Jack Chalker - The Messiah Choice

They moved, sub-machine guns at the ready, and ran out into full view and then quickly up the steps to the Lodge’s deck and inside the door. The other pair had been ahead of them.

They all immediately pulled down or put back on their infra-red goggles and proceeded along their set paths. MacDonald and the Sikh went down immediately to the library. Dim emergency lighting had come on, switched there by the computer from its own power supplies, but now they were in the domain of SAINT itself. The terminals in the library were all on and their flat screens were glowing.

They heard more muffled explosions upstairs. The other team was checking out and cleaning out the upper areas if possible, guarding their rear. It had been agreed that until they were clearly discovered and exposed, they would use the grenades exclusively. With all the explosions and fire about, they might be taken for secondary blow-ups from the big blast.

“Hello, Greg,” said the smooth, cultured English voice of the computer from one of the terminals. “I must say I’m not surprised to see you here.”

He and the Sikh whirled, but there wasn’t anything to shoot at really.

“It’s sealed the doors!” MacDonald told Shad. “They aren’t blast-proof up here, though. Let’s blow ’em! Don’t touch the terminals, though!”

“I must say, Greg,” the computer continued, “that I’m most impressed with you and most angry at Mr. Ross. He will suffer for all this damage. However, you can’t win, you know.”

They got back as the door blew, then settled back on one hinge. They got up and pushed it out of the way and then continued on down.

The Sikh led the way, and they found the door at the bottom stuck open and went in. This level, the third, was the central control room area for the computer and security complex. Not caring now, they fired around in both directions, mowing down the dozen or so men and women struggling to get a handle on the damage done by the initial blast.

Access to SAINT was now just one floor below, but it would be hard to get down there. The doors down from this point were thick and blast-proof and could be operated only by the computer. They were also of the sliding type with a full-height locking mechanism, and solid as a rock. This was the point where they knew they might be stuck and where they might not pass, as SAINT was hardly going to open the doors for them and they couldn’t bring enough firepower to really blast through doors that would take an anti-tank missile. Frankly, they were a bit surprised to have gotten this far this easily.

As they were trying to figure out some sort of plan, almost incredibly one of the doors opened and two figures stepped out, talking angrily. One was dressed in the reds of the computer technicians, but the other was dressed from head to toe entirely in black, including a black mask covering his entire face. His voice gave the last clue.

“Some people are going to wish they were dead before this is over,” growled the Dark Man, without his eerie electronic protection.

They didn’t hesitate. Almost at the point where the pair saw that they were not alone, both MacDonald and Shadrach opened fire. The force of the machine gun blasts cut through both men, knocking them back against the wall. The two invaders approached the door and the two limp forms carefully, but the door remained open. The Sikh, again, led the way, and as he approached the Dark Man he frowned. “No blood,” he said. “The other is covered in blood…”

He stooped down, carefully, reaching out to remove the mask. The Dark Man did not bleed, but his black uniform was riddled with holes.

Suddenly the black-clad figure reached out with lightning speed, pushing at the Sikh and throwing him into the air as if he were a child’s toy. MacDonald pulled the trigger on his weapon, but it wouldn’t fire. The Dark Man was on his feet now, and chuckling softly.

Although he would have sworn he’d never actually use it up to a moment before, he found himself popping a poison pill into his mouth and crushing it between his teeth.

“I hope you like licorice,” the Dark Man said, sounding vastly amused. “It is not only appropriate, it is the first flavor that popped into my mind.”

The sweet, distinctive taste in his mouth left no doubt that the pill was not as advertised, but MacDonald did not feel relieved.

Suddenly the Sikh gave a terrible cry in his own tongue and leaped from a desk straight at the Dark Man.

“Go to your God, Sikh!” said the inhuman man, and sparks flew from his gloved hands and enveloped Shad in mid-air. He shimmered and disappeared, leaving not a trace of himself or his weapon to fall to the floor.

MacDonald took advantage of the distraction to hurl himself forward onto the Dark Man, knocking him down on the floor. Caught off-balance and unaware, the black clad man fell and was partly pinned by MacDonald, who was working in one fluid motion. He reached up and grabbed the tight black stocking mask over the face and yanked hard enough to pull it completely off.

Greg MacDonald screamed, then got quickly up and backed away from the Dark Man, who was slowly getting to his feet.

It was a horrible face, beyond a dead man’s face, the face of one who had laid in the ground far too long. Much of the skull was showing, and what skin remained was peeling and flaking in rotten bloated masses. One lidless eye was hanging, partly out of its socket, the other in, huge, bloodshot, and staring. Unkempt hair grew where skin still adhered to skull, and it was matted and mixed in with the rotting flesh. There was suddenly a stench in the room, a stench of meat left too long in the sun.

It was an impossible face, a face that held a grim, fixed expression and one that was such a horror that he could not bear to look at it, although he couldn’t bear to turn away.

“I told you I didn’t wear this mask to hide my identity,” said the Dark Man through rotting lips. “It disturbs some people to look upon it.”

“Noooo…!” MacDonald screamed. “You can’t be! You can’t exist! You belong in the grave!”

“Others agree, but after tonight the power will lie elsewhere anyway. I see my face has a strong effect on you. Would you like one just like it? You might have problems getting kissed after that…”

“That’s quite enough, Geoffrey,” said a calm British voice behind MacDonald. “You have quite enough to do and time is running out. It’s past eleven, you know.”

MacDonald turned, thankful to have a reason to tear his gaze away from that horrible thing, and saw Sir Reginald Truscott-Smythe standing behind him with a quick-firing scatter gun much like the one the Dark Man had wielded in the motel room.

“The others?” the Dark Man asked.

“We killed the two upstairs, although they took a frightful toll, and they apparently planted bombs along the antenna array. Four are knocked out and the other three are off kilter. W’re off the air right now, but we should be able to jury-rig something in three or four hours at worst.”

The Dark Man reached down, found his mask, and fitted it back over his terrible head. “Very well. I hesitate to leave MacDonald here, though. He is a most resourceful man.”

“You’ve deactivated all his weaponry and explosives?”

“Of course. Tell you what—sit down, MacDonald, in that chair over there.”

MacDonald sighed and did as instructed. With everything else blown so far, he had to cling to the fact that they hadn’t found them all yet, and they still had a big shock coming.

The Dark Man came over and touched a point on his neck. He felt a coldness, like a dagger of ice, go in, and when the creature’s finger was withdrawn he had no feeling, no control or sense of movement below the neck.