Brian Lumley - Psychomech 03, page 5
'It was a very rare and insidious cancer. Whether the woman was your wife or not, she had it. Her accidental death had been sudden, violent, and was probably a mercy. We still don't have all the answers to cancer, and in this woman . . . well, it had gone too far. The eyes had been the first to succumb; that's the way it is with this form of the disease. That was my opinion at first sight, before the actual post-mortem. That is to say, before my class had assembled, shortly after the body had been brought in. It was also my opinion, at that time, that she was about forty-five years of age.'
Stone waited for him to continue, finally prompting: 'So you checked her . . . her availability, on the hospital's computer.'
'Yes, and her age, etcetera, as I've told you. Then I made a few preparatory incisions and generally . . . you know, got her ready. I left her under a thin rubber sheet, secured the operating theatre and went to welcome my class and give them a brief introductory talk. That took maybe half an hour, and - ' Seeing Stone's face - how he had screwed his eyes tightly shut - Likeman waited.
Finally Stone took a deep breath, opened his eyes and said, 'I'm sorry. Go on.'
'I'm sorry too, Mr Stone. Sorry right now that I'm a pathologist. Sorry to have to put, you through this. Especially sorry that all of this happened to me. Anyway, the rest of it isn't pleasant.*
The rest of it?' Stone gave a sardonic snort. 'I suppose I'd do well to remember that you make a living cutting people up! But . . . okay, we've had our fun, now let's have the serious part.'
Likeman stared hard at him. 'I understand the way you must feel, Mr Stone, but try to imagine how I have felt for the last four months. You will understand by the time I've finished, believe me.'
'Get on with it while I'm still willing to listen,' Stone grated. 'I've just about had enough. Ask the rest of your questions, or tell the rest of your tale, but get on with it.'
'No more questions,' the doctor shook his head. Til simply give you the facts. Then, if you have any ideas . . .'
'The facts, then,' said Stone. 'But quickly, please.'
Likeman's face was shiny now with sweat. He nervously brushed back his hair, took up his drink, said, 'Very well. I told my students that in the corpse we were to examine they'd find evidence of a rare cancer; I told them the accident had saved the woman a lot of suffering; and then I took them to the operating theatre and removed the rubber sheet from your wife's - from the woman's - body.'
Stone's heart was pounding in his chest. Suddenly he wanted to stop Likeman - but at the same time he had to know. It had to do with the things Vicki had told him in her last moments. Those mad things she said as she lapsed into The Gibbering.
'Under that rubber sheet - ' Likeman paused to lick suddenly dry lips, ' - how can I explain it? I had left a female corpse in that room just half an hour ago; the dead body of what had once been a very attractive woman; but now . . . ? Well, there was no autopsy, Mr Stone. Not as such, certainly not as a lesson. Christ! - half of my class simply passed out, fainted away! I should have known -the smell. . . !'
'Likemanr Stone croaked, his flesh crawling. 'What the hell - ?'
Likeman took out a handkerchief and held it to his mouth. His hands were shaking very badly now. 'It was the same woman, I swear it. Same small scars, same injuries - everything. But. . .'
'But?'
'But this woman had been dead for ... for quite some time. Do you understand? There had been a complete collapse of the tissues, the fluids. A katabolism. And it was still in progress. She . . v she seethed, Mr Stone.'
Stone could see that Likeman was neither mad nor lying. 'Oh, Jesus!' he whispered.
'I got the students out of there,' Likeman finally went on. 'A little later I forced myself to go back in. By then it was all over. The corpse was quiescent - which is what you'd expect of a mummy! Bone and skin . . . and little else. I knew she had died only recently, but pathologically - this was a woman who had been dead for more than a quarter of a century!'
An hour, two hours later, still Stone sat there in his study, quite alone now. In his hand a pair of diamond earrings Dr Likeman had given him - just as he had given them to his wife ten years ago - and in his mind Vicki's voice, crystal clear, repeating some of the last words she ever spoke to him:
'I remember being blind,' she said again in his reeling head, 'and I remember dying . . .'
Chapter Four
J. C. Craig dreamed.
He dreamed a strange dream whose roots went back to a man or creature long since passed from all human knowledge, all minds and memories. Except Craig's own.
