David Bischoff - Night World 1 - Nightworld

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Nightworld
by
David Bischoff
PROLOGUE
The sun set and moonless, cloudy night poured across the land.
The vampire awoke.
Nestled comfortably in a satin-lined coffin, the creature felt the Summons immediately, it raised
the coffin lid, hesitated briefly and looked about, then stepped out onto the chill flags of the
chapel floor. The vampire answered with its mind: "Master I come."
As it stepped into the Nightworld, the creature pondered the Summons. Satan had not called for
months. True, the Master had other Servants. Multitudes. But the proximity of its crypt and its
admirable record often caused Satan to employ the vampire on missions of considerable import.
Evidently, one such task awaited.
The soft whisper of silk against silk; the black of the creature's clothes echoed the wind and
night curling around the forests shivering leaves. Save for the deep crimson of its lips, pallor
clung to the exposed surfaces of the beast's face and hands like a brittle sheath of new-fallen
snow. The nostrils of its aquiline nose were wide to the scents of the night: the comforting
stench of the dead, the seductive fragrance of the living. The eyes owned no color at all, twin
windows into oblivion. Its lips were parted, and between lay a darkness marred only by two white
points.
Though the night was chill, its breath did not mist.
Walking slowly through the graveyard, long black cape billowing behind, it recalled the way. The
path to Hell was not an easy one, and remembering the proper code for the Gates was important.
Most important.
Mist already covered the ground and obscured the undergrowth as the vampire gained the forest.
Wolves howled to the east and a loud thrashing paralleled his path through the dark trees. Another
time the vampire might have investigated. But not that night.
After a time, a mottled moon rose, and a pale shimmer leaked from a break in the roiling clouds.
Awakened by the gleam, bats flapped toward the fitfully illumined mountain in the near-distance.
The vampire turned in the same direction, for at the base of the mountain lay the Gates.
They gleamed with silver fire as the vampire approached and slipped its identification card into
the appropriate slot. With a sharp-nailed finger, it tapped the combination.
A voice erupted from the speaker grille . . .
"Guardian Nine Oh Six Aye Four," it said in an emotionless monotone. "You are expected. Vampire
Four Nine Bee Oh Oh. The Master awaits. Follow the red arrows to the elevator. The Path has been
altered since last you entered. To veer from it is to suffer damnation"
Stainless steel doors parted smoothly to reveal a corridor of gloaming metal walls and dark
plastic floor.
The vampire entered, and began its descent into Hell.
ONE
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SUNSET had caught Oliver Dolan dozing in the Forest of Fernwold. Unless he sped to a haven behind
the walls of Fernwold Castle, he feared a nightcreature would catch him as well.
The thought was unpleasant. As Oliver scrambled to his feet and hastily regained the path to the
castle, he thrust the idea from his mind. Fear would only make things worse. Panic was to be
avoided. He slowed his pace, straightened his lace-cuffed maroon jacket, and smoothed his
disheveled auburn locks.
A lad of nineteen summers, Oliver bore the aristocratic features of his family, hereditary rulers
of the Dutchy of Femwold, province of Styx, fourth planet from the GO star which lent its number
to the system. His thin nose tapered to a petite point, emphasizing a sharpness of feature that
was softened only by the liquid flow of bis wavy hair, the warmth in his brown eyes. His was a
face that had seen very little unpleasantness, one that normally wore a smile comfortably,
naturally. But at that moment, a distinct frown wrinkled its smoothness.
He'd brought no weapons, not even a dagger.
Traditional weapons of any kind were of dubious utility against the nightcreatures, but certainly
something sharp or hard in his hand would have lent more confidence to his gait.
The sun had just dipped below the golden horizon of the forest, dragging precious light behind. It
was the moment Oliver had dreaded most of his life. A lover of the trees and fields and waterways
of the Duchy, often, on afternoons, he would wander along the paths, through the bowers, over the
sparkling, mirror-surfaced streams which burbled happily over smooth-pebbled beds. This day he had
paused by a stream for a rest, and had fallen asleep beneath the shady canopy of an oak.
His parents would be worried, he knew, and with good reason.
The light was trickling away rapidly, and darkness filled the sky's inverted bowl with stars.
