
“My dear Gilliam . . . ,” the old fellow murmured with visible difficulty, “Emma and you were terribly happy in my world. In order to be together you had to overcome many things—too many things—but in the end you succeeded. Although I am ashamed to confess that it was no thanks to me . . . That is why, when I arrived here, I resolved to make every effort to bring you two together . . . And so I allowed myself to reply to the letter you sent to my twin, afraid that he would be as embittered as I was and decide to ignore it.”
When Wells, who had been watching the scene with a beatific smile, heard the old man’s last words, his jaw dropped.
“So it was you!” he cried, unable to restrain himself. “You replied to that accursed letter in my place! I told you all that it wasn’t me! But . . . but . . . surely you and I must have the same handwriting!”
Feebly, the old man raised the hand with the two fingers missing.
“I never did learn to write properly with my left hand . . . ,” he murmured apologetically. All at once, he screwed up his face, as if he were trying to swallow a huge, burning ember stuck in his gullet. He opened his mouth and inhaled a few meager mouthfuls of air, which scarcely filled his lungs. His next words, spoken between gasps, were barely intelligible. “Gilliam, I’m so sorry your love affair ended so tragically in this world. But believe me when I tell you that in the world I come from, nothing came between you . . . Please, cherish that thought as long as you live.”
Murray lowered his head, his eyes brimming with tears. Jane began to sob loudly. Wells knelt down beside them and contemplated the old man, bewildered, trying to assimilate the fact that he was witnessing his own death.
“George, please,” he implored. “We need to know where The Map of Chaos is.”
Doyle, who had remained standing, and had been doing his best to stay silent, stepped forward. The old man’s mouth was gaping open, and his chest was shaking convulsively as he contemplated Jane, trying to convey with his eyes how much he loved her. His eyelids fluttered momentarily and his gaze finally alighted on the younger Wells.
“Look for Inspector Cornelius Clayton, of the Special Branch at Scotland Yard,” he managed to whisper. “He has the book. And please, George, be extremely careful. I am afraid my curse is also latent in . . .”
The old man was unable to finish the sentence. His eyes opened very wide, and his chest arched upward. Jane let out a stifled scream. For a few seconds, the old man struggled to breathe in air that had suddenly grown immensely thick, but almost immediately his body collapsed and his eyes, staring vacantly, gradually clouded, until the brightness illuminating them went out. Doyle said a silent prayer, fully aware of the miracle he had just witnessed, of those bonds of love and friendship that had breached infinity to join two whole universes. The young Wells placed his fingers on the wrinkled eyelids that would one day be his, and with a gentle movement, as though he were turning a page of a missal, he closed them forever. At that precise moment, the old man’s body vanished from view.
For a long time, in that place on the moor, the only sound to be heard was the crackle of the flames daubing the trees in the driveway with golden reflections. The glow dimly illuminated the four silent figures and the emptiness where the coachman had lain, an emptiness that spoke of other worlds besides the one they knew. Perhaps three worlds. Or hundreds, or thousands, or millions of worlds. Perhaps an infinity. And in one of them, on a moor similar to this one, the body of an old man suddenly appeared, as though emerging from the dark night, adding another mystery to that world.
PART THREE
IS THAT THE SOUND OF BREATHING YOU HEAR BEHIND YOU? COULD IT BE THAT SOMEONE IS READING THIS TALE OVER YOUR SHOULDER . . . ?
DO NOT LET THAT DETER YOU, VALIANT READER, FOR WE HAVE REACHED THE POINT IN OUR STORY WHERE YOU WILL DISCOVER WHETHER OUR HEROES ARE ABLE TO SAVE THE WORLD, AND WHERE ALL YOUR QUESTIONS WILL FINALLY BE ANSWERED, INCLUDING THE MYSTERY OF MY IDENTITY.
POSSIBLY YOUR CONCEPTION OF THE UNIVERSE WILL CHANGE. AND YOUR NIGHTMARES WON’T SEEM QUITE SO HARMLESS ON WAKING. PERHAPS YOU WILL NO LONGER BE ABLE TO LOOK IN A MIRROR WITH THE SAME EQUANIMITY.
23
EXECUTIONER 2087V WOULD HAVE PREFERRED not to suffer from the feeling of guilt that raged inside him, or to experience it acutely enough to force him to sabotage his own existence. If that were to happen—if he were audacious enough to disengage, to give up that dreadful mission for which he had been created—he would finally be able to rest in an eternal, guiltless peace. But, alas, his feelings weren’t controlled by him, but rather by those who had implanted deep in the most inaccessible part of his memory that molecular code expressly designed to create the personality of the perfect killer. The Executioner had to acknowledge that the Scientists had done an excellent job, even in cases like his, where something went awry, where life prospered among the thicket of circuitry, and the orderly chains of neuropeptides rooted themselves in some cell or other, possibly in a hidden strand of soul, where they began to produce their own connections. And so, as with humans, when some emotion spilled over uncontrollably, the perfect programming implanted in his entrails would dutifully respond, attempting in some way to compensate for the malfunction. Thus his feeling of guilt at slaying innocents would be superseded by an even more intense feeling of guilt at the thought of not slaying them, of failing in his duty. Yes, those Machiavellian minds, worshippers of the Supreme Knowledge, had certainly done a first-rate job on them, a job as admirable as it was futile.
