Brian Lumley - Necroscope - Invaders

Sunday was a busy yet paradoxically quiet time; work was being done, but in a kind of vacuum chamber. People moved about with purpose within a oddly surreal atmosphere of near-silence. It was, Jake thought, a sensation similar to being on an airplane during its descent, in the moments before your ears pressurize, when sounds are flat and distant and you feel as though you've suddenly gone deaf. In short, it was the lull before the storm, when the hatches are battened down, and Jake (who seemed to be the only one with no hatches to batten) felt completely out of it. Apart from an o-group he'd been scheduled to attend in the evening, he had nothing to do.

Which was as well, for he didn't think he would be able to concentrate on anything much; there was something on his mind, in the back of his head, desperately trying to push its way to the forefront. It had to do with last night — something lingering over from his dreams, perhaps? — but apart from that he was at a loss.

Jake remembered his nightmare, of course. He always remembered that. It was a recurrent thing (a thing of conscience, he supposed), that came back to haunt him maybe two or three times a month. It had used to be far more frequent, but time is merciful and was doing its job. This thing in the back of his mind, however, was other than that; he found himself listening for an unknown something, and at the same time dreading it. So much so that he was shielding his mind to shut things out, and doing it consciously, holding at bay those whispering voices of which he was becoming ever more frequently aware… which might perhaps explain something of the eerie atmosphere: he was in fact isolating himself. And also from the living.

It was a shuddersome thought, and deadspeak was a terrible thing. Jake found himself wondering if perhaps that was it: was it Harry he was listening for? Harry Keogh and the Great Majority? Was his neurosis growing, spreading out of control? Or was it something else, not fear at all but the simple need for privacy? Some kind of persecution complex, with Liz Merrick — his 'partner' — taking on the role of the Inquisition, or of a spy at the very least. But in any case, she was giving him the cold shoulder this morning. Odd, because he also felt that there was something she might want to tell him.

Jake wandered about the safe house, through the Ops Room and other rooms, trying to interest himself in something — in anything — that was going on around him, and feeling more and more the outsider… at least until Lardis Lidesci joined him and Jake saw that he was in the same boat.

Jake really felt for Lardis, because he was a genuine outsider, not even of this world! On one occasion when they spoke to each other, the old man told him:

'Don't fret so! We're men of action, you and I. That's all it is. But we'll get to it, never fear.' Unlike Jake, however, the Old Lidesci made no complaint. Instead he prowled the safe house in tandem with the younger man, and kept his feelings to himself…

The long hours passed slowly; hours of tactical and logistical planning and correlation, concentrated poring over maps, and the making of battle-plans in general. The techs were feeding questions to the computers, and supplying Trask and his SAS Commanders with the answers; apart from catching the occasional break, they would probably still be working well into the eleventh hour. Surface plans of Xanadu — together with schematics of

the resort's subsurface labyrinth — littered tables in the central Ops Room. Detailed diagrams, ordnance survey maps, and aerial photographs of Jethro Manchester's island in the Capricorn Group were scattered over the floor of a room with tightly drawn curtains.

Warrant Officer Class Two Joe Davis was on a radio in the Ops Room, logging in the task force's vehicles as they arrived in groups or as individuals across the mountains and down onto the coastal strip. They had kept radio silence until now; even now they voiced only their call-signs — and then just the once, — received coded grid-references of their destinations, verified their receipt, and disappeared again into the aether. Soon they would be arriving at the designated operational locations, in which they would maintain low profiles and wait for orders. The big articulated Ops Truck wouldn't be in until the dead of night or early morning. But everyone would be, and must be, in situ by midday tomorrow, Monday, the night of the full moon…

By six in the evening Ben Trask was about ready to start pulling his hair out over his main problem with Xanadu. It was the one thing he couldn't request help on from higher authority (indeed, it was the one thing he daren't even mention to higher authority): how to evacuate the 'civilians' from the resort before attacking the place. For lan Goodly had forecast blood and thunder in Xanadu, and whether or not this was an accurate prediction or some scene from the past that the precog had somehow witnessed, Trask wasn't about to risk having his operation compromised, delayed, or possibly even shut down by the objections and vacillations of jittery political powers.

It was nerve-racking; for from Trask's own point of view, and while it had been one thing to personally authorize, coordinate, and take part in a firefight in the badlands of the Gibson Desert, setting fire to Xanadu would be something else entirely! And since he didn't have time to argue the toss with the powers that be, it meant that, should anything go wrong tomorrow night, he would be the one to carry the can.

Trask was desperately in need of a plan of evacuation, and it would have to be one that wouldn't alert Nephran Malinari to E-Branch's or any other enemy's hand in things. But with little more than twenty-four hours to go, no such plan seemed likely.

Then came the televised evening news report — of the first cases of Asiatic Plague showing up in Brisbane and half a dozen other Australian ports — and with it the germ of an idea and a possible reprieve. It was Liz Merrick who heard the report, formulated the idea, and brought it to Trask's attention. At first he was doubtful; the notion seemed too contrived, too Hollywood… but it was the sort of idea that can grow on you. And as it grew on Trask, so he got to work on it.

For after all, it was all that he had to work on…

Later, in the early hours of the night, when it was cooler and Liz went outdoors for a breath of fresh air, Jake took the opportunity to corner her and have a word in private.

'You've been avoiding me all day/ he said. 'Sort of peculiar behaviour for a partner, partner. Or is it wearing off?'

Seated together on a bench, they were close but not touching. Liz gave him a wary look, and said. 'Umm? Wearing off?'

'I thought we had something special going,' Jake said. 'Er, business-wise, that is. I mean, psychically if not physically.'

She smiled (a little ruefully, he thought) and said, 'Perhaps physically, too, under different circumstances. So don't underestimate yourself, Jake Cutter. But you're carrying a lot of baggage around with you, and the extra weight is taking too much of a toll on you. You haven't been the most sociable type, you know? And even if you were, this isn't the best of times.'

'Which disposes of physically,' he said. 'But there's still psychically to consider. I thought you were interested in that side of me, too — or should that be "at least?"' With which he

felt her shy away from him, as her expression became a lot more serious. But then she gave a shrug, and said:

'Out in the desert, that first job of ours was like an initiation, a baptism by fire — for both of us. As we were working together and it was part of our job, it seemed only fitting and sensible that we develop something of a rapport. But—'