Charon, the larger of Styx's moons, had already risen, shining coolly against the rich blue velvet
of the heavens. Puffy gray and white clouds coasted eerily overhead, spurred on by the same steady
breeze that whispered through the oaks of the forest disturbing dying leaves which crackled
softly, like tiny bones breaking.
The dreamy Nightworld gently seized the land. Soon, its dangers would be unearthed.
Oliver speeded to a jog, then to a slow run which jostled the end of a silk scarf from its nest in
his coat.
Flaglike, it fluttered behind as he rapidly climbed the path. His calf-high leather boots clopped
along the hard-packed earth, kicking loose stones into the mountain laurel that fringed the trail.
The darkness began to close around him like a gigantic fist.
From atop a rise in the path, he glimpsed the towers of the castle, proudly thrust above the
trees, glowing dully white in the dim beams of Charon and the dusty stars.
No, not far now, he thought. If he could make the road in just a few minutes he would be
reasonably safe.
The creatures seldom ventured . . . A snap! A large branch breaking. The sound was painful to his
ears. Startled, he froze, and gazed about him.
He heard the crackle of distant leaves uncaringly stepped upon; then a harsh, brittle swoosh:
something was moving through the shrubbery.
Three possibilities occurred to the boy: The sounds might have originated from some relatively
harmless animal, a squirrel, perhaps, or a bear. But would a squirrel, or even a bear, cause such
a din? A man, then.
But what would a man be doing in the woods at night of his own free will? That left but one
possibility, and the realization propelled him into a desperate run down the sloping path, toward
the road.
A nightcreature.
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Confirming his fears, the noise from the forest behind him rapidly increased. Something was
interested in him. Some thing was pursuing him.
From behind him came a snarl, then a growl, the staccato rustle of undergrowth violently thrust
aside.
The thing had increased its speed as well. Shortly it would gain the cleared path, and could apply
more speed to the chase.
Oliver whisked off into the night as fast as he could manage. Cold sweat beaded his skin. His face
was clammy against the night breeze, but hot and flustered beneath. The trailing end of his scarf
snapped. His long hair streamed backward.
He ventured a hurried glance to the rear, where Charon loomed large over the pathway. There was as
yet no visible sign of his pursuer. Suddenly his foot struck a large stone embedded in the path,
spilling him to the ground. When he raised his dirtied face, he saw it, just gaining the pathway
from the dense forest: A werewolf.
Paralyzed with fear, Oliver could only stare up the hill at the creature silhouetted against the
milky white orb of the moon. It halted and raised its flared snout, while inhaling great volumes
of fresh air, no doubt full of the scent of Oliver Dolan.
At least seven feet tall, the werewolf seemed all bristling hair, glinting teeth, and unsheathed
claws. It stood like a man, on its hind paws, rearing not fifty yards off, a promise of horrible,
bloody death.
Momentarily having lost sight of its quarry, the creature growled tentatively, then snapped its
fangs with an animal fury made more frightening by its human quality. Oliver, hidden in the
shadows, crawled slowly off the path, then rolled into a clump of long grasses. Just as Oliver
drove into the deeper shadows, the werewolf began to advance slowly down the incline, slouched
forward in predatory expectation. As it neared, Oliver could see that the werewolf wore the
tattered clothing of a man, speckled with crusted blood.
The creature smelled of earlier meals and offal.
Soon, the beast stood alongside Oliver's hiding place, searching. Its matted brown fur stood on
end about its thick neck. Oliver made a conscious effort to restrain his breathing, a very
difficult task, considering his run. But he was downwind of the nightcreature and it did not seem
to have his scent.
Snarling harshly, the werewolf descended the path out of Oliver's view, obviously unwilling to
admit that its intended repast was lost. After a few moments, Oliver dared to peek from his hiding
place. He craned his neck and found that the werewolf was now out of sight. A few moments rest to
restore his wind, and he crawled warily back toward the pathway. At its edge, his hand brushed a
long, stout stick, a poor weapon, but better than nothing.
Grasping this in his right hand, Oliver rose to his knees, and scanned about him. The road could
not be more than a hundred yards off. Chances were, the werewolf was still padding along the path,
hopeful of espying its quarry once again. Having reached the road, the creature would no doubt
retrace its steps.
It would be a disaster if the werewolf caught Oliver on the pathway. As rapidly as the lad dared,
he entered the dark forest that separated him from the relative safety of the road. After
penetrating some way into the foliage, he could advance once more toward the road.
