Chapter Twenty - Prophecy
They had crept warily back down the dark, cold corridor, now they were at the door. Paize held his gun in one hand, the torch in the other.
'Get ready, Mr Fenton. When I switch off the light I want you to open the door. We're then going to enter the lab very carefully, very quietly. Please don't do anything unexpected, I may have to shoot you if you do. Clear?'
'Perfectly,' said Fenton, his fingers poised over the control. Things couldn't be clearer.
Paize snapped off the torch. Darkness. Fenton touched the switch.
The door slid open. A dim glow seeped into the passageway. Paize stepped stealthily into the lab gesturing Fenton to follow. They edged inside slowly, making for the soft pool of light ahead of them.
Brozmam's body was sprawled on the floor. His head, shoulders and arms were missing.
Fenton gasped in horror.
Instantly Brozmam sprang into action, his top half dramatically reappearing out of the darkness as he ducked out from under the console he'd been working on. He rolled, diving for his gun.
'Darren. It's us.'
He had ended up in a crouching position, the gun pointed straight at them. He stood up, lowering the pistol.
'Where's Julia?'
'She's fine but Danielle's dead, strangled. Fenton's body's gone. There were no witnesses. Dr Retta was next door but saw nothing. Julia's with her now. We may have less time than we thought.'
Brozmam nodded. 'He saw the body?'
'Just before it disappeared.'
'Convenient,' said Brozmam. Of course, it fitted the pattern. Everything arranged just for him. Perhaps his paranoia had been justified all along.
'Any progress with the computer?'
'Limited, but I'm getting somewhere. Give me time and I'm sure I can crack it. I don't understand why Peerman thought it was impregnable.'
'Strange,' mused Paize. He turned to Fenton. 'Computers are one of Mr Brozmam's many skills. He's one of the best. There was always a healthy rivalry between him and the late Dr Peerman, but Dr Peerman always had the edge.' Brozmam grunted as Paize continued. 'He wouldn't have told us it was unbreakable if he thought there was a chance he could unlock it. He didn't give up easily. But Mr Brozmam is not known for making idle promises.'
'Dr Peerman was the chap who fell?' enquired Fenton.
'Yes,' Paize confirmed.
'He wasn't in the mortuary.'
'No, Mr Fenton, he fell down the main core shaft. It's very deep. We haven't had time to recover his body yet.'
'Did any one see him fall?'
'What are you implying, Mr Fenton?' Was that hostility in Paize's voice? Was he angry he was casting aspersions against his staff? Should he shut up now before he got himself into trouble? No. If Paize suspected Alizen then why not Peerman?
'I'm not implying anything. Brozmam and I saw two people down there. Graeme's unaccounted for. This Peerman's missing too. No one else is. It could have been them.'
There was an uncomfortable silence.
'Did anyone see Jemmie fall?' Brozmam demanded.
'Julia said she heard a shout, but she didn't see anything. I suppose he could be alive, with Dr Dezlin.' Paize sounded doubtful. 'But why? Why would he lie to us about the computer, unless he's in league with Dr Dezlin? What could he be trying to achieve?'
'To put us off the scent,' suggested Brozmam, 'stop us from trying to hack into it, make us think it's useless, a waste of time. If that's true then the computer might be the key to it all. I'd better press on.' He disappeared back under the console.
With a courteous sweep of his hand Paize offered Fenton a chair. They sat down together, Paize holstering his gun and torch.
'I think I told you, Mr Fenton that I don't believe in coincidences. In my line of work they're usually the evidence, the pointer to something else, some kind of premeditation, some kind of plot, of collusion.'
Brozmam got up from the floor. He sat down at the computer terminal.
'Unfortunately, it's just a short step from such suspicions to full-blown conspiracy theories. They're not particularly helpful either. They can paralyse you. Give you too many suspects. You can't trust anyone. Say for the sake of argument you're right and Dr Peerman is involved with your friend Dr Dezlin, then can we trust Dr Skawry? She told us of Dr Peerman's death. Nobody else was there. Perhaps she's involved too.' Julia. Surely he couldn't mean it? What was he trying to prove?
