“Once Tiger Tim has assassinated Doctor Delirium, he will shut down all the defences, and we can just stroll right in and take what we want. Starting with our dear rogue Drood’s head. Never trust a traitor, even when he’s your own. Perhaps we’ll send his head back to Drood Hall; I understand they can be terribly sentimental about such things. Of course, once I’ve turned the Door, and passed through it, all of you who choose to remain behind can help yourselves to whatever goodies lie hidden away in Area 52’s forbidden armouries.” He smiled briefly. “You see how good I am to you? New toys to play with! Won’t that be nice?”
“But how soon are you planning to go?” the younger Immortal said stubbornly.
“Eight hours, maximum,” said Methuselah. “So you’d all better prepare yourselves, hadn’t you?”
Eight hours . . . it seemed I had an even tighter deadline than I’d thought.
“Any more questions?” said Methuselah, just a bit pointedly. “Any other little thing I can do, to put your Immortal minds at ease? I swear, it’s like working with a bunch of whiny little children. I should have kicked you all out of the nest long ago, and let you learn to fly the hard way. You’ve got soft, all of you. Soft and complacent, and stupidly arrogant! The world is yours; get out there and trample all over it! I can’t hold your hands forever! I swear, it’s youngsters like you, with no real ambition, that will make me glad to leave all this behind . . .”
Someone else in the audience stood up, an Immortal from a circle closer to the stage. “You haven’t been a real leader in years, and you know it. You’ve let our plans for world domination lapse, excused yourself from all the strategy meetings, just so you could concentrate on your damned Door, and your dreams of Paradise. You’re abandoning us, to chase your own fantasies!”
“So?” said Methuselah. “Choose a new leader, make new plans. It’ll be your world, once I’m gone. Make of it what you will. Use it up, eat it up, spit it out. It’s all yours to play with. While some of us go on to better things.”
And that was when the door behind me burst open, and the Immortal I’d knocked out and replaced staggered in. He was unsteady on his feet and his eyes were still somewhat dazed, but sheer rage kept him moving. It was strange to see his face, after I’d been using it for so long. He clung to the door and yelled almost hysterically at the faces turning to look at him.
“We’ve been infiltrated! Someone’s got into the Castle!” He saw me then, looking back at him with his own face, and he almost went into meltdown with sheer outrage. He pointed at me with a shaking finger. “There! That’s him! He’s made himself look like me, but he’s not one of us! He’s a Drood! A Drood!”
That’s what you get for being merciful. Ungrateful little scrote. I jumped up, punched him out, leapt over his falling body, and raced out of the lecture hall while the general cry of outrage from within was still building. I ran down the hallway, and already doors were opening everywhere, with angry Immortals spilling out. I could hear more of them fighting each other to get out of the lecture hall and get after me. They sounded like they wanted my blood, and weren’t too fussy how they got it. I pounded down a side corridor, and Immortals appeared from everywhere, in front and behind me. So I squeezed the ring on my finger, and made a duplicate of myself. And then both of me squeezed my rings, and there were four of me.
The sudden rush of extra sensory input would have been overwhelming, but all I had to concentrate on was running. And every time I came to a corner, or a turning point, all of me chose different directions. I couldn’t keep track of who was who, or which had been the original me, so I just kept on running. It seemed like every Immortal in the Castle was after me now, numbers beyond counting, so every time I came to a corner or a change in direction, I made more of me. Soon there was a crowd of me, running and running full pelt, back and forth, up and down the Castle. It was all just a blur of stone walls, narrow corridors, and screaming angry faces wherever I looked. I ran and ran, lost in the crowd of me, losing all track of where and who I was. Dozens of me, running endlessly, running blindly, swamped by too many details, maddened by my own chattering thoughts and impulses, driving me in a hundred different directions at once.
I ran on, lost in myself, everywhere at once, unable to concentrate on anything. Immortals jumped me, hit me, dragged me down, over and over, and I fought back, lashing out at everyone who wasn’t me. I couldn’t think, couldn’t plan, lost in the horror of endlessly branching possibilities, lost in the crowd, lost . . . I panicked, and called all of me back into myself.
Suddenly there was just me, alone in my head, and it felt good, so good. I stumbled to a halt, as I struggled to assimilate a whole host of conflicting memories. I leaned against a cold stone wall, breathing harshly, sweat running down my face, trembling from exhaustion, and other things. A terribly personal nightmare, to be drowning in a sea of you, your very identity diluted by duplication . . . I shuddered, and forced the memories back until I was just me again. I looked around, and found I was back down in the dungeons under the Castle, outside the computer rooms.
Presumably because it was the one place I thought I knew best. I shook my head. I’d been so confused I hadn’t even thought to armour up, and protect myself from the various attacks my various selves had experienced. Though I had to wonder . . . each of me must have had a torc, but what would have happened if I’d tried to call up so much strange matter at once, enough for dozens of suits of armour? This was all getting really complicated . . . and quite definitely a problem for another day. I had eight hours to stop Methuselah from getting to Area 52, then get there myself and stop anyone from opening the Apocalypse Door.
I checked myself for damage, but I didn’t seem to have taken any, even though I could clearly remember being hit and attacked any number of times . . . I could only assume the sheer number of me I’d made had diluted the effects, when they all slammed back into me. Could have been worse; I could have ended up with all the damage that all of me had taken, expressed in the one body. Nasty.
I smiled slightly as I took in the state of the computer room, with its torn steel shutters and kicked-out door. I really had made a mess of the place, the last time I was here. The guard I’d taken out was still slumped unconscious in his chair. But, I couldn’t hide out here for long. I had a lot to do . . . The mission was escalating wildly out of control, so many players . . . Doctor Delirium, Tiger Tim, Methuselah, all with their own different plans for the Apocalypse Door . . . All I could be sure of was that I had to get to Area 52 in a hurry, before somebody did something we’d all regret.
I heard footsteps approaching. So I slipped into the security booth, and knelt down beside the unconscious security guard, hidden in the shadows. The footsteps kept coming, just the one person, calm and unhurried. Not someone chasing me. But once they saw the state of the trashed computer room, they’d know I’d been here. I’d have to wait for the right moment, then jump out and strike them down before they could cry out. I raised my head cautiously, and looked down the corridor.
And there, coming towards me, was Molly Metcalf.
I stayed very still, crouched in the shadows, and watched silently as Molly came to a halt before the computer room. She looked at the damage, and her mouth twitched briefly, in a smile I knew all too well. Undamaged, unhurt, utterly perfect, my Molly. My heart hammered in my chest, and I couldn’t move, paralysed by surging emotions. Wanting to believe, not daring to hope. My chest was hitching silently, and tears burned in my eyes. It could be her, she could be . . . I wanted to run out and run up to her, and hold her in my arms and never ever let her go, but I didn’t. I couldn’t. Because in this rotten and corrupt Castle, not everything was always as it seemed, and not everyone was who they seemed to be. You couldn’t trust a face. Not here. This could be an Immortal, pretending to be my poor dead Molly, to bring me out into the open. After all, how could Molly, my Molly, have survived such terrible wounds? I saw the blades slam into her, again and again, saw her blood spill . . . My hands were clenched so hard they hurt, and I could hardly get my breath, but I couldn’t look away.