From there he had a fighting chance to sprint for the safety of the nearby castle.
He moved cautiously. After a minute or two of steady, if somewhat noisy progress through clumps of
blackberry bushes and tangles of fallen tree limbs, he angled toward the road. Crisp dead leaves
carpeted the dank, musky forest floor and crunched under Oliver's stealthy footsteps. Bent
conifers surrounded him now, like gnarled soldiers standing a long forgotten post.
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As he walked, the boy yearned for the security to be found behind the stout walls of the castle.
There he could pull a chair up to a warm muttering fire, switch on a lamp, and read while munching
an apple.
Dwelling on this image helped to keep him calm.
Suddenly a thick-boled tree loomed before him, its dense canopy blocking the little light that
remained.
Here, the moon's pale beams barely reached the ground, sufficient only to mottle the darkness.
And so Oliver did not see his nemesis until the moment it hurled itself upon him from behind the
tree.
Snarling, drool slathering its chin, the beast jumped with such force that it impaled itself on
the sharp end of Oliver's branch. It was not driven far enough into the beast's abdomen to destroy
the creature, for the force wrenched it from Oliver's grip.
The hulking werewolf raised its head to the sky and screamed in pain. Glistening blood streamed
from its wound as it staggered about, clawing at the stick.
Recovering from his shock rapidly, Oliver dashed toward the road. The creature quickly plucked the
stake from its body, swiveled about, and fiercely followed its intended victim.
Oliver ran breathlessly, unmindful of the prickly holly and the blackberry thorns that tore at his
clothes, raked his face. Somehow his feet avoided the snares set by weeds and branches. Very
quickly, he found the road.
As he paused briefly to suck in some air, he heard the squeaking of carriage wheels and the clop
of horses' hooves. He glanced down the dirt road to where the castle could clearly be seen.
Rolling slowly toward the huge walls, rocking noisily on overworked springs, was a gray, wooden
van pulled by two brown and white horses.
If he could but attract the driver's attention . . .
"Help!" he cried, with what little power remained to his lungs. "Stop!"
His limbs heavy with pain, he staggered forward.
Behind him, the frenzied thrashing made by the werewolf drew nearer. The sound triggered a burst
of speed into his legs.
Then the forest sounds ceased; the werewolf was on the road as well. Even as the young man reached
this conclusion, the beast's grunts and snarls snapped at his ears.
The van had stopped, he suddenly realized, and he added a final burst of speed. A hairy face
peered inquisitively around its side. Not daring to halt, Oliver scrambled up to the driver's
seat. He flailed wildly at the man and yelled, "Drive, man! Start moving!"
"Whoa, lad. Steady on. I'll deal with the matter. Up to the roof with you." There was no need for
further encouragement; Oliver leaped to the flat roof. "You'll be safer there."
Oliver looked back. The werewolf was almost upon them. "Hurry!" he cried down to the man. "Whip
your team, man. Let's get out of here!"
"Oh, there's no hope of escaping the thing," the stranger said, unruffled. "We'll just have to
meet it here. Now, why don't you stand up, so the beast can see you plainly. That will distract it
long enough for me to do what I must."
Startled, Oliver stared down at the fellow in disbelief. The stranger was crawling into the van
through a door behind the driver's seat. It was well that Oliver was crouched, for suddenly the
van was struck with such force that he was tossed backward. The lad clung to the stout wooden
luggage mounts to save himself from tumbling over the side.
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He turned.
The werewolf was trying to clamber atop with him.
Inch-long claws scrabbled at the wooden surface Oliver lay upon, leaving deep white scars.
Suddenly, he was staring the thing in the eyes.
The face was an obscene meld of man and beast. Baleful fires flickered in large eyes, and
malodorous saliva dripped from sharp, ivory-bright fangs that opened and then gnashed together in
noisy anticipation of a hard-won meal.
Oliver pulled off his soft coat and hurled it. The jacket wrapped itself neatly around the thing's
head; without daring to consider the consequences, Oliver stood and booted the werewolf squarely
in the snout.
The creature whimpered with pain, then howled, but did not budge. Holding itself fast with one
paw, it swiped at Oliver and knocked the boy to the road. He landed well, but the fall dazed him;
he could barely move. His breath seemed squeezed from his lungs.
