Necroscope: The Touch

  “Kelly,” Scott said, “you can let go. I’m okay now . . . not right now and not here, but now. You know what I mean. The only thing that hurts me now is the same for me as for you: the fact that I’m here, while you—”

  “—While I’m gone? But you’re too young to go on hurting, Scott. We found each other, didn’t we? So surely you can—”

  “Don’t!” Scott broke in, stopped her. “No, don’t go there, Kelly! I’m not the man you think I am. I’m weak.”

  “No,” she denied it, and he sensed the shake of her head, the warmth of her smile, “you’re strong. And if she’ll love you as much as I have, then you won’t be able to refuse her. That’s the kind of love the world is short of, Scott.”

  “If I’d known—” he cried, “if there was any way I could have known, even suspected that you were still here, there’s no way I would ever have—”

  “Shhh!” Kelly hushed him. “Do you think I don’t know that? Of course I do. But, Scott, that’s the main reason why there can be no real contact between the living and the dead! Because the material world would be full of guilty, innocent people.”

  “Kelly, I—”

  “You loved me, and I loved you,” Kelly said. “We loved our best but now I’m gone while you go on. What sort of woman would I be—what sort of love would it have been—if I didn’t want you to love again?”

  “Kelly!” And now the tears were unstoppable.

  “I’m being called,” she said, oh-so-distantly. “It’s time, Scott, and I’m ready.”

  “Kelly!”

  “Just remember,” she said, her voice faint and fast-fading now. “If you’re going to love her at all, love her as you loved me, Scott. Love her . . . the very best . . . you can . . .”

  And that was all, for Kelly’s last word had come as a sigh that joined with the soughing of the night breeze in the bordering trees. And she was gone.

  “To a better place,” Scott sobbed.

  “Oh, yes,” said Harry softly. “I can guarantee it . . .”

  Back in the Möbius Continuum, Harry said, My time’s running out now, Scott, and I still want to show you the other things. Like I said before, you may not need them, but it’s best to be prepared, right?

  Yes, whatever you say, Scott replied in a whisper, feeling completely drained.

  You see, said the Necroscope, there are doors within doors in the Möbius Continuum. Some lead to other places—but I mean physical places, not the kind of place where Kelly’s gone—and others access past and future times. We can’t manifest in those times, or rather the living can’t, though I have known one corporeal person who did; but sometimes there are clues to what has been or will be, which makes it worthwhile simply to trace the time-lines. As to how you gain access to a time-line, let’s say into the future: you concentrate on what you imagine the future is going to bring. Like this:

  And suddenly a door opened, but an entirely different kind of door: simply a hole in nothing! And as Harry guided Scott to the threshold, he said, Look!

  Scott looked . . . and was at once stunned by the wonder and awe of it! Beyond the future-time door all was a chaos of millions, even billions of lines of pure blue neon light, etched on a backdrop of black velvet. It was like nothing so much as some incredible meteor shower, where all of the meteors were rushing away from Scott into unimaginable deeps of space—but in fact into the future. Unlike meteors, however, their twisting, twining trails didn’t fade but remained brilliantly printed—fixed on the darkness, on time itself! And the most awesome thing was this: that one of these streamers of blue light issued outward from Scott himself, extending or extruding from him and plummeting away into the future. But looking aside at Harry, Scott saw no such streamer, and of course the Necroscope knew what he was thinking.

  That’s right, said Harry. These are life-threads, the blue time tracks of humanity. You have one because you’re alive. But as for myself—he offered a shrug—I no longer need one. Then he frowned and continued. As for that silver thread there, running parallel with yours, that’s a new one on me! I don’t think I’ve ever seen one of those before. But it has a tinge of blue, so maybe it’s just some kind of temporal distortion.

  Scott suspected he could pretty much guess what the silver thread was, who it belonged to, even why it seemed to be turning blue; but right now he was just too overwhelmed by what he was seeing to offer an opinion, and he could only say:

  I can’t believe I’m looking at the future. At my future!

