Necrom

The receptionist or her double put an arm under his shoulders. "Can you sit up?"

Gibson eased into a sitting position with her half-lifting him. She was exceedingly strong. Gibson sighed. He'd always had a thing about girls who could beat him at arm wrestling. He shook his head, trying to clear the craziness. '"What was that all about?"

This time Casillas answered. "You have been under what we call psych attack. While you were sleeping, the enemy attempted to infiltrate your dreams."

"Infiltrate my dreams?"

"It's a very basic technique. Fortunately we were able to wake you in time."

"And what would have happened if you hadn't?" Casillas stepped forward so Gibson could see him better. "I imagine there was something in the dream that was trying to get you, to do you harm?"

Gibson nodded, "Rats and Nazis. What would have happened if they'd got me?"

"You would have retreated into catatonia." Gibson took a deep breath. "Thanks for the early call." The last thing that he remembered was being taken to a small functional guest room, little more than a cell, and stretching out on the narrow single bed to think about the day's revelations. He must have fallen asleep almost immediately, and that was strange in itself.

He looked at the receptionist's sister, who was disposing of the syringe. "What did you shoot me up with?"

"A combination of tranquilizer and Methedrine."

Gibson half smiled, "No shit."

Casillas had an excellent bedside manner. "It's important that you don't sleep for the next few hours."

"I don't think I'm going to be able to."

"You may not be able to resist."

"So I'm on speed for the duration?"

"Until we get you to a safer location."

"I thought that I was supposed to be safe here?"

"Apparently not. The enemy seem to be incredibly interested in you."

"So where do I go to now?"

"London."

"You're putting me on! London, England?"

"It's clearly not safe for you in New York."

"But why London? Why not Cleveland?"

"We have an associate in London who I believe may be equipped to hide you. Why? Would you rather go to Cleveland?"

Gibson quickly shook his head. "Hell, no. I was just curious."

The door opened quietly and William Storm Eagle entered. "Is he okay?"

Casillas nodded. "He made it."

Storm Eagle came to Gibson's bedside. "How do you feel?"

Gibson grinned like an idiot. The chemical cocktail was kicking in. "I feel fine. It was just some old dream."

Storm Eagle didn't smile. "It was more than a bad dream."

Gibson was feeling better and better, and the temptation was to minimize what had just happened. "I think it's time that we had a talk."

Casillas shook his head. "You should rest."

"The hell I should rest. I've just been shot full of crank and I haven't felt so talkative in years. Besides, I think you people owe me a couple of explanations."

Storm Eagle glanced at Casillas. "He has a point."

Casillas seated himself in a chair beside the bed. "What do you want to know?"

"Know? I want to know anything you can tell me. I heard a bunch of stuff about dimensions and wavelengths, but nobody has given me anything like a satisfactory explanation of why I'm a part of all this. How did you people, you Nine, hook into me? All I've had so far is double-talk."

William Storm Eagle sat down on the edge of the bed. The unusual blue eyes scanned Gibson. "You have the mark of the coyote on you,"

Gibson shook his head vigorously. "That's not what I want to hear. I've had enough bullshit mysticism. You know what I'm saying, Chief?"

Casillas sighed. "The problem that we have here is one of language. William says you have the mark of the coyote, another of our number might say you had a manifest destiny, a third would describe it as a dark aura. The detector provided by the streamheat gave you a reading of two-hundred-percent normal."

Gibson's head snapped round. "Are you telling me that the streamheat have given you some gizmo that you use to select recruits to your cause?"

"Without their help, we'd be virtually blind."

"Isn't it putting a lot of trust in those guys?"

"We have no other choice."

Gibson had a vision of Casillas and the rest of the Nine sneaking around in the New York night with something that looked like a Geiger counter, looking for a few good men to battle Necrom.

"Jesus Christ."

Casillas's voice sounded weary. "You are not here as a result of the device alone. The mark, the aura, manifest destiny, they are all ways of saying that you are an exceptional individual and that it seems you have a definite role in the coming conflict."

"So what is that role? Are you telling me that I'm the fucking Ringbearer or the Defender of the Universe?"

Storm Eagle sternly shook his head. "Probably nothing as grand. It may be that you are only a pivot, a catalyst of some kind. To be frank, it was a major surprise when the enemy took an immediate interest in you."

"That's the other big-ticket question. Who exactly is the enemy? Who sent the tontons or whatever they were? Who caused the dream attack?" The speed was giving Gibson's voice a desperate edge. "Who's out to get me?"

It was the first time that Gibson had seen Casillas look helpless. "That's something for which we don't have a precise answer."

"No kidding."

"There really is no single enemy as such. You have to think in terms of various marauding groups coming into this dimension. Some of these marauders we've known about for a very long time. They are the demons of old, set in motion by the approach of the confluence. Others are entirely new entities who have seen a chance to expand their power to other dimensions and are making the most of it. The confluence and the waking of Necrom are moments when massive power will be free for the taking. There are a great many ruthless and power-hungry entities in this universe, both human and nonhuman."

"But why do so many of them seem hell-bent on heading for our dimension and causing trouble?"

William Storm Eagle stood up. "Because we are vulnerable, Joseph Gibson. Over the last few centuries, this has become a particularly material world, obsessed with technology. Much of what we once knew about the multidimensional universe has either been lost or has been relegated to the level of mythology and folktale or else clouded by superstition. This is also why we have to rely so heavily on the streamheat. There is so much that we have to relearn."

Gibson lay back on the bed. "I really need to think about all this."

Casillas got to his feet and stood beside Storm Eagle. "I'm afraid you are going to have to do your thinking on the run. There is no time to linger. You'll be starting out for London very shortly."

As the two men left the room, William Storm Eagle turned and looked hard at Gibson.

"One thing, Joseph Gibson."

"What's that?"

"Don't ever address me as 'chief' again."

If all those years on the road had taught Gibson anything, it was that travel gets easier the less that you have to do with the mechanics of it. The car takes you to the airport, the airline takes your luggage, the cabin attendants bring you drinks. They are paid to do these things; as far as you're concerned it's their reason for being. They maybe even enjoy it. Fuck-ups were inevitable but there was no way to beat the process. The only answer was to become as passive as possible. Insure as much comfort as you could, but, after that, behave as closely as possible to a piece of luggage and let them do it for you.

The trip to London was arranged in what had to be record time, and Gibson's role in it was nothing if not passive. He didn't even have anything to pack. It had been decided that under no circumstances should he return to his own apartment. Within the hour, a chartered executive jet was waiting at JFK, a phone call to the home of a highly placed State Department official had covered his lack of a passport. Smith, Klein, and French had once again been assigned as his bodyguards, although they hadn't seemed exactly overjoyed to be saddled with the task.