Helpless, he watched the werewolf rip the coat from its face then glare about, searching. Finally,
its eyes settled on Oliver and snarling a savage victory note through its teeth, it hopped down.
Though energy quickly returned to his numbed limbs, Oliver could nevertheless only crawl
backwards, crab-like.
"Now then," called a voice from behind. "I think we've found what's needed for this little
dilemma."
The fat man now stood alongside the van, a top hat of fine beaver perched slightly askew atop a
great cherubic head, black suede cape bellying in the breeze.
Strapped to his paunch was a large metal cylinder.
Both hands gripped a two-pronged spear attached to the canister by a long, thin wire.
The stranger's beefy features were set in a grim smile. No fear showed.
"All right, lad. Just move slowly away from the field of honor. Easy now. I've got its attention.
We don't want it back at you."
Oliver crept cautiously away from the van toward the roadside. The werewolf seemed to have lost
interest in him, staring instead with great intensity at the obese newcomer, as though, somehow,
it knew him.
Tentatively at first, then roaring a challenge that caused a tingle to race through Oliver, it
moved a step forward. The fat man took a corresponding step toward the creature, waggling the
spear teasingly.
The werewolf charged.
Raising his spear and dropping to one knee, the man caught the beast full in its hirsute chest
with the barbed prongs. Hardly fazed, the furious nightcreature slashed at the man with its claws,
trying all the while to press forward. But it was halted by the spear, and the spear only.
Oliver saw no hope for the man, or for himself.
After all, it took more to kill a werewolf than a trident and bravery. What could the fellow have
been thinking? Calmly, the fat man inserted the unoccupied end of the weapon into a slot on the
canister. His agile right hand quickly flipped a switch on the device.
There was a buzzing hum. Abruptly, the werewolf ceased snarling, then stiffened and tried to back
away, to pull itself from the prongs. But the barbs prevented that. The caped man followed, hit
another switch.
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The werewolf howled like a damned soul and jerked about as if in the throes of some strange
affliction.
Wisps of gray smoke began to rise from its chest and face and a tongue of flame licked at the dark
through a tapered ear. Oliver heard a crackle, smelled the stench of burnt flesh and something
else.
"There!" the fat man said, satisfied. "One more power surge." Another switch clicked. Completely
out of control, the werewolf weaved to and fro, clutching at the spear frantically, shrieking with
pain and outrage.
The animal dropped to the road. Quivering, it began to burn.
The caped man wrinided his nose at the stench, then pushed at a lever near the base of the spear.
The weapon's barbs retracted; he pulled it free easily, then let his mechanism slip to the ground.
He hopped blithely over to his van, returned with a smaller canister, and squirted the flames with
white, bubbly foam.
They died.
After returning his weapon to the van, the stranger poked at the dead hulk with a stick. "Big
fellow," he muttered. Then, remembering Oliver, he turned to face him. "Come here, lad. You might
as well have a look at the beastie who almost had you."
Oliver obeyed.
"Here. You'll need some light." The man pulled an electric torch from a large pocket and flashed
it over the corpse. "I'll bet you think this is all supernatural."
"Magical, sir!" Oliver breathed, "and you, sir, must be a magician, or a sorcerer, even."
The man swept up a hand gracefully in what seemed a practiced mannerism. "Tut tut. Nothing of the
sort.
Possessed of a little more knowledge than your people, and certainly owner of more advanced
equipment, but a sorcerer? Hardly. Although I can see how all this might appear supernatural." He
offered a manicured hand. "By the way, the name's Geoffrey. Geoffrey Turner, member of the Holy
Order to Preserve the Empire. And what name do you go by, lad?"
Oliver hesitantly grasped the man's hand, pumped it "Oliver Dolan, sir." He waved his free hand
toward the castle. "My family rules this land. By day, anyway."
"My word, how fortunate," the man said, rubbing his long, bushy beard in contemplation. "It would
appear that I'll have little trouble finding shelter for this night. But first, I want you to have
a closer look at our dead friend here."
He cast the torch-beam down, overturned the ruined creature with his stick.
Oliver gasped. Instead of burned flesh and singed fur, he noted the gleam of metal, lengths of
discolored wiring, items of half-melted plastic and hard glass he had never encountered before.