  Everyone’s future, said the Necroscope. What’s more we can even venture a little way out there—ahead of time, as it were—to see what’s what; maybe something of what’s in store?

  Trying to hold back, Scott said, What? Do you really think that’s a good—

  But too late, because Harry had already drawn him over the threshold. And away down the time stream they hurtled, with the future always ahead of them. Until suddenly—

  A tremor . . . a temporal earthquake . . . time itself seeming to warp . . . and, quite improbably, the darkness turning a blinding white! But that was only for a split second, a mere moment, while in the next moment everything continued as before. Or not quite everything.

  For as Harry brought himself and Scott to a halt—

  Where’s my life-thread? said Scott.

  It was no longer there, not in front of him, unwinding out of him. Behind him, yes: his life-thread twined away, dwindling into the past—his past—but in front: nothing of Scott sped into the future now. And the silver thread was missing, too.

  Then, when Scott looked to Harry for an explanation:

  Time we got back, said that one, very quietly.

  But what happened just then? said Scott as the Necroscope reeled them back to the time door and across its threshold into the “basic” Möbius Continuum. What does it mean?

  There’s no sure way to tell, said Harry, a little subdued. But one thing’s for sure: the future’s a devious thing. I think we might be okay.

  We might be okay? Scott repeated him. But don’t you mean I might be okay?

  Yes! Harry snapped, no longer composed. Yes, that’s what I mean. I mean you might be okay, okay? Now if you’ll let me I’ll show you why you might be okay. Concentrate on the past, Scott. Think about what’s gone before. And this time we’re looking for my thread.

  But you don’t have one, said Scott, logically.

  No, but I did have one until recently. We’ll find it.

  They opened a past-time door, and again Scott was stricken with the stunning, the utterly surreal beauty of it. The myriad blue life-threads were there as before; but now, instead of expanding into the distance, they contracted and narrowed down as if to target a faraway, nebulous origin. For that distant blue haze was the origin: the beginning of human life on Earth.

  And in a little while: There! said Harry very quietly, as he once more brought them to a halt. You see that? That was me, Scott. Right at the end of things, that was me.

  It was a bomb-burst of golden darts, just like the one in Scott, which had changed, empowered, and was continuing to make him into what he was becoming. Indeed one of the darts—a part of the Necroscope, Harry Keogh—was Scott’s dart, which immediately following the bomb-burst had found reason to come to him. For as Harry had suffered his metamorphosis, his “death,” so in another world Kelly St. John had suffered hers. Except hers, of course, had been utter and permanent.

  Scott saw those myriad darts angling out and away, intelligent, knowing, seeking. Then they were accelerating, vanishing through doors of their own. But beyond Harry’s bomb-burst Scott had seen something else: Harry’s crimson life-thread, a thread as red as blood!

  And Harry said, Well, didn’t I tell you there was a me you wouldn’t want to have known? And before Scott could answer: But who or whatever I was then, this was the source of your powers. You can’t any longer doubt or deny them, for you’ve seen it for yourself; you know where they came from. What’s more important, you now know how
to use them. But if you still have your doubts you can always try calling for me. Who knows? I might even hear you.

  With which he reversed course. The time stream snatched at them, rushing them along; and speeding back to the present, the pair returned to the Möbius Continuum.

  Along the way Scott was silent; he had seen and learned a lot, but the thing uppermost in his mind—the person and event uppermost—was Kelly. He’d met her, the incorporeal Kelly, and had actually spoken to her. She had passed beyond all that now, to where he could never speak to her again, but he would never forget his Kelly.

  He would be without her, must live without her, but Scott would never forget her. Not his Kelly. Not ever. Never . . .

  Scott came awake no longer a small boy but a man, and yet a man who sobbed like a small boy. Wrapped in Shania’s arms, he clung to her as if she were Kelly and he wasn’t going to let go. Then he heard her voice—Shania’s voice—and knew that he had to let go.

  “Scott!” she said. “Oh, Scott!”

  “Gone,” he choked the word out. “She’s gone. But she’ll be okay, now.”

