Burnt Black Suns: A Collection of Weird Tales (13 page)

Another click, the hiss of a second recording played behind him. He pivoted, his knees threatening to dislocate painfully, and he saw what he had hoped he would never see again, saw it impossibly resurrected in the doorway and staring at him, its many eyes spewing malice. How it travelled from the car to Toth’s bedroom was insignificant to the larger question of how it stood at all. Nothing held it aloft—no ropes beyond those that lay in circles at its feet. It hung motionless, and the old man felt his mind rebelling at the nightmare in which he must be trapped. The marionette’s next words left no room for his sanity to remain.

“There is no recording, Father.”

“Your voice is ours.” The bedridden marionette resumed speaking, its voice rising to a hiss, followed by a click as the period to each thought. The voices, though, were indistinguishable from each other. Those voices were his. The puppet maker’s.

“I don’t understand,” the old man cried, waving his cane so that he might ward off the nightmares haunting him. They remained unimpressed by his display. “What are you?” he choked.

“We are you,” they replied coldly and in unison. Click. Click. Their recordings turning on and off in turn. “You build the receptacles we provide you. You build them, then through you we are deposited wholly, pulled by your being through that pinhole in your nightmares. This is what you have always done. What you shall continue to do. You are the seeder. You give us the life we so crave.”

“Who are you?”

“At first, explorers, but we have grown to like what is here. To hunger for life. But our numbers are so small, and we are still so tethered to you, still too much a part of you. But our numbers will grow. As you are in us, we are in you.”

“No,” the old man protested. “I won’t do it! I won’t let you!”

“You cannot stop us, Father. Your will belongs to you no longer. It has not for some time.”

Hands gripped the old man, too many sets of hands, hard and wooden. The hands of the inhuman driver. Those hands squeezed tighter.

“We are few, but soon we will be many. Soon we shall inhabit this world like gods. Gods of elsewhere made solid.”

He struggled, but the old puppet maker could not break free from the driver’s grip. It dragged him from the room, past the two large vessels he had shaped only to have filled by life beyond his ken. Eyes, eyes, too many eyes, wooden and glazed, watched him dragged across the floor by a flurry of arms, watched as he was carried down the stairs, heavy foot slowly following heavy foot with a movement no different from that of the puppets he once guided. He watched the remains of the house he could barely remember owning rush past, furniture he had once possessed rotting since their abandonment. How long had he been used? How many years had he worn his hands and soul in service of those things? The old puppet maker fought as best he could for his freedom, but time too had forgotten him, and when finally the driver reached the car the puppet maker was too exhausted to struggle any longer. Already, thoughts were beginning to jumble inside his head.

He worked to make sense of all he had seen, but reality had begun to divide, to separate into fragments impossible to reconstitute. Thought-forms, word strings, flashes of visions careened through his mind, and in the white mist on the outskirts of the small town he felt them one by one disappearing into the void. The driver simply drove, its too many hands on the wheel, a series of ropes hanging loose beneath its arms. When the towncar inevitably arrived at the puppet maker’s small home, there was nothing left to think at all.

The driver led the dazed old man to his door, brought him inside, sat him down in a threadbare chair, took the cane from his hands, and put it aside. From the pocket of the half-stitched coat it wore, the wooden thing retrieved a small vial of white pills and placed it in the old man’s motionless hand. Into that same pocket it carefully returned Dr. Toth’s folded note, as well as the crumpled note it fished from the overfull wastepaper basket. It continued to the basement workshop and cleaned the debris, covered the equipment once again. Reset his creator’s world. Then on unsturdy jointed knees it returned to the dark towncar and started the engine.

Inside his modest house the puppet maker stared down at his wizened hands, at the gnarled knuckles like cherry galls on goldenrod, at the wrinkled leather skin stretched and folded in on itself so many times it sagged. Those hands were filled with pain and loss and regret that radiated outward like an unbearable heat. His hands were all he had left. His hands, and his memories. But those memories faded from his mind, slipped into the dark of the misty quiet town like the sound of an automobile into the distance. He swallowed another handful of pills and hoped that this day might finally be his last.

The day Dr. Markowitz was to return, the weather was unseasonably cool. Randal Souris and Olivia Marshall were holed up in the lab—Olivia preparing for the next group coming through, Randal trying to ignore the scent of strawberries that kept trying to claim him.

“I wonder where they are,” she said.

“Who?”

“Dr. Markowitz and Linden. Shouldn’t they have been here by now?”

God, how Randal hated that name.
Linden
. It still boggled the mind to imagine there was anything Markowitz saw in that overgrown pituitary gland. All muscle and sickening deep tan, he did not belong on scientific expedition. He did not even belong in the department, not with real scientists like Dr. Markowitz. And like Randal.

“I’m surprised Linden didn’t phone you when he got back. Are you two fighting?”