"An android, Oliver," explained Turner. "Part flesh, part robot. They're all this way the
werewolves, the dragons, the gryphons, the chimeras, and what have you." He plucked a white silk
handkerchief trimmed with blue lace from a pocket of his beige, ruffled shirt and dabbed at his
damp forehead. "Yes, and even the vampires, the most dangerous of the lot."
The vampire's boots clicked against the jet floor of the hallway, echoing loudly in the normally
soundless corridor.
Along the right wall, red arrows blinked brightly, darting crimson flashes into the dimly lit
hall, directing the creature to an open elevator.
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The vampire entered and doors whisked shut behind it.
The mechanism sighed deep into the heart of the Netherworld.
Had the vampire known of Christian legend, of Dante's Inferno, it might have found the situation
ironic. To descend to Hell in an elevator. Evil as a machine, a fantastic notion, worthy of a
painting by Bosch.
But this vampire knew little save of its Nightworld, of its Master's will, of its hunger. Even
now, its in-sides ached at the thought of fresh, warm blood. But the audience would not be long.
And then it could stalk its prey.
Suddenly, the elevator halted. The doors opened.
The scent of molten brimstone caused its nostrils to flare. Moaning, weeping, and the gnashing of
teeth assailed its ears.
The hot breath of Hell caressed its face.
TWO
WHEN he descended from his bath that evening wearing crisp white slacks, a lavender quilt lounge
jacket and a rose cravat, Oliver found his father Dudley, Viscount Dolan, hoisting mead with his
new friend Geoffrey Turner. They sat at a long, rough-planed oak table, under an ancient
chandelier which sported tiny electric light bulbs. In the nearby hearth, a sputtering fire hissed
smoky warmth into the cavernous hall. The odor of fresh-cooked venison lingered in the air.
Over the uplifted silver rim of his cup. Turner noted Oliver's return. "Ah, here's the lad." The
man's plump red face, flushed further with pleasure as he waved his free hand, gestured Oliver
toward a seat.
Settled in the high-backed chair, Oliver glanced hesitantly at his father, a gaunt man who seldom
smiled. At that moment his features, a somber collection of angles and etched shadows only faintly
softened by the wrinkles of age, were bent into an unusually deep frown. Oliver found his father's
serious gaze upon him and could not help but avert his eyes.
"As I mentioned earlier, Mr. Turner," the elder Dolan said in a quiet but resonant voice,
"Oliver's mother and I do not know how properly to express our thanks for your rescue of our son.
We can but offer hospitality and shelter for as long as you should require it, anytime." He lifted
his pewter cup with a thin, blue-veined hand, drained it.
"Think nothing of it," the fat man replied. He stifled a belch. "My job, dealing with creatures
like that, don't you know. Dispatched a hundred werewolves if I've dispatched a one."
"Oliver," Lord Dolan said in a soft but urgent voice.
"I trust that an exercise of such poor precaution on your part will not recur."
"There, there, your lordship," Turner interrupted. "The lad handled himself quite well, I think.
No need to be overly stern. One cannot go long in this world without eventually encountering the
Nightworld crew."
"Nevertheless," Oliver's mother interjected as she refilled the goblets. The white lace on her
cuff and about her neck shook with her movement. She wore a pink and beige evening dress reserved
for guests, Oliver's favorite, bustle, pleated frills and all. "Oliver should have been more
cautious. Asleep in the forest at dusk! He might as well have taken a dive off the topmost of our
towers!". Even in middle age, Lady Dolan was a beautiful woman. Tall, slender, graceful, she
provided the proper contrast to her darker, dour husband. Her long, lazily curling cream-blonde
hair was a casual frame to the even proportions of her face.
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Behind her mild appearance, though, lay an essential sternness, a strong, stubborn will that made
her pale blue eyes her dominant feature, as she turned them, scolding, to her son. "But I suppose
the episode is now properly a thing of the past and best forgotten. Another cup of mead, Mr.
Turner?"
"Don't mind if I do," he said, flashing a ready smile at the attractive woman through his dark
beard.
Lady Jessica refilled her husband's cup as well, and allowed Oliver a half portion. Its honey and
alcohol breath was sweet under Oliver's nose. "Now, if you gentlemen will excuse me, I must
retire. Worrying about Oliver this evening has been quite exhausting."
She exited regally, leaving behind the subtle scent of jasmine.