Brozmam was working the controls.
'And then there's Dr Retta. She was the only witness to Dr Bainz's death. She was involved with Dr Dezlin, something she kept secret from us. Perhaps it's her in league with him, not Dr Peerman after all. And you know her. I've seen how you look at her. She could wrap you round her finger, couldn't she? You'd do anything for her, anything to protect her. You're protecting her now, aren't you? Accusing Dr Peerman, a dead man who can't defend himself, accusing him to sow doubts in our mind, to cover up for her.' Paize had risen to his feet, his usual polite veneer gone. He was angry. Shaking. Shouting. Fenton was shocked at his vehemence. So, that was where all this was leading to. He was furious too. How dare he accuse Alizen. How dare he accuse him. He shot up, struggling to keep control.
'I'm not protecting her!' he hissed. 'I don't know what's going on. Everything is as much a mystery to me as it is to you. I don't understand why I'm here. I don't understand why she's here. I've known her a long time. I care about her. I can't help that.' He couldn't, he'd tried so hard, so long not to. 'Yes, she knows that, but she's never used it, never exploited it. She wouldn't. She's got integrity. I believe in her. I'd trust her with my life. I don't know you. I have no reason to trust you. I don't know your Dr Peerman. I'm sorry if he's dead but if there's any doubt whether he is then surely that's worth investigating, checking? I thought that was your job.'
'Integrity, Fenton? Her? She's a liar. She lied to me about Dr Dezlin. How can you believe a word she's ever told you?' The taunting words rained down on him like shrapnel.
'She's not a liar. She cares about Graeme. She kept quiet about him long enough to get her here, because she was worried about him. But she told you then. She told you about me too. Did she need to do that? DID SHE?'
'And you know all this for sure, Mr Fenton?'
'No,' said Fenton, sinking back into the chair, exhausted, 'I'm guessing. It's all I can do.'
'Thank you, Mr Fenton.' Paize was suddenly completely calm, serene, as if nothing had happened. So, it had all been an act, a deliberate provocation to see what he would do, what he would say. Fenton couldn't believe it. His heart was pounding, his anger palpable. He was shaking. How could the man be so composed? How much of that had been for real? Had he really suspected her? Did he still suspect her?
Brozmam hadn't reacted, hadn't said a word. He had been hunched over the control panel for the duration of the shouting, oblivious. Now he spoke.
'I'm in.'
The vast screen lit up, characters and symbols scrolling by, speeding past, too quick to read. Then they were gone and the screen was blank.
There was an awkward silence. Nothing happened. Brozmam started again, pressing keys lightly, optimistically. Nothing. Brozmam continued to work, tapping harder, his impatience and anger mounting.
'Lost it!' There was disgust in his voice. He stepped back from the console.
A large red letter 'D' appeared on the monitor, stark against the black background. It was followed horizontally by an 'A' then a 'R' then a 'K', the letters silently seeping across the screen.
'DARK,' said Paize, stating the obvious.
A pause.
A new line.
'I-N-V-E-S-T-I-G-A-T-I-O-N-S' crawled across the monitor.
'Dark investigations,' read Fenton. The phrase seemed strangely familiar.
The words disappeared.
A pause. More letters, this time dribbling vertically down the screen.
'D'
'E'
'A'
'D'
'L'
'Y'
'Deadly revelations,' whispered Mark Fenton.
As if on cue the second word materialised, vertical again, top to bottom, forming a second column.
'R'
'E'
'V'
'E'
'L'
'A'
'T'
'I'
'O'
'N'
'S'
The words remained on screen for a few seconds before vanishing. The screen was dead again. Then it was alive. Frenetic. Crazy. Words appearing and disappearing, scrolling up, scrolling down, crashing in from the side, from the left, from the right, appearing horizontally, vertically, diagonally, forwards, backwards, in a matrix, single letters, whole words, whole phrases, upper case, lower case, large, small. Constantly shifting, changing, but always the same four words in blood red text:
'DARK INVESTIGATIONS; DEADLY REVELATIONS; DARK INVESTIGATIONS; DEADLY REVELATIONS'
The screen cleared. Empty once more.