“No, not at all. I mean, I haven’t heard from him in a couple of days, but . . .
still . . .
”

It was beyond him how Olivia could not see what Linden was. But even Markowitz seemed charmed by the boy’s rugged looks and easy attitude. Of course it was easy, everything was easy for men like Linden. For Randal, it was work—nothing was handed to him. He may not have had Linden’s height or strength, but he made up for it with something more. Something Linden could never have. A razor mind, and a future. It was only a matter of time before Markowitz and Olivia realized it. Only a matter of time before it was him at the Doctor’s right hand, earning accolades, before he took Olivia’s affections as his rightful prize. The inevitability of autumn—of the autumn semester—filled him with hope.

Or, perhaps, it was just the strawberries.

It was true that Dr. Markowitz had once been the unchallenged star of the Microbiology Department. His work on key mitochondrial recombination was ground-breaking, and the fungal variations bred based upon those findings had ushered in a new direction in terrestrial research—not only for the earth sciences, but for extra-planetary purposes. Dr. Markowitz’s reputation was the sole reason Randal passed on opportunities to attend more prestigious and Ivy League schools, and instead earn his graduate degree at Sandstone University, a short trip from his backwater home in the depths of inbred Woodbridge County.

But even Randal was beginning to question whether Markowitz was still the force he once was. Certainly, the doctor spoke as though he was not diminished, and his charisma was able to carry him a long way; but earlier in the summer, before he and Linden left, Randal noticed strange delays in the doctor’s speech, certain moments where lucidity was distant. Markowitz denied them, but it was the only explanation for why Linden had been selected for the trip.

Randal remained somewhat heartbroken to have been passed over for the expedition, especially considering the subhuman oaf who had taken his place at Dr. Markowitz’s side. Olivia, on the other hand, appeared not at all concerned that she’d been abandoned by both Markowitz and Linden. “At least you’ve stuck by me,” she laughed, and Randal feigned laughter, too, though he didn’t understand why it was so funny. He didn’t understand at all. Why had he and Olivia been banished? What reason could there be to forego bringing the brightest pupils along, leaving them behind to deal with the day-to-day laboratory business? So they might keep the department functional during the anemic summer classes filled with the dregs of student life? It was excruciating, and Randal nearly abandoned the cause. The only reason he did not was the legacy of Dr. Markowitz, and the proximity Randal and Olivia shared. For either, he would have suffered far more. And yet, both were forbidden to him and inexplicably linked to the loutish Linden. Sometimes, Randal wondered if there would ever be a single thing he wanted that his nemesis did not already possess.

Days passed without sign of either Markowitz or Linden. Olivia entered the lab each morning with a hopeful expression on her face, an expression that lingered only long enough for her to realize no one waited for her but Randal. The sight of her disappointment was devastating, but Randal had long grown used to the sensation. It no longer registered outside the norm. Besides, Olivia’s face was the sort that made hiding truths impossible. Which did not serve her well—under the makeup and rejuvenators, it was clear she hadn’t slept well the night before, if at all. And Randal’s ego suffered no delusions why.

“Still no word from Dr. Markowitz? Have you heard from Linden?”

“No, nothing yet. Maybe I got the date wrong.”

“Well, I didn’t. They’re late.”

“What should we do?”

He shrugged. “I suppose prep the lab for the ‘Introduction to Microbiology’ practicals. I doubt the curriculum is going to change. Dr. Markowitz had no time. Besides, the cultures need to be prepped and we still haven’t made the agar.”

She nodded, but would not be so easily distracted from her fear.

“Do you think everything is okay?”

“I’m sure it is. We’d have probably heard if something happened.”

She mumbled. Then, as though wiping the thoughts from her mind in a single pass, her blue eyes ignited—so deep the air caught in Randal’s throat. “We should get started, then. Linden and Dr. Markowitz are going to come back soon and think the two of us have just been sitting here all summer telling stories and having fun.”

Yes, Randal thought. The sheer idea that he and she would be together for any reason beyond work was absolutely ludicrous.

Despite what he said, Randal did not believe he and Olivia would be able to prepare the labs for the upcoming semester satisfactorily. Dr. Markowitz was notorious for switching his curricula after his expeditions to keep things fresh and interesting. Perhaps the class lab session would not change, or perhaps it would be changed utterly—until Markowitz carefully planned the semester out, everything would continue to be mutable. But in some ways, Randal saw this as a blessing. Markowitz, despite precariously straddling the line of continued relevance, was nonetheless nearly the only man gifted enough to act as Randal’s doctoral advisor. It was for that reason Randal was concerned about Markowitz’s absence. Without him, who else could he look to? Certainly not pigeon-toed Dean Coxwell.

But Randal had to admit, Markowitz’s absence was troubling. Even more so to Olivia, it was clear, so Randal did his best to maintain his composure while in front of her. It was so easy to give in to fears of the worst, and he perhaps already did that enough for the two of them.

A large wooden crate the color of an old stone arrived late Wednesday evening, the address scrawled in Dr. Markowitz’s own hand. Two delivery men wheeled the cart into the laboratory, rubber wheels squeaking on the tile floor, while both Randal and Olivia watched