  “Yes,” Shania answered him, “and so will you.” And she was crying, too. For of course she had been with him. Shania and her Khiff, as one with Scott St. John in his metaphysical mind. And emotions such as Scott had known were catching . . .

  31

  She was warm and comforting, but she wasn’t Kelly, and just for a moment Scott pushed her away. Then, even in the semidarkness feeling, indeed knowing, that he had hurt her, he drew her close again and said, “I’m sorry, so sorry! I didn’t mean to do that. But I thought I was holding . . . I felt like I was holding—”

  “—Kelly, I know,” Shania said it for him. “I saw it all, but don’t go accusing me of spying on you. I had to see it, had to know. But what I know now, what I begin to understand, is so unbelievable, so magical, so very wonderful!”

  Wonderful? What was so very wonderful? Kelly was gone from the world, wasn’t she? Gone from everything they had ever known together, and Scott had been left on his own. But no, he’d been left with Shania.

  Trying to hide his burning eyes as Shania switched on the bedside lamp, Scott stuffed a pillow against the headboard and propped himself up. “What time is it?” he said, his words still choked, his voice still husky.

  “I’m sure you must know what time it is,” Shania answered. “You know what and why, but you don’t know how—or perhaps you do, now. And when you feel okay, when you’re ready, that’s something we have to talk about. But the sooner the better, because time really is narrowing down.” She dried her own eyes, her own amazing yet very human eyes, and sat up beside him.

  It was 3:33, of course: the time when Kelly—when she had gone to sleep—and the time when she’d woken up again, but in a better place. And Scott said, “Are you talking about the time again? Three thirty-three? But haven’t we already covered that? I mean, what do we have to talk about?”

  “We have to talk,” she told him. “About that and something else. Something very exciting, very important.”

  Exciting, wonderful, important. Scott got up, began to get dressed, said, “But we’ve been there. And I don’t know any more than I’ve already told you.”

  “But I do know more,” said Shania. “Now I know more. Or at least I think, I hope I do. And why are you getting dressed, if you don’t want to talk? We can talk about anything you want to, Scott. For instance: there may be things you need to get out of your head . . . ? And now maybe you’ll begin to appreciate the true value of my Khiff. Hurtful things can be taken away; not permanently, no, but stored where they can do no harm. Special memories, too, that can always be re-remembered whenever you’re feeling down and need—”

  But Scott’s voice was gruff when he cut her off with: “We have drugs for that, and I don’t take them either!” Then, realizing he was being hard on her for something that had nothing to do with her, he said, “God, I keep putting my foot in it, don’t I? But you see, I want my memories, good and bad. The good ones buoy me up, and the bad ones—one of them especially—oh, I need that one, Shania! I need it as a constant reminder of what still has to be done.”

  “Yes,” she said. “And I find that I’m the same; I have the same kind of memories. Mine are of entire worlds, races. My own race, almost extinct now, is uppermost in my mind. It’s the one memory that keeps me going and I won’t let it be taken from me, not even for a moment, not even by my Khiff. I say this so that you can see I really do understand.”

  On her feet now, Shania wrapped herself in a dressing gown and came around to Scott’s side of the bed. He was seated, putting on his slippers.

  “Coffee, that’s why I’m getting dressed,” he finally answered Shania’s question as she came to stand before him. “I need coffee, need to be awake. I’ve had enough of sleep for now, and I should be considering all I’ve seen, heard, learned. I feel I need to be learning more; so whatever it is you want to talk to me about, and anything you want . . . you want to show me . . . ?”

  He paused, and then, on impulse said: “But first I’d like you to show me . . . you.” Because while he had made love to her, he’d never really looked at her, not like this. And he reached for the belt of her loosely fastened robe.

  She beat him to it, let her robe hang loose. Scott looked at the incredible loveliness of Shania’s body, reached out and stroked her breasts, and said, “Kelly told me I should love you the best I can.”

  “I know,” she answered, responding, shivering to his touch. “But I wish you would love me for myself, not just for Kelly.”