Absently, the Viscount waved good-bye, then returned to his guest. "You were saying, Mr. Turner? I
must confess, communication between our provinces is uncommon. I have heard of your group, vaguely
and not always in good terms but I am most intrigued as to its origins, and purpose."
Pausing first to sip at his mead. Turner sprawled back in his chair, arranging his loose pilot
coat into a more comfortable hanging on his hefty frame. His face assumed a serious aspect.
"First, Lord Viscount Dolan, you dwell in a particularly isolated section of the world." He
gestured around him. "I see that you retain some of the electrical conveniences. Lighting.
A few appliances. Yet your culture is principally agrarian, I think."
"We do maintain relations with two other communities. As to the so-called conveniences, they have
existed for as long as we have records. Power is supplied by a generator harnessed to a nearby
waterfall."
"Not far from the norm on Styxan; almost medieval life-style, robed in the garb of Standard
Victorian."
"I don't understand," the Viscount said, a hint of displeasure in his tone.
"Ah, yes, the way Styx used to be, under the Empire and its Queen . . ." Turner's eyes grew far
away. They were brown eyes, soft eyes, the most expressive parts of an eloquent face. He biinked.
"Oh, forgive me. I do go on sometimes. But it does trouble me how far Styx has descended from its
former ideal state. Ah, I've lost you. Never mind. Perhaps you've heard tell of this before.
Perhaps you know only sections of it through whatever legends you have hereabouts."
He cleared his throat. His voice was a tenor that occasionally ranged to baritone for emphasis.
"Sir, as you well know, this is a benighted world. But such has not always been the case. At one
time, it was part of a great Empire that spanned many stars."
"Surely all that is only myth," Lord Dolan protested abruptly, hand impatiently toying with a lock
of his thinning hair.
"Please, sir, I assure you that all I say is fact. All the circumstances fit. It alone could be
the truth concerning conditions here on Styx. You saw the carcass of the werewolf, did you not?"
"Indeed," Viscount Dolan admitted sullenly. "Its insides were filled with the stuff of magic."
Taking a snuff box from his mauve waistcoat pocket, he sniffed some of the strong-smelling stuff
as Turner continued.
"No. There, sir, you are wrong. Those things you saw were of technology, a result of science.
There is nothing supernatural about them. The creature was created, yes. But not by immaterial
dark forces. Please, allow me to explain.
"Centuries ago, this world was a colony of an empire in space. For reasons of its own, that Empire
designed this world in a style which belonged to a time centuries past on the Homeworld. But then,
the Empire suddenly died, or, at any rate, lost contact with this world.
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"Styx's technological facilities, which were quite extensive, were regulated by a machine; an
incredibly complex machine called a Computer, situated somewhere deep below the surface of the
planet. For some reason, the Computer malfunctioned, doing strange things to the environment,
manufacturing hideous creatures, and recreating terrible mythological conditions modeled on the
many legends of Homeworld's myth-rich past"
"Nonsense," the Viscount said quietly. He blew his nose into a fine linen handkerchief. "Virtual
and utter nonsense."
"Please, sir. If I may finish," Turner said, only slightly vexed by the man's obstinacy. "After
the fall of the Empire, and the malfunction of the planetwide communications network,
extraordinary things began to happen. The provinces began to forget the truth of their origins.
They withdrew into their separate existences, just as you of Femwold Castle maintain almost total
independence. They came to regard the scientific facts of their existence as mere myth. They
regressed to the social situations which were meant to serve only as their models. Fortunately,
among the record-keepers of these communities, some fought this inexplicable loss of memory. They
realized it was the work of some malevolent force, and they banded together . . . their original
number now is gone but their descendants continue the work, seeking to rid the land of the
nightmarish beasts that stalk by night, and seeking a way to kill the evil in this world at its
roots."
There was an uncomfortable lull in the conversation.
"And yet you know nothing of the real cause. A few suspicions, nothing more," the Viscount said
finally, rapping a genteel fist on the table. "Can you not acknowledge that the force of evil is
indeed supernatural, that war is being waged here on Styx between spiritual forces, those of good,
and those of evil, not by some machine?"
"I have nothing solid with which to prove to you now that such is not the case. I do know that if
spiritual forces are warring as you claim, the evil faction at least may be dealt with in quite
physical terms. Its representatives are mere constructs; flesh-clothed machines. Powerful, true,
yet vulnerable to certain methods. The werewolf, for example, Oliver. You must know something of
electricity, since you live in a castle with electric lights. The device strapped to me was simply
a powerful battery. Each of the prongs of the spear was an electrode. Merely by sticking the
werewolf in the right spot, I shorted its electronic circuitry. Now, would you call that a
supernatural process?"