A pause. No more words. Then four more. New ones. They appeared in isolation, each one lasting a few seconds before being replaced by the next.
'YOUR'
'LAST'
'ORDEAL'
'AWAITS'
The final word hung there, indelible, ominous, chilling, holding longer than the previous three. Then it too abruptly vanished.
The screen was blank; stayed blank.
Brozmam hit keys. Nothing. No reaction. 'It's dead,' he whispered, alarmed. 'There's no response.'
'The computer's off?' demanded Paize, the concern in his voice obvious. If the guidance systems had shut down they would have no chance.
'No, we'd be dead by now if it was. But the interface has gone. It wasn't letting us in before but it was at least letting us try. Now I'm getting no response whatsoever. It's just ignoring us.'
There was a long, empty silence. Fenton felt strangely unnerved, frightened. It was only a computer he told himself. There was nothing sinister about it. It had just been programmed to say that. But by who? And why?
'Dark investigations; deadly revelations,' intoned Paize. 'How did you know, Mr Fenton?'
'Know what?'
'You said ''deadly revelations'' before the word ''revelations'' appeared.'
'It's a quotation,' said Fenton, surprising himself.
'From where, Mr Fenton?'
That was a good question. Where was it from? He struggled to remember. Paize and Brozmam were staring at him intently. He suddenly realised if he couldn't identify it, prove it in some way they might not believe him, wouldn't believe him. He had just implicated himself. Panic seized him. Fear. His mind had gone numb. Think. Think.
'It's Breen. Rodrik Breen,' he declared in triumph. 'It's a song called,' he paused as the implications of the title hit him, 'called Prophecy and it's on the album Rodrik Breen: Abnormal Prophet.'
Paize and Brozmam glanced at each other. Their expression said it all. They'd never heard of him. Not surprising, Breen wasn't exactly mainstream. But was there something more? Did they think he was making it up? That he had something to hide?
'Javer was into Breen,' he added, defensively. They looked incredulous. More lies. How could he possibly know what Javer had been interested in? 'We talked about him in Sprite,' he continued, desperately. They looked even more surprised, more doubtful. He was digging himself a deeper and deeper pit. 'You must have overheard,' he appealed to Brozmam.
'You did mention something about music but I didn't take much notice of that,' conceded Brozmam.
Of course! Graeme.
'Graeme likes Breen. He got me into him. There's an entertainment centre in his office. We could access the song on that, if you want to hear it.'
'You're forgetting the communications blackout,' sneered Brozmam, 'none of the devices here can link back to Central.'
'We won't need Central,' smirked Fenton, relishing his little victory, 'Graeme's like me, old-fashioned. We've not forgotten the Great Collapse. He'll have downloaded a local copy.'
'I think we should have a listen,' said Paize, ever the policeman, always wanting to corroborate the facts.
'Okay, but you know what this means? It must be Graeme who's tampered with the computer. Who else would be pretentious enough to have it quote Breen at us?'
'Circumstantial, Mr Fenton,' Paize replied. 'You know he's interested in this Breen fellow. And presumably Dr Retta would too. You, she, or an accomplice could have done it.'
He nodded wearily. 'Yes, Alizen knows Graeme's into Breen.' She'd told them to switch it off enough times. She'd hated it.
Paize and Brozmam's guns and torches were out. Paize led the way, Fenton following, Brozmam behind him. He was tired. Tired of being constantly under guard, under observation, tired of being suspected, tired of all this softly-softly stuff, of creeping about, skirting round the issues, checking and rechecking. They were running out of time. They had left the lab and were back in the corridor, the corridor leading to Alizen. Would he get any chance to speak to her alone? There was so much he needed to talk to her about. On his right the gateways to the interior yawned provocatively, tempting him. Graeme was down there; he knew it. He had to find him, before it was too late. But Brozmam's gun was at his back. He'd never make it.