  And Scott thought, That may take time. But though he tried to keep the thought to himself, still she heard it, and said:

  “Time is something we may not have a lot of. And we should make the best of what we’ve got.”

  Scott’s hands traced the perfect curves of her flanks, and he answered, “But lust isn’t love. It’s an animal thing. Surely we can’t be sure of ourselves, not yet?”

  “Well, I’m sure of myself,” she replied, her voice low and as husky as his own as she leaned forward so that he could kiss her nipples. “And after all, we are animals.”

  “I can’t believe you’ve given yourself to me.” Scott shook his head in wonder.

  “And I can’t believe you accepted me,” she replied, with a sad, wry little smile. “What me, Shania Two, a female ‘alien’?”

  Groaning, Scott hugged her close and said, “Oh, really? Why the hell not? Because you’re alien? But women are from Venus—aren’t they?”

  “Women are from . . . ?” she breathed, only half aware of what she was saying, feeling him jerking alive between her thighs.

  “Just a stupid expression,” he told her, his heart hammering and blood coursing as he hugged her buttocks and tasted her breasts. “Don’t worry about it.”

  And then as Shania slipped out of her robe, suddenly Scott found himself undressing again . . .

  “I like your coffee,” she said, sipping from a mug down in the study. “It’s vegetable-based, isn’t it?”

  “What, you mean you didn’t know that?” Scott was surprised. “But you know so much about us.”

  “Not everything,” she replied. “There’s much I haven’t had time to even consider, let alone study.”

  “You’re a vegetarian, right?”

  “Most of my people are”—she paused abruptly—“or were. A mere handful now: the ones who were off-world when Shing was destroyed. But many of us did eat a little seafood—not fish, but clams, giant tube-worms, mindless things like that.”

  “Well, I enjoy fish myself,” said Scott. “And so did Kelly. She was mainly vegetarian, too.” But then, realizing that everything was Kelly, Kelly, Kelly, and that he must let her go now, keep her memory to himself, he quickly went on: “As for coffee, it’s made by crushing small brown beans.” Then he shrugged and added, “But I don’t suppose they suffer a hell of a lot.”

  “Your pardon?” Her mouth had fallen op
en.

  “A joke,” he said.

  “Ah!” Shania sighed her relief. “You see, I’ve heard of a number of worlds with semi-sentient florae. Usually carnivores, they’re not themselves insensitive to pain.”

  “We have them, too,” said Scott. “Like the Venus flytrap. It eats flies—actually it dissolves them and then slurps them up—but it doesn’t think.”

  “Given time,” she replied, “and if your flytrap survives the geological ages, evolution will probably see to that, too!”

  “Survival,” said Scott thoughtfully. “But shouldn’t we be talking about our own survival? I mean, what was it you really wanted to talk about? You said it was important, exciting, wonderful. So what is it? Have you found a way to tackle Salcombe and these other monsters? . . . What was it you called them?”

  “The Mordris,” she answered coldly. “An insane Three Unit. No, I have no actual plan. Since experiencing your dream, however, I do have hope; some small hope at least, now. But, Scott, you must know that it was much more than a mere dream.”

  “I know it was, yes,” he said as Shania came and sat close to him, shivering and snuggling to him as if the room were cold, which it wasn’t. “Far too many of my dreams have been more than mere dreams just recently. You say that you were there with me? That you saw, experienced, what I was seeing and doing?”

  “Everything,” she answered. “And we—my Khiff and I—we felt your pain, too.”

  Scott’s eyes narrowed a little. “You know,” he said, “this is getting to be a habit that I don’t much care for. And you’re not the only one who can sneak into my dreams. That four-legged fellow upstairs, on his blanket: he’s also been known to do it! And it’s more than likely he would have been with me, too, if he wasn’t physically exhausted and stuffed to the gills with food! What I’m trying to say: surely I’m allowed a degree of privacy? Surely there are dreams I should be able to dream alone? Curiosity aside, we have a word for people who—”