The creature himself (he had been a huge hybrid Negro, a warped, ESP-endowed albino) featured only rarely in Craig's dreams, and then only as a dark and enigmatic polyp on the periphery of Craig's subconscious mind. He featured no more than this because Craig had never known him, and also because the Psychosphere had struck his name and being from the face of the Universe. Only his mental voice remained. Only the thoughts and commands he had projected into Craig's mind more than twenty years ago.
For deep in the vaults of James Christopher Craig's awareness, hidden in the darkest reaches of his subconscious mind, Charon Gubwa's telepathically implanted seeds had taken root and grown. And with the passing of years they had fruited into post-hypnotic fungi, taking grotesque and malignant forms.
The fungi were his dreams; the malignancy was the way he had interpreted and acted upon them; the result was -
- Psychomech!
Psychomech the Oracle, through which Craig would one day talk to God in the waking world even as he now talked to him in dreams. And Craig always talked to God in his dreams, for that had been the essence of Charon Gubwa's instructions: that whenever Craig slept he would hear his voice, hear and obey! And over the years that voice had become the Voice of God himself, and His Word was the Law!
Craig's conversation with God was always the same, it had changed very little over the twenty-odd years since first he dreamed his strange dream. Craig himself had changed, certainly, but the conversation had grown almost meaningless through repetition until it was little more than a ritual liturgy. It always started the same way, and always in the same place. Craig was in that place now.
He looked about him in his dream and saw the usual, awesome things - awesome despite their familiarity.
As always, he was in a vast workshop whose walls must lie beyond the farthest horizon and whose ceiling was miles high and lit with great rows of glaring neons, curving away in dazzling procession over the edge of the world. Or perhaps the workshop was housed in a great dome, but a dome enormous beyond Craig's measure.
The floor of the place was of rubber-tiled concrete, where great lathes and grinders and cutting and stamping machines lay bedded, silent, waiting for the hand of some master machinist. Miles of cable, of electrical wiring, of tubing both metal and plastic, lay coiled on their drums; while overhead, bogy-mounted cranes and hoists crouched like monstrous mantis, or spiders poised upon webs of steel track. The bright gleam of metal was everywhere, everywhere the smell of plastic and oil and pent electricity; but nowhere a whisper of sound, nowhere the smallest motion, nowhere the slightest sign of life. Except in Craig himself.
Or perhaps there was life here - life of the Highest Order - but so hidden or strange or different from Craig's own that his knowledge of it was more instinct than intelligence. He sensed it was here but could never quite pin it down. Like being in a soaring cathedral - or on wild, wind-blown cliffs overlooking a mighty, tormented ocean - or gazing up into the everlasting vault of heaven: one senses a Presence but is never allowed the smallest glimpse. Or very rarely.
God? Craig assumed that it must be God. He more than assumed, for Charon Gubwa's fungi had long since spread through all of his being. They no longer sprouted in his subconscious alone but had rooted in his very psyche, his id, his personality. And that made them part of his waking world, too.
But for the moment he dreamed, and in his dream he heard the Words of God:
Craig, are you listening?
'Oh, yes, Lord, I hear you.'
You will hear and obey.
'You know I will, Lord. I am your obedient servant.'
That is good! Only hear and obey me, James Christopher Craig, and I will make you a priest of my temple, and you shall know no other Lord but me.
'Lord, I embrace thy faith!'
Ah? - but it was not always so.
'No, for I was blind, Lord, and did not know you - and in my ignorance I sinned. Thus you have instructed me, Lord.'
And what was the nature of your sin?
'I would have made a false god, Lord. He had man's face and form, but desired to be more than man.'
He was evil, this man who would be a god!
'Yes, Lord, and through you I have come to know my sin - to know it and to repent and to humble myself.'
. . . What was his name, this evil one?
'Garrison, Lord - or so you have told me.'
And what work did you do for this . . . Garrison?
'I went in unto his temple, Lord - went in like an idolater- and there builded him an oracle.'
A false oracle for a false god!
'Yes, O Great One!'
And did the oracle have a name?