They'd reached the office door. As usual Paize entered first, checking the room before inviting Fenton and Brozmam to follow. Paize went straight for the display stand and the entertainment centre, laying his torch and gun on top. He activated the unit, scrolling through the playlist, making the selection. The screen lit up displaying the album's graphic: Breen, well groomed, dapper, an abnormal prophet. Except for the eyes, they were wild and staring. Paize studied the track listing then hit play.
Brozmam had sat down behind the desk, in Graeme's chair. His gun and torch were on the table top.
The music started.
He hadn't heard it for a long time; it wasn't his favourite. His memory of it was vague. It was the last track on the album and he usually switched off before then, World without You was the one he listened to.
It was more of a dirge then a song. The music in the background was quiet, low key, slow, sparse yet somehow sinister. It played for about a minute before Breen began to speak. Speak, not sing, it was one of his more portentous efforts, a prophecy. His voice was low, droning and hypnotic.
You think you know the answers.
But you know you don't know all.
You want more, to be secure.
But you don't know what I want.
Your thirst to know knows no bounds.
You need to know. Know what? I know.
I know your hopes, your dreams,
Your ends, your means.
I know enough; know to wait.
Sooner or later you'll take my bait.
You'll call my name then I'll be there.
There to answer your despair.
It's in your soul and yours is mine.
We're the same, two of a kind.
I've waited so long,
Patient to the last.
And now your die is firmly cast.
You come to me, the deal is done.
And now at last the game is won.
Not by you, you've lost you see,
Now you know you belong to me.
You always did, you never knew.
But now you do, you know it's true.
You thought you knew the answers.
But you didn't know what I wanted.
And I did more than wait:
I summoned you.
Now your dark investigations
Yield my deadly revelations
And before the dew,
Before the dawn breaks:
Your last ordeal awaits.
The music stopped abruptly. The track had ended and with it the album.
Suddenly it felt a little colder. Fenton remembered now why he hadn't listened to the song that often. It was more than a little creepy. Graeme had liked t
o play it late at night, after a few drinks, with the lights turned down. It had been scary enough then but now it was terrifying. He shivered, glancing at the others. They stared back at him. Silence hung in the air, oppressing them.
'Cheerful chap, your Mr Breen,' said Paize, breaking the spell. 'What did you make of it, Darren?'
'Not exactly my taste, Darvad, I'd usually go for something a little punchier, more upbeat. Not so dreary.'
'Ah, but the form should be subservient to the content, Darren and I think stylistically it matched the theme. Wouldn't you agree, Mr Fenton?'
'Yes,' muttered Fenton, confused by Paize's levity.
'Oh, come on, Mr Fenton, you can do better than that. Elaborate. Mr Brozmam doesn't always pick up the nuances of these things. Help him out here. Tell him what it's about.'
'It's about overreaching ambition,' Fenton found himself saying. It was coming back to him, Graeme holding court late at night, arguing with Phil, pontificating on the song and its meaning. 'It's an old theme, the idea that knowledge is bad and too much of it is dangerous. There are some things mankind is not meant to know, the sort of irrational rubbish that held humanity back for centuries. The mystics still believe it. But there's more to it than that. Knowledge is dangerous not just for itself but what you have to do to get it. Ends and means. Your purpose may be valid but you do questionable things to achieve it. History is littered with moments where people have done iniquitous, evil things in the name of some perceived greater good.' He thought of the Great Collapse, Merrius and his survival purges, killing millions in the hope others could live. Then there was Graeme, abandoning Alizen because she was interfering with his work, the work that led to this place. It wasn't on the same scale but the principle was the same.
'Very good,' said Paize, the professor again, 'but what about that your soul is mine business?'
'Variation on a theme,' replied Fenton. 'You want knowledge so badly you'll do anything to get it. You'd sell your soul to the Devil for it if you could. There's an old myth about it, a something pact.'
'Faustian?' suggested Paize.
