Chapter Twenty-Six – The Hunt
He was racing down the corridor. It was getting darker, the light from the cage of fire fading into the distance behind him. Ahead of him everything was pitch black. He slowed down, snapping on the torch. Its beam picked out a crossroads. Cautiously he approached it, horribly aware that the thing could be just round the corner, waiting for him. He checked the junction. It was clear. With a sigh of relief he turned left. He crept slowly up the dark passageway.
What was he doing? How could he even consider fighting that thing? Fear and panic were welling up, threatening to overwhelm him.
Stop. Think. Be calm. He had surprise on his side. But could that be enough? Even if he got the gun could he snatch a shot at it before it could use its powers against him? Probably not. But what if it was lying about its abilities? It could exploit time, he'd seen that, but did it have complete control? Alizen had suggested it might only know how to take advantage of the anomalies when they occurred, it couldn't create them. He was suddenly excited. Maybe it had already exhausted its opportunities. Was that why it had vanished? Was it hiding somewhere, lying low, vulnerable until its powers returned? And it was in human form. Did it need to eat, to sleep? Could he catch it napping?
He stepped forward.
The corridor was suddenly blazing with light. He felt a rush of nausea.
Instinctively he stepped back, into darkness.
He swallowed nervously. Was this it, one of Graeme's temporal instabilities?
Tentatively he moved forward. It was light again.
Something in his mind screamed at him that this was wrong, unnatural, that he had to retreat. He felt sick. There was a strange buzzing in his ears. He forced himself to keep going.
The noise stopped. The nausea passed. He was through it. The lights were bright and the station was warmer than it had ever been. Pandemonium must be back on full power. No, the power wasn't back on, it just hadn't failed yet. He must be back in time. When was it? Had Graeme opened the fracture yet? Could he stop him?
Get that gun first!
There was another junction ahead. He turned right.
He was at the armoury. He put down the torch, keyed in the code. The door slid open.
It was a glorified cupboard. There was a full rack of eight identical guns, ammunition, some backpacks. Nothing else. He'd hoped there might have been other weapons but there was no choice: he had to take a Semaaser. He reached out then froze. A full rack. Julia had said there was a missing gun. So it was him who had taken it. He stepped back in shock. Was he playing into its hands? Should he walk away? Graeme's words echoed in his mind. Doing something had to be better than doing nothing. This way he had a chance.
He grabbed a pistol. It was a bulky, heavy thing with a stubby, brutal looking barrel. It stank of oil. He didn't know much about guns, the little he did he had learned at Gadder's gun club seven years ago. Graeme had insisted on dragging him along. He'd only gone once. He hadn't enjoyed it much. It had been a lot harder than he'd expected. He'd got nowhere near the bulls-eye. He shook his head at the memory. It didn't bode well for his chances now against a moving target. He flicked off the safety catch, slotted a magazine into place, pulled back the bolt. Should he test it? A shot might alert it to what he was up to. But it might already know. It could be watching him now. If it was then the whole scheme was doomed to failure, it could disarm him at any moment. So why hadn't it? It hadn't done, so it couldn't be watching. Maybe he had a chance, but if he did it would be his only one, he'd just get one shot at it. If he'd got something wrong and the gun didn't fire then he would have lost that chance forever. He couldn't risk it. He gripped the gun with both hands, pointed it down the corridor, braced himself then squeezed the trigger.
The gun roared, kicking back, slamming into him. He snatched his finger off the trigger. There was a hot acrid smell, a wisp of black smoke curling from the muzzle. He checked it over. In seconds he had shot off about eight bullets, a quarter of the clip. He was right. He really only had one shot, it would be empty the instant he fired it. It was unlikely he'd get time to reload. He hit the release. The magazine slipped from the stock, clattering as it hit the floor. He grabbed a fresh one, slid it into place, worked the bolt again. Should he take any spares? They could save his life, they could save Alizen. The gun alone was heavy enough. Too much weight would slow him down. But he'd never get the chance to come back here for more ammunition. He grabbed two magazines, threw them into a backpack and tossed it over his shoulder.