"I must admit," said Oliver in a low voice, "it seemed so at the time." He shifted uncomfortably.
The air seemed much too warm where he sat by the blazing logs.
"Ah yes, I suppose it would. To less advanced cultures, advanced technology might as well be
magic."
"Would you tell us your suspicions concerning the power behind these creatures?" the Viscount
requested politely.
"Gladly. I was about to, as a matter of fact."
Turner cleared his throat gruffly. "It is our fraternity's belief that the World Computer which
was originally responsible for the way things are, could not have done it alone. No. There was,
and is a human being behind the situation. As to whether he is still alive, we do not know. But a
thinking, reasoning force lies behind all this, albeit quite mad. We believe that if the Computer
can be destroyed, this world can return to normalcy.
Perhaps equipment can be found to communicate with what remains of the Empire. But most important
is the halting of the reign of terror that has existed on Styx these past centuries.
"Now, to the reason I've come this way. It is said that somewhere to the west a spacecraft has
landed."
"A -what?" The Viscount's eyebrows rose in perplexity.
"A spaceship. A vessel from another world. Perhaps an emissary from the remains of the original
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Empire, come to communicate again with this faraway colony. We must contact the spacecraft, not
only to re-establish communication with the other worlds in the galaxy, but to obtain the
knowledge and the equipment needed to defeat the creature who holds Styx in thrall and plays with
it so malevolently." Here, he paused and sighed. "Unfortunately, we do not know the exact place of
descent of the ship. Our small number have divided, and are presently searching. Along the way we
are, of course, only too happy to dispose of whatever beasts and nightcreatures we encounter. But
what I need from you, now, is information. Have you heard anything of such a craft in the nearby
land, or of a great light falling from the heavens?"
"Nothing, I fear."
"Ah, well. I suppose I'll have to journey farther west before I hear tidings of the thing." He
looked at Oliver.
"And you? Have yon heard aught of what I speak?"
Oliver shook his head.
"Well, so much for that," Turner grumbled. "I just hope we can find this spaceship before he
does."
"He, Mr. Tamer? Just a moment ago, you were referring to it."
Turner chuckled ruefully. "After our talk of spiritual forces, you'll enjoy this. Viscount." His
chuckle turned into a belly-laugh. "The Computer, or creature if you will, has a name for itself."
"Indeed?"
"Yes." Turner ceased laughing and became darkly reflective. "It calls itself Satan."
"Enter, my Servant," boomed a sonorous voice from the darkness.
The vampire obeyed without hesitation, stepping into the wide room. From all around came the
menacing hiss of fire. Along the path, flames leapt into the blackness, illuminating at random,
simulated rock-walled chambers, each inhabited by human forms in poses of agony and degradation.
With its acute hearing, the creature noted that the wretched cries were but recordings.
"To the rear of the hall, my vampire," said the voice.
The vampire followed it, moving around columns resembling stalagmites and stalactites.
"Hold."
The vampire halted.
"Behold your Master."
Bright illumination shot up in the corner, flowing along a large section of wall. Gnarled, twisted
machinery abounded. Mirror-bright puddles lay where molten metal once had flowed. Like dead vines,
cables hung in disarray from the cinder-spattered ceiling.
Long consoles, and banks of tape transports stretched interminably into the darkness, humming,
clicking, working.
Suspended in the glassy heart of one machine, immersed in a nutrient bath, and festooned with
wires connecting him to the Computer, was the Master.
"Bow to the Prince of Darkness," the deep, dreadful voice demanded. The Master's lips did not
move.
They were hardly lips at all, mere flaps of white skin barely covering the teeth, set in a
permanent deathly leer.
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file:///F|/rah/David%20Bischoff/Bischoff,%20David%20-%20Night%20World.tx NightworldbyDavidBischoffPROLOGUEThesunsetandmoonless,cloudynightpouredacrosstheland.Thevampireawoke.Nestledcomfortablyinasatin-linedcoffin,thecreaturefelttheSummo simmediately,itraisedthecoffinlid,hesitatedbrieflyandlookedab...

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