'Yes,' said Fenton slowly, making connections. 'You know, I think Breen was quoted somewhere as saying originally he was going to call that track Negotiations with the Devil. He changed his mind because he thought it was a bit too obvious. Are you thinking what I'm thinking?' He was going cold all over with fear.
'What are you thinking?' asked Brozmam.
'He's thinking there may be a more sinister source for Graeme Dezlin's sudden flashes of genius than just precocious talent, aren't you, Mr Fenton? You're thinking he gets his insights via a hotline from the Prince of Darkness. And what's the cost of the subscription, his soul? Is that what all this is about, his contract's expired and the bill's arrived?' Paize was trying to make a joke of it, but it wasn't funny. It was terrifying.
'Well, it would fit, wouldn't it? We're in Hell, in Pandemonium, the high capital of Satan and his peers. Something's warping space. Graeme thought it might be a door. What if it's the doorway into Hell? We thought this place was bad but it isn't Hell, it's just the car park. That thing out there,' he pointed at the shutters, 'is the front door and he's opened it. Overreaching ambition? Some things man not meant to know? That's the point of this place. It was impossible to get in here before Graeme started meddling. It was a bloody big Keep Out sign and the arrogant fool ignored it.' He stopped dead. It was getting worse.
'But why did he do that?' he asked, his voice rising with mounting hysteria, 'why him? Have you thought about his name? Dezlin. It's virtually Devil; or destiny. You heard the song. There's no choice. You belong to me. You always did. It was his fate, his destiny to come here, to open that door. He had no choice, just like I've got no choice, no chance. I've seen the future. I'm going to be shot. I'm going to die.' He was shouting, panicking, fear and chaos taking possession of his mind, his soul.
Paize slapped him hard across the face.
He stood there shocked, surprised, dazed, he could taste blood in his mouth, in his head, feel it pounding through his tired, confused mind. He was still alive.
'Nonsense, Mr Fenton. Fit the facts to theories by all means but the theories have to be credible, not fantasy. Think of another explanation.'
He was breathing quickly, panting, struggling.
'Someone's programmed the computer to quote Breen; someone who knows Breen.'
'Yes, Mr Fenton,' said Paize pulling Graeme's precious copy of Milton off the shelf, 'someone who knows a thing or two about myths, legends, poetry.'
'Graeme!'
'He does seem the most likely candidate. But why would he do it?'
Fenton thought for a moment. Paize had got the book out of the slipcase and was idly turning pages.
'He's trying to play with our minds. Trying to manipulate us. Trying to frighten us.'
'Frighten us, Mr Fenton? Look at Mr Brozmam there. He wasn't frightened. Why was that?'
'Because he didn't understand, he didn't know.'
'Precisely, Mr Fenton. Ignorance is bliss. This would only work on someone who could join the dots. How many people could do that here, Mr Fenton?'
'You and me.'
'Would I have made the connections without you playing that song for me? I don't think so.'
'Then just me.'
Paize nodded, laying down the book. 'I think you're right. You are being persecuted. The questions now are why and how we deal with it. Keep a clear head. Your last ordeal awaits.' He squeezed Fenton's arm. It was anything but reassuring. 'Remember we're all rationalists here. That's our strength. We're not afraid of the dark.'
The lights came on. Full. Fenton's hands instinctively jumped to his face to protect his smarting eyes. They rapidly adjusted to the glare. There was a rumbling noise. The wall opposite the desk was moving! It was splitting, a gap emerging. It was a pair of double doors. They slid apart revealing the lab behind them, the room he was to die in.
Everything was on, just as it had been in the recording. Lights blazed, instruments winked and flashed, equipment hummed and chattered. The main screen and all the other monitors were alive, spluttering with static. But just for a moment. They all rapidly resolved into the same grainy shot: a long corridor stretching away into darkness. Two shadowy figures appeared, just passing the camera. They were walking away, their backs to the lens.
'Where's that?' demanded Fenton.
'It's the interior,' said Paize, walking forward through the doors into the lab.
