Beyond the secure borders of the Soviet Union, the world was going insane. The Americans had invaded Southeast Asia. Students in Paris were rioting. People his own age wandered the streets in a daze, high on drugs, starving and filthy, caught up in a terrifying mass hallucination that degeneration was in some way a return to more idyllic times. They were passing terrible diseases to each other, completely unmindful of what they were doing. More frightening still, they insisted that theirs was the best way to live.
The relentless bombardment of capitalist propaganda had finally achieved its self-serving goal. The masses of Europe and America had become armies of materialistic creatures whose souls had been bought for refrigerators and dishwashers. All initiative and judgment had been erased. Now that they had been made slaves to the military-industrial complex, the capitalist overlords would begin to rebuild men and women as they wished humanity to be—seeking to assuage the terrible, aching emptiness of their hearts with endless amounts of shoddily-made, unnecessary consumer goods.
The only nation on Earth that had withstood the onslaught was the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics. While the world had criticized his country for protecting her people, the U.S.S.R. alone carried the torch of steadfastness to the ideals of mankind. Alexis’s motherland stood between the complete destruction of civilization and a return—if possible—to sanity.
Everyone around him ate and chattered. Alexis was already accepted as a comrade, and he was gratified by his quick acceptance. He understood that the project was the thing on everyone’s minds, not making new workers feel comfortable, and yet they had made an effort. Of course, it was simpler to work with people who were cordial with one another.
Around nine P.M., Vladimir Markov, the chief scientist, announced that it was time to go in for the latest test. Cigarettes were put out, the last of the tea drained from the glasses. Coffee cups clinked against saucers. Almost as if they were members of the Bolshoi Ballet, and not the People’s Project, some of the finest scientists in the entire world pushed back their wooden chairs and stood; as soon as they filed out of the cafeteria to the observation theater, the large serving women toddled in and began loading their plates on carts.
The test area was quite small, approximately twenty meters by twenty. There was a black curtain, such as one might find in a theater, and a thick sheet of glass that ran from the floor to the ceiling separating the audience of chairs from the testing sector itself. The chairs were on graduated risers, so that successive rows of spectators could see over the heads of those in front.
Markov appeared, a man of great stature, not only professionally but physically. He looked like a Russian bear, burly and hairy, with unkempt dark brown hair and a perpetual five o’clock shadow. His earlobes and knuckles were hairy and his hands were huge.
“Comrades,” he said jovially, into a microphone that transmitted his voice beyond the thick glass barrier, “tonight is a special night. We have good hopes of a successful test.”
A middle-aged woman with short, dark hair sitting next to Alexis muttered, “I hope they don’t use a piglet again. Since Markov’s smiling, I assume they won’t be trying the patience of our comrade janitors tonight. Or perhaps he’s given them permission to forage through our dinner leftovers, the great man.”
Alexis was stunned by his comrade’s cynicism, but had no time to voice his outrage, as Markov went on. “I assume that those of you who are new to the project have read the handbooks you were given when you were assigned to this facility. Let me summarize in brief.”
The woman shifted in her seat and rolled her eyes. “Last time, his ‘brief’ summation took an hour.”
“The Reality Tracer,” Markov continued, “is the last, best hope of mankind. With it, we can change the world. Literally.” There was a ripple of polite applause; most of these scientists had certainly heard that before.
“Radio, television, movies.” Markov gave his hand a wave. “Muzak. Pornography. Subliminal messages. The human mind is bombarded constantly with images seeking to reshape thoughts and expectations, and the assault is committed with the skill and finesse of a surgeon. At the same time, it is a brutal and savage attack upon the sanctity of one’s inner thoughts. Of one’s self-esteem. Of one’s aspirations.”
The audience murmured in agreement.
“Misunderstanding the nature of their oppression, the victims of this atrocity seek to numb themselves from the pain by any means possible—drugs, sex, violence, and isolating themselves from the collective of man. The result? We have worldwide depression, malaise, and a sense of purposelessness that transforms a skilled, productive worker into a shadow of himself, watching television and drinking beer.”
“Sounds good to me,” the woman said under her breath.
“Comrade, please hush,” someone hissed behind them. The woman made a face. “He’s afraid he’ll miss something,” she snorted. “As if Markov will do anything but spout propaganda.”
“Comrade,” someone else admonished her.
Markov’s eyes ticked toward the woman. She smoothed out her smirk and gave every appearance of listening attentively. Alexis was unnerved, hoping that he would not be singled out for having sat next to this rude individual. Even in the Workers’ Paradise, there was such a thing as guilt by association.
The scientist returned to his summary. “Therefore, we begin with the notion that reality has been shaped by exterior forces and will continue to be shaped by exterior forces. But what if we can select the good, the true, and the useful from the possibilities of reality? The collective would be able to see life as it might have been, but for the intervention of those who profit by the misery of the masses.
“After a while, this reality would replace the terrible oppression which has been visited on our fellow human beings.”
Alexis could not stifle the fervent “yes” that spilled from his mouth. The woman snickered and said, “You’ve got it bad.”
“Please be quiet,” Alexis snapped, shifting away from her.