'It was called Psychomech, Lord.'
And you knew this · Psychomech in all its parts and functions?
'Its parts were many. I am but a man. I -'
But did you not build the oracle?
The machine was, Lord. I made it more powerful, more efficient. Garrison instructed, and I obeyed.'
Garrison made you his fool, James Christopher Craig!
'Yes, Lord.'
But 1 shall strike him down - not for your folly, but for his blasphemy!
'It shall be as my Lord desires.'
And when he is no more and his works are made as nothing, then shall you be forgiven.
'Thank you! Oh, thank you, Lord!'
A weak, false god, this Garrison, and his oracle Psychomech flawed. For me you shall build a new, purer, more powerful Oracle; and I shall reward you; and you shall be a priest in my temple, James Christopher Craig.
'But . . . the oracle Psychomech was complex, Lord, and -'
Have you forgotten your skills? Are you not worthy of the Great Work I place in your hands?
'Worthy? Only let it be so, Lord! But how may I remember all that was - '
You WILL remember! Though it take a month, a year, ten years - you WILL remember!
'I... I will remember, Lord.'
You will look back and see all as it was, as it still is in the eyes of your memory. No smallest detail shall escape you. Yea, and you shall build me a Psychomech! And soon Ishall make myself known to you, James Christopher Craig; and you shall be first among my flock and shall be saved.
God's voice was fading now, echoing away in diminishing waves that were lost amidst horizon-silhouetted banks of machinery. Craig felt very small in the vast workshop, dwarfed by piles of inert components and wires and tubes and printed circuits and microchip matrices.
'Lord, don't leave me!' he cried in sudden terror.
Build me my Oracle, James Christopher Craig. Build me my Machine . . . The voice was a drifting whisper now.
'When shall I know you?' Craig wailed his desperation.
Soon, soon . . .
'When?' Craig was impatient, frustrated.
Build me my Psychomech . . .
And suddenly Craig remembered. 'But I have built it! Psychomech is, Lord!' He waited with bated breath, but -
- Nothing! God had departed, as He always did at this stage. And mighty machine shadows pressing in on Craig, and the immense workshop silent and eerie as a tomb of robot kings . . .
Craig shrank down, down, down into himself.
And awakened.
High above the main gate and security control room of the huge PSISAC complex, two night watchkeepers looked down over the sprawling steel and concrete body of their ward, smoked cigarettes and talked in low voices as they kept vigil. Tonight's duty was largely static, for these two at least; in fact they merely tended PSISAC's security systems. Their official place of duty was down below, in the control room, but a smoke and a breath of fresh air had not seemed remiss.
They were two of ten such caretakers working in and from control points throughout the ninety-acre expanse of laboratories, processing plants, workshops, assembly areas, offices, reception and recreation areas, and loading bays which comprised PSISAC. The complex was a giant, but at the moment a slumbering giant. Neons around its perimeter glared its name like a challenge to the night, in tall letters of glowing light, far out into the Oxfordshire countryside:
PHILLIP STONE INDUSTRIES
(SATELLITES & COMPUTERS)
From the tower, the watchmen could mark the plodding progress of their fellow security operatives through PSISAC's streets and alleys, the narrow beams of their torches occasionally cutting into and probing the darker, deeper canyons. Ten men might seem a mere handful for an area so huge and mazy, but in fact they were more than sufficient. All were armed with dart-firing sleep pistols; huge alsatians were their companions and plodded beside the patrolmen where they quartered PSISAC's labyrinth; their forces were supplemented by a backup of security technology which could detect, pinpoint and track even the random excursions of night-venturing mice. More than sufficient, yes - but James Christopher Craig, PSI-SAC's Managing Director, was a very security conscious fellow.
'Work here, run the place, yes - but actually live here? Inside the complex?' One of the men in the tower, Geoff Bellamy, shook his head. 'That's what I call over the top! Dedication run rampant!'