The image split on every screen. Now there were two pictures. Different. Different passages. The figures had vanished into the distance in the first corridor. They reappeared on the second, backs still to the camera, walking away. But then they were back in the first image, the first walkway. They were in both! The picture doubled again. Four images. Four corridors. Four pairs of figures, walking away from the lens, unidentifiable. The picture quadrupled. Sixteen images, sixteen sets of marching men, thirty-two people. The picture split again, and again, and again. Fenton lost count of the number of images. There were two figures on each, walking away. They were dressed identically to Graeme and his team.
'What's happening?' spluttered Fenton, still standing in the middle of the office.
'It's not the same image.' Brozmam had got up from behind the desk. He was walking past Fenton to the newly revealed doorway. 'They're all different, different cameras, different corridors. There must be hundreds of them down there.'
'They're all the same people, Darren,' whispered Paize. 'It must be one of Julia's temporal disturbances. They're everywhere simultaneously.'
'They're in the labyrinth,' muttered Fenton. It confirmed everything he had suspected. 'We need to get down there. That's Graeme!' He shouted pointing at the screen. It was the body language, he was sure of it.
'We're not going anywhere, Mr Fenton. We're going to observe from here. And while the power's back on we're going to try and get in touch with Central.' Paize boomed authoritatively.
He coul
dn't believe it. They weren't going down there, weren't going to investigate. It might be their only chance. It was Graeme. He was everywhere.
'I'm not Alizen. I don't take orders from you. I'm not on your team,' he spat. 'I'm going down there.'
'We won't let you, Mr Fenton.' Paize was disinterested, distracted, watching the screens. The figures continued to swarm across them. They wouldn't let him. They had the guns. No they didn't! He glanced back. Paize's pistol and torch were lying discarded on top of the display cabinet. Brozmam's were unattended on the desk. Paize's were nearer.
Brozmam had caught his eye. He knew. There was no longer any choice.
Fenton dived for the gun. Brozmam was quick, lunging at him, but he was too far away. Fenton was already at the cabinet, snatching at Paize's pistol. He stumbled, rolled. Somehow he landed on his feet. He sprang up, praying the gun was in his clenched fist. It was. It was pointing straight at Brozmam's face. Brozmam froze, transfixed by the muzzle. Perfect. Perfect range. Half a metre. They were so close even he couldn't miss but Brozmam would never close the gap before he could fire. Brozmam's eyes glittered with fury. He couldn't believe he'd been beaten so easily, that he'd made the elementary mistake of being caught without his gun. But the real shame of it was he'd lost to such an unworthy opponent, to Fenton of all people. And in that moment Fenton remembered everything he had suffered at Brozmam's hands: the impotence, the humiliation, the fear, the anger, the catalogue of indignities he had inflicted on him. He had barged into his life, kidnapped him, kept him in the dark, mistrusted him, ignored him. He had treated him with condescension, treated him with contempt. He had drugged him, dragged him here, made him spacewalk, risked his life. He remembered it all and hated him for it. Revenge would be so easy.
'DON'T-TEMPT-ME!' he hissed.
There was something in his voice, his eyes that must have frightened Brozmam. He backed away, raising his hands above his head.
'Don't be a fool, Fenton!' shouted Paize from beyond the doorway. 'We don't know what's happening down there!'
'And we never will, if we don't look,' he screamed back wildly. 'Besides, I'm already dead. Remember? I've got nothing to lose.' He waggled the gun. Brozmam got the message. He moved away from the cabinet. Stepping through the doorway he joined Paize in the lab. Keeping his eyes on them Fenton snatched up Paize's torch with his free hand then he was backing up to the door to the corridor, the barrel roaming between them.
'Don't!' ordered Paize, but it was too late. He savagely elbowed the door control, heard the hiss as it opened behind him. He was through it. The passageway was in darkness. He thumped the panel. The door slid shut sealing Paize and Brozmam behind it. He had seconds. He flicked on the torch and dived across the corridor, through the gateway.
Into the labyrinth.