“Oh, dear,” said the woman. “Another live subject.”
A petite young woman in a white lab coat was carrying something small and fluffy in a cage. From this distance, Alexis couldn’t see what the creature was, but he could feel the tension rising around him.
“What we hope to do tonight is to open a passageway from our reality to a different one. To send this chick through the portal we have managed to open.”
“Without turning it into scrambled eggs,” the woman whispered. This time, nervous whispers joined her comment.
“Comrade Vishnikoff,” Dr. Markov said, “would you care to assist me?”
“I’d be honored,” Alexis replied, in a loud, bold voice. He rose, pointedly ignoring the woman as she said, “Don’t let him push you through,” and made his way down the row and out into the aisle. His footfalls rang on the metal stairs as he descended.
When he reached the bottom of the stairs, another woman in a lab coat gestured for him to follow her. They went out the door and into the hall, down a few meters, and then through another door. Alexis was behind the barrier now, in the little room.
Rather like assistants in a magic show, the woman who had carried in the chick in the cage set it down on a wooden table and left the room, only to reappear leading two men who were pushing a wheeled, wooden pallet. Placed on it was what looked very much like a shiny silver fire extinguisher. It was unremarkable in the extreme, not at all resembling the ornate object depicted in Alexis’s Project handbook.
“The Reality Tracer,” Markov announced proudly. He raised his bushy eyebrows as his colleagues applauded. “The prototype of the machine that will transform the world.” His big, wide grin was ferocious. “What do you think, Vishnikoff?”
“It’s a marvel,” Alexis blurted. His cheeks flamed. “I’m proud to be here tonight.”
Markov flashed a grin at the woman in the audience, who smiled back at him. At once, it dawned on Alexis: She’s KGB. She was testing me. Testin
g my loyalty.
“Very good,” Markov said, clearly pleased with him. He held out a hand to his assistant. “The subject, please.”
She handed him the cage with the chick in it. Markov pulled up a wooden stool that had been pushed to the side of the table and set the cage on it. He moved the stool to a spot marked on the floor with an X of black duct tape.
Then he flicked on a series of switches along the side of the Reality Tracer. It emitted a low hum. The audience shifted forward, eagerly watching.
Light began to form at the top of the cylinder, shaping itself into a sphere that gave off static electricity and sparkles like fireworks. The light had a pastel green tone that deepened slightly as the seconds passed into a minute.
“Please, hold this as I show you. Keep it steady,” Markov instructed Alexis. From a pocket in his lab coat, he pulled a small metal box. He opened the lid and picked up what looked to Alexis like an ordinary glass prism.
“This will bend the reality beam,” Markov said, almost casually. “Hold it just so, yes? I will work the controls on the side of the Tracer itself.”
As Markov had demonstrated, Alexis angled the prism above the sphere. It began to narrow, like a bubble of mercury when pressed down in the middle. It stretched and grew into more of a circle, nearly grazing Alexis’s stomach as he pulled it in.
The circle wobbled unsteadily. Markov pushed buttons on the side of the Tracer.
“Remove the prism and stand aside,” he told Alexis, who did so immediately. Markov backed away.
The circle shuddered but began to raise up on its side. The crowd murmured.
“I have set it to remain stable for ten seconds,” he said.
The circle floated forward, drifting toward the cage. Alexis, like everyone else in the room, held his breath. And waited.
The circle touched the stool and the light fell on the cage. The chick peeped. A membrane formed over the circle and began to shimmer with an exquisite, strange glow.
Please, Alexis thought, not begging God—after all, he was a Communist—but the collective knowledge and wisdom of his comrade scientists. Please.
For one second, one moment in the time in which Alexis lived, the chick disappeared.
Then strips of wire, blood, feathers, and guts exploded from the circle and were strewn across the floor.
The circle collapsed, and vanished.
There was silence. Acute disappointment.
Then someone cried, “For one second, it worked!”
There was thunderous applause. Alexis joined in.
I will devote my life to this, he thought. I will do whatever I can, give whatever I can, to making this come true. No matter the price.
Sunnydale
The doorbell of Del DeSola’s mansion rang. Which should never happen, he thought. He employed security guards, paid for state of the art equipment— cameras, motion detectors, alarms—precisely so that he would not be surprised like this. He was particularly nervous now, having had one of his oil fields attacked by some kind of terrorist gang.
He picked up the nearest phone, punched a code. His security personnel knew to answer this phone on the first ring.
By the fifth ring, he gave up and replaced the receiver. The doorbell rang again—a long, insistent buzz. Followed by a knock. More of a pound, he corrected himself.
He went to his closet, removed a loaded shotgun, and crept downstairs. The ringing and pounding continued.
Next to his office was a small security station, with monitors from which one could view the entire property. He checked the camera over the front door. A young lady stood there—attractive, in a cheap way, like a showgirl. Her clothing was torn, in some disarray, and she was bleeding from the mouth. Maybe there had been some kind of accident. He hurried to the door, still clutching the shotgun, just in case, and threw it open.
She looked at him, looked at the gun. “I come in?”