He turned to go. The torch was lying on the ground. Did he trust the lights to stay on? No. He grabbed it.
He had to get back to the lab.
He set off, turning left, the heavy gun in his right hand, the torch in his left, heading back down the corridor, back towards where Graeme had been.
He reached the point where the lights had changed. He stopped. Was the disturbance still there? Would it take him back to his own time? Did he want to go back? He could suddenly think of a million things to ask Graeme but he didn't expect him to still be there, there had seemed something chillingly final about their parting. And if the thing wasn't here yet in this time then he had a chance now to stop it from arriving. Was that possible? It had said it had always existed throughout history, that everything was inevitable. Inevitable or not he had to try. He was better off staying here in this time if possible. But could he get back to the lab without passing through the instability?
He was wasting the little time he had. If there was another route he would have no idea how to find it. He had to go back the way he came. He took a deep breath and stepped forward.
Nothing happened. The lights stayed on. The interface had gone. He carried on walking, retracing his steps.
To his amazement he could still see the flickering shadows of flames on the wall ahead of him. The cage and Graeme must still be there. He turned the corner.
The chamber was empty. Both the cage and Graeme were gone. Shadows continued to ripple across the walls but there was nothing to cause them. He stared at them in bemusement. Light without a source, an effect without a cause: another time anomaly. Was it safe to cross the floor? Without the cage he could make out more of the room. It was circular. There were a number of exits. Some clearly led back down into the interior, the labyrinth. The daemon motif was painted on the ground. There was a clock on the wall. It looked like it was showing standard and local time. A date would be more useful. He stepped forward to see it more clearly.
Darkness.
Instinctively he stepped back, expecting the light to return.
Nothing changed. It was still inky black. Waves of nausea surged through him. He staggered backwards, ears ringing. He was struggling to breathe. The air suddenly seemed thick and viscous, choking. He was coughing, spluttering, tumbling through what felt like dense, cloying liquid.
It was over. He was back in the light again, sucking in oxygen, panting, blinking.
'Mark Fen-ton?'
He started at the sound, familiar but unfamiliar, Graeme's voice, but strangely hesitant, as if the mind behind it was not used to speaking with that tongue.
He spun round in alarm, eyes stinging.
The thing was standing in one of the doorways. The black goggles gave nothing away but there was a look on its face, an inflexion in its voice: surprise.
It wasn't expecting him.
Wasn't expecting him yet!
In triumph he dropped the torch, grabbing the stock of the Semaaser with his now free left hand, steadying his grip as he brought it up to fire.
The figure darted back through the gateway to the labyrinth, the underworld.
His target was gone.
He raced after it. The corridors were blazing with light. It was just in front of him, disappearing down side passageways, round corners. He couldn't get a clear shot. He couldn't afford to waste the ammunition. It was moving strangely, staggering like a new-born foal, tottering as if unused to running on those legs, yelping in te
rror. He was going deeper and deeper, the light fading. He felt dizzy. It was getting colder. He'd lost it. He'd lost himself. He had to keep going. He was running, panicking, scared. He caught a glimpse of it silhouetted down a side passage. He was firing before he had time to realise what he was shooting at. It was himself, standing helpless, locked in the frozen spacesuit. For a second the stream of bullets sparkled harmlessly off the walls but then they showered over the spacesuited form, sending it tumbling to the ground. Brozmam and Javer shot back at him. His gun was empty. He dived for cover.
The firing abruptly ceased. He glanced back. They'd vanished. The light was fading. He stopped. He was swaying on unsteady feet. His head was aching. He had to reload the gun. He flicked the catch. The hollow magazine fell to the floor, ringing as it hit. With trembling hands he grabbed another from the backpack. He jammed it into the pistol and pulled back the bolt. He slung the bag back over his shoulder. Only one spare clip left. He'd lost the torch. It was alright though, there was still some dim light.
Suddenly it was pitch black. Fear flooded him. It was cold, bitterly cold. Where was he? He'd never find his way out. He'd freeze to death down here.