The Executioner smiled sadly, although it might be better to say that his mouth curled up gloomily. Keep calm, he told himself, nothing matters now, everything is about to end, we’re all going to die . . . He felt reassurance, even a touch of serenity, and he gradually forced his vital signs to slow, to the point where when he slid like the ghost of a ghost past a cat dozing on a windowsill, the animal’s ears didn’t even twitch. It was something the Executioner was good at. Aware that when animals sensed them they became frantic, he knew the only way to prevent that was to attain a state close to hibernation, which rendered their movements imperceptible. That was the ideal emotional state to be in when stalking. Later, when the actual hunt was on, it was necessary to give way to other feelings: tension, longing, hatred, pleasure, melancholy, and guilt, above all guilt . . . But by that stage it would no longer matter if all the dogs and cats in the area began to howl and meow like mad, proclaiming his monstrous presence to the moon. When the victim was there with him, looking into his eyes, unable to understand why he or she had to die, it was already too late.
He reached the house and slipped across the tiny garden encircling it. Had the night not been so dark, and had the Executioner not blended so perfectly with it, I would be able to describe his movements to you, dear reader, but I can only imagine them: a series of silent, almost feline steps, followed by a fluttering cloak. He had no difficulty opening one of the downstairs windows and climbing into a small dark sitting room. The Executioner lifted his cane, and the eight-pointed star adorning its handle vibrated slightly, informing him that at present the house was empty. Even so, he decided to inspect the rooms one by one, partly because he did not trust his detectors, which were in a deplorable state, and partly due to an unhealthy need to know about the lives he was about to cut short. Who lived there? What were they like? What kind of carefree, tumultuous, or humdrum existence was he preparing to destroy? He didn’t know. He only knew that whoever lived there had jumped at some point, although it was possible that his detectors had finally gone completely haywire and he wasn’t just about to slay an innocent—for weren’t they all in the end?—but an innocent who was perfectly healthy . . . That afternoon, while he was trailing a level 2 Destructor, he had thought he detected the residual aura of a Latent at the center of this house and had made a note of the coordinates in order to return there later. In fact, Latents weren’t much of a catch for any Executioner, for they were former Destructors in whom, for some reason, the sickness had entered a dormant phase. That didn’t mean they couldn’t reactivate at any moment, but, compared to an active Destructor, trailing them was not a priority. However, gone were the days when the priorities of the hunt were clear. In the past, Executioners were fitted with perfectly calibrated detectors, so that in a single day they could locate an infinite number of trails whose coordinates were clearly traceable, easy to follow and to classify. But nowadays . . . nowadays they simply did the best they could.
Without the need for any light to see where he was going, the Executioner searched the downstairs until he was satisfied that it was indeed empty; then he went upstairs. There he entered the first room he came to, a small, cozy study that had a distinctly feminine atmosphere to it. He leaned over the bunch of roses sitting on a corner of the desk and inhaled deeply, letting the delicate fragrance flood his nostrils. Then he ran his hand gently over some of the objects on the table while he thought about all the times their owner must have handled them, whether with affection, indifference, or some other emotion, imbuing them with part of her soul. Wasn’t he, too, like those objects? Hadn’t his victims, before breathing their last, passed on part of their humanity to him? Yes, for as they dwindled before him he couldn’t help looking in their eyes, and that was when he discovered whether their lives had been fulfilling or cruelly unsatisfactory; whether they left behind a trail of bitterness and misunderstanding or had known true love; whether they left that world filled with rage, fear, or a melancholy acceptance. And in that instant of absolute communication, like an object steeped in the soul of the other, the Executioner was overwhelmed by the ecstasy of Supreme Knowledge, but also by the devastating power of guilt.
Then his hand collided with what appeared to be three manuscripts. The first two were entitled, respectively, The Map of Time and The Map of the Sky, but it was the third that caught his attention. It was entitled The Map of Chaos, and on its cover the author had carefully traced in ink an eight-pointed star. The Executioner propped his cane against the table and seized the third manuscript, standing there in the darkness, reading with growing absorption what appeared to be a novel whose plot soon began to appear oddly familiar. He read without stopping up to the page where Mr. and Mrs. Wells, together with their dog, Newton, leapt through a wormhole in the laboratory of their deceased friend Charles Dodgson toward an unknown destination, leaving behind them the evil Gilliam Murray and his henchmen. When he reached that part, the Executioner paused. Raising his eyes, still clutching the pages, he stared into the distance. He remained so still that the darkness began to settle over him like a shroud of black butterflies, until he all but vanished. Then, pulling up the desk chair, he sat down and gathered up the remainder of the manuscript with what might have been a sigh. After all, he had to amuse himself somehow until his victim arrived.