“Are you all right? Are you hurt?” he asked.
“I’ll live,” she said with a sharp laugh. “Now listen up—can I come in?”
“Yes, of course, come on in. We’ll get you cleaned up, call a doctor.”
She crossed the threshold, her gaze wandering around the sumptuous interior. “Nice place.”
“I-I’m surprised my security guards didn’t see—”
“Oh, I saw them,” she said. “They’re dead.”
“Dead?” DeSola said, shocked. He remembered the gun in his hand, raising it now as if there were something to shoot. “What—?”
The young lady wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, smearing the blood there. Then she raised her hand again, and licked it. “Tasty, too, that big guy anyway.”
Something was very wrong here. He aimed the gun at her. “Now, listen here—” he began.
“No, you listen,” she said casually. She passed him, going into the formal living room, and dropped onto an antique chaise so hard he thought she’d break it. “Yes, I killed your guards. Big deal. If they’re that bad, you need new ones anyway.”
“Point taken,” he said. “But I’m still going to call the police.”
“Fine,” she said. “Do that. But then I’ll leave, and you won’t get revenge for your oil field.”
“I’ve already put that in motion,” he said, thinking of the Russians who had been in touch with him. The meeting hadn’t happened yet, but he knew that’s what it would concern when it did.
“Sure,” she said. “Only, I’d bet money that whatever you think you’ve got arranged won’t do diddley.”
“And why is that?” He sat down in a chair opposite her, the shotgun across his lap. He couldn’t deny that the girl intrigued him even as she repulsed him.
“Because you’re human,” she explained. “And whoever you’ve lined up to get your revenge, chances are, he’s human too. But whoever torched that field—he’s not human. That’s where your plan comes up short.”
He found himself nodding along with her. “Not human? Then what is he? Or it?”
“I don’t know that yet,” the young lady said. “I’m smart, not psychic. But I know that I can find out.”
“You are resourceful,” he said, thinking of his guards.
“And a whole lot more,” she agreed. “Look, just think it through. Could anyone have survived that fire? The explosions? They rocked my trailer, miles away.”
“No, certainly not. No one at ground zero.”
“But didn’t the investigators determine that the way the charges were set, whoever touched them off had to be right on the spot? No remote detonation, right? No timers?”
“That’s true. I can’t say it’s not a mystery.”
“It’s only a mystery,” she went on, “because you’re not looking at it from the right angle.”
“And the right angle is, I should be looking for some kind of super-villain?”
“Super something,” she said. “You should be looking for some kind of monster, a demon, something like that. I can find out which one it was, and I can get your revenge for you.”
“And what’s in it for you?” He looked at her with a combination of curiosity and amusement. “Surely you’re not the kind of person who would do this from pure generosity of spirit.”
She laughed again. “Got that right, Del,” she said, crossing her legs high up on her thighs. “I can call you Del, right? Seeing as how we’re in business together.”
“Business?”
“Money, Del.” She almost winked at him. “You got it. I want some. I want a lot of it. You give me what I want, I give you what you want. That’s what turns the world.”
“I suppose it does,” DeSola said. The fire had cost him plenty. What was a little more, to get some satisfaction?
By the time she left his house, Cheryce had convinced the oil billionaire to pay her to do what she wanted to do anyway. She hadn’t been kidding—she was smart. She had thought about the oil field explosions, and the type of being that was most likely to survive same, and
she had thought about the shadow monster that had attacked her, nearly tearing her in two despite her best efforts, and she had decided that the two had to be connected somehow. So she’d track down the shadow monster, and she’d make it pay for what it had done to her.
But she was ready to move on. Sunnydale had become boring. To tell the truth, Sunnydale had been boring within about twenty minutes of getting here, as far as she was concerned. Spike had a good idea with Paris, except for the part where he’d be coming along. Also boring, she thought.
Better to have Del DeSola bankroll her trip to the City of Light. She could travel first class, get herself a chateau outside of town somewhere, live right. She was trailer trash and she knew it—but there was no law that said trailer trash couldn’t move uptown.
As Spike awoke from his fever dream— something to do with Buffy —he could tell by how refreshed he was that night had fallen at last. He was free to search for Cheryce.
He threw open the door to the crypt and took one step over the threshold. Then something jumped out at him, all teeth and bad body odor, and tried to eat his face.
Spike was not one to cower. Never had been, never would be; he slammed his fists into the thing’s midsection, sending it flying, and began to kick it as hard as he could. When a mate’s shoes have steel plates in the toes, that can hurt.
“Damn bloody bastard,” he spat, as the creature made no sound. It was a flesh-eating ghoul, nothing more, and Spike made short work of it.
But while he was distracted, a few of its mates shambled up behind Spike and began trying to rip off his arms.
“Here, leave off!” Spike shouted, pulling his arms together. That smacked two of their heads together. The ghoul on the right slathered at the other one, teeth clacking, trying to take a bite out of its cheek.
“What the devil are you doing here, anyway?” Spike demanded. He wheeled around and kicked a fourth ghoul in the head, knocking out all its teeth, and sent another flying with a good, sharp punch to the gizzard.