He could hear movement, footsteps, ragged breath, panting, a cry of pain. He pressed himself back against the cold wall, frightened, gripping the gun tightly, pointing it into the darkness.
Light blossomed.
'You're breaking my arm!'
'Be grateful I don't break your neck. Now shut up. Just concentrate on shining that torch. Drop it and you're dead!'
Julia bustled past him, propelling a hunched up Fenton in front of her.
Follow her!
He started to move but they were already gone. The light was returning.
The thing limped across the corridor, chattering in fear.
It vanished down a side passage before he could fire. He chased it. Lost it.
He was running into a dead end. He pulled up just in time. He recognised it. It was the remains of the airlock lift. He spun round to see the backs of three spacesuited figures. Then they were gone.
He was panting. He felt sick.
He glimpsed the thing again. It ducked through a doorway.
He followed, sweeping the corridor ahead of him with the gun.
Silence.
Then footsteps approaching.
Hoarse grunting.
Getting closer.
Fenton levelled the Semaaser.
A monstrous misshapen shadow reared up in front of him. He cowered back into the gloom waiting for a target.
Julia emerged through a doorway shining a torch, pointing her gun. Brozmam was right behind her, Fenton's prone body draped across his shoulders.
'Darvad won't be happy about that,' she said.
'Well, looks like none of us will have to live with it for very long,' grunted Brozmam.
They were gone.
Total darkness.
Stark, primeval terror. Something was pounding in his head.
Then that laugh again, echoing around him.
He moved forward slowly in the darkness, fear consuming him, ice crunching underfoot. A light suddenly flared ahead of him illuminating a tall figure. Fenton sprinted forward, firing straight at it. He couldn't afford to miss. He didn't. The salvo hit Brozmam squarely in the chest, the impact flinging him back, smashing him into the wall, the light vanishing as the torch fell from his grasp.
Horrified he blundered round a corner, stumbling to a halt. He stopped, panting. He turned back, expecting, hoping to see Julia but there was no sign of anyone. There was no light. It was totally dark.
The clip was finished.
He was unarmed, alone in freezing blackness.
He was petrified.
He struggled with the gun in the dark, managed to pull out the dead magazine. He felt around in the backpack for the final one, fitted it. It clicked into place. Was it secure? Would it fire? He threw away the empty bag.
With his free hand he felt along the icy tunnel for an opening, an agonising moment of suspense as he inched further and further along the passageway, clawing at its sides. There was nothing, just smooth, cold, glassy walls.
Terror.
His fingers curled around an opening, a corner. He pulled himself round it into a new corridor.
There was a chink of light in the distance, a doorway. A shadowy figure lolloped across it.
He ran, hugging the gun.
He was back in the circular chamber in dim flickering half-light, just in time to see it disappear down one of the other exits. It was bitterly cold.
He raised the gun, ready to follow.
'Mark,' Dezlin's voice echoed out of another of the doorways. It was the familiar tone from the encounter in the office, the calm measured one, not the stilted croak he had just heard.
It stepped out of one of the doorways. ''Tis here,' it said.
He raised the gun.
But it was already standing in another opening. ''Tis here.'
He twisted to aim at the new target.
But it had vanished.
''Tis gone.' The whisper reverberated around the gloomy room.
Fenton turned and turned, swinging the gun, sweeping the chamber but there was no sign of the thing.
But its voice continued to mock him.
'You've missed your chance, Mark. I barely remember that encounter. It was aeons ago for me. I was new born, minutes old, my powers barely tested. You could have slain me then, but you weren't quick enough. You don't have the killer instinct. You never will. Now, I am headed like the hydra. If you chop me down I grow back stronger. You'd have to strangle me at birth.'
Birth. The recording! He'd been there when the thing had first taken possession of Graeme. There with the loaded gun. He gripped it tightly. He still had a chance: a last chance. He glanced around. Shadows were still rippling across the walls, the shadows cast by the absent cage of fire. The anomaly! It must still be here, in this room.
He stepped forward.
Nothing happened.
He moved forward again.