Bellamy was talking about Craig. Even as he stated his opinion lights came alive in the Dome, a structure standing roughly central in the rectangle of PSISAC's sprawling body. Lacking the accustomed naked industrial glare, subdued almost, the lights nevertheless showed that Craig was up and about, doing whatever it was that Managing Directors did at 3:00 in the morning of chilly October days. For Craig lived in the Dome; it was his home. He might simply be making himself a sandwich or a coffee; he could be pacing the floor of his study, ponder-ing the problems of some new project; possibly he was at his drawing board, intent upon some modification in the design of the communication or energy-broadcasting satellites which were his speciality. Or ... he might be fast asleep, entirely innocent. His daughter Lynn could be the real culprit.
'See?' Bellamy inclined his head towards the Dome's lights. 'The man's a workaholic!' Bellamy's companion and instructor, Frank Harding, smiled at the other's comment. 'He always has been,' he said. 'Can't say it's done him much harm, though. I wish I carried a half-per cent of his weight around here - not to mention his wallet!'
'Huh!' Bellamy retorted. 'Money and power aren't everything.'
'No,' Harding winked, 'but they're a good start! Anyway, I don't see much wrong with Jimmy Craig. He's one of the old school - believes that if there's work to be done, the best way is to up and do it. Dedication? Over the top? Possibly - but some people work to forget, you know. It sometimes serves to take the sting out of life.'
'But isn't that just what I'm getting at?' Bellamy was adamant. 'I mean, with all he has going for him you'd think he'd take it easy. Christ, there'd be no sting in my life, I can tell you! But from what I've heard about him, it seems he tries to pack eight days into every week!'
'No,' Harding shook his head, 'seven days into six. He never does a stroke on Sundays. He's of a dying breed, Old Craig - a God-fearing man.'
Bellamy was young and new to Phillip Stone Industries, which was why he was under instruction. Harding was an older man who had been at PSISAC since the days when it was called Miller Micros and consisted of a half-dozen Nissen huts in a three-acre plot. He had known Jimmy Craig - albeit from a distance - through all of those years and respected the man, and not alone for his energy and ideals.
'Not any old common-or-garden boffin, our Mr Craig,' he now informed Bellamy. 'Long before he was a director, he was one of the country's top micro-engineers. Still is, they reckon. Has his name on more high-tech products than just about anyone else alive!'
If the younger man was impressed it hardly showed. 'Holier than thou, I've heard,' he grunted. 'And there are lads on the factory floor who find his lifestyle more than a bit odd - I mean, him living in the complex and all, and only his daughter in the Dome there with him. Know what I mean . . . ?'
Harding nodded. 'Oh, yes, I know,' he answered gruffly. He spat his disgust over the tower's parapet. 'Dirty-minded bastards!' Then he turned up the collar of his overcoat, stubbed out his cigarette and caught hold of Bellamy's arm, pushing his face close in the cold starlight.
'Listen, young Geoff,' he said, 'and I'll tell you a couple of things about James Christopher Craig. Not a lot because I don't know a lot - though I know a sight more than you! - but it might explain one or two things and ease your inquisitive mind a bit. Might even keep you out of a bit of trouble, too.'
He released the other's arm, turned and leaned his elbows on the high parapet, cupping his chin in his hands. He gazed out over the silent complex. 'Craig's wife died eleven years ago when their kid was only nine or ten years old. She was a lovely woman but pretty frail and her kidneys were up the creek. They tried dialysis but she couldn't face up to it, and her complaint was rapidly deteriorating. So ... she had a transplant. Her system rejected it and everything went wrong. Today - ? No problem - but ten years ago . . .' he shrugged. 'All in all, the thing was over in a couple of months. But it left Jimmy Craig on his knees, he'd loved that woman so much . . .
'But... he got himself together, got down to the job of bringing up his daughter. See, he had only two things left: his work and his daughter - and maybe his faith too. Anyway, the way I see it, PSISAC and the kid were all-important to him and he didn't want to cheat on either one of his responsibilities. So he took a short cut, killed both birds with one stone.'
Bellamy nodded. 'They came to live in the Dome,' he said.
'Not just like that, no,' Harding shook his head. 'First he had to build the Dome! See, he'd always had his own private workshop right there in the centre of the complex, where the Dome is now; so he got Phillip Stone's okay, built the Dome over his workshop and made his home there. And when all's said and done that's all the Dome is, a home.'