Still nothing.
He stepped to the side.
The thing was cackling with laughter.
He stepped back.
Forward.
Nothing.
Back again.
Darkness. Noise. Nausea.
He staggered forward.
The room was blazing with light. The laughter had stopped.
He stood there for a moment, waiting for the taunting voice. Nothing. It was silent. Had he lost it?
The station was throbbing and buzzing.
The clock!
It was twenty-three fifty-seven, standard time. Three minutes to midnight.
It had been seventeen-fifty when Brozmam and Javer had taken the call from Central in his flat on K5.
Brozmam had said at that first meeting with Paize that was nine hours ago.
Four hours must have gone by since then.
Thirty-one hours after midnight.
He freed me but thirty-one short hours ago.
Fenton ran and ran, gripping the gun.
He staggered round the corner. The door to the lab was open, light and sound spilling out of it. He was panting, exhausted.
'Navigation?' demanded Graeme Dezlin's voice curtly. Fenton ran for the door clutching the heavy pistol to his chest.
'Absorbing variations, two percent surplus capacity remaining.'
Fenton burst through the doorway.
Graeme Dezlin was standing in front of the window, his back to him.
The fracture was already open. Dazzling energy was burning and blazing around it illuminating Dezlin in a daemonic halo of light.
'Yes, yes, yes,' it whispered.
'NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!' screamed Fenton. He raised the bulky handgun pointing it straight at him. He fired. It chattered, spitting bullets.
But Dezlin was gone.
He was shooting at nothing, vacant space. The bullets splattered harmlessly off the wind
ow's armoured glass. He desperately snatched his finger back off the trigger.
The Semaaser spluttered and died.
There was a tiny tinkling sound as the spent cartridge cases hit the floor then there was silence.
He was standing there surrounded by seven strangers, all wearing goggles. All dressed in green tunics. They were staring at him in mortal terror, in fear of their lives.
Suddenly they were all moving, staggering in pain, in torment, screaming, a dance of death. One was clutching at his face, at the pommel of a dagger protruding just above the right eye, another blundered forward spontaneously bursting into flame. Fenton spun round, averting his eyes from the horror. He ran for the door. He was virtually there as a figure reeled past him. It was coughing, choking, soil pouring from its nostrils, from its open mouth.
He was back in the corridor, the door slammed shut behind him. He sank to the floor in shock, hunched up, his back to the wall. He was panting, sick with fear, with revulsion. He could barely hear the muffled screams and wails beyond it. But he could hear them. He was sobbing, clutching at the hot gun with clammy hands, hugging it to him.
The noises stopped.
They were all dead.
He was still alive. He prayed she was. He mustn't give up. He couldn't give up.
'Congratulations, Mark.' He raised his head to see the thing looming over him, triumphant. 'It's over now. The charm's wound up. You've done everything you had to. The rest is silence.'
Point blank range. Fenton jerked up the gun and pulled the trigger.
It clicked uselessly. The last magazine was finished.
'Did you enjoy my little performance, my little jest, Mark Fen-ton' the tone was an exact match of the rasp he had heard minutes before. It swayed on its feet, mimicking the staggering run, gave a little frightened yelp. 'Did you really think for a moment that you could outwit me? That I have anything other than total dominion over time, total power over you and your pitiful fate? You never had a chance. You really should never have bothered. But then that's been the story of your life hasn't it, Mark? You rust unused, not daring to do, but when you finally assert yourself it all unravels. The prophecy is fulfilled. You fulfilled it yourself. Everything that was to have happened has now happened, with just one minor exception, your death. But that can easily be arranged. You've been the falcon trying to snare the falconer, the quarry stalking the hunter. But now you're out of arrows.' It raised the ancient pistol. 'I, on the contrary, have a full quiver. I will always have a full quiver.' It raised its left hand, opened the palm. Glittering bullets cascaded down like a waterfall, a never-ending stream of obsolete ammunition. 'I can pluck them from the air. I think you'd better run, Mark.'
He dropped the useless, treacherous gun, staggered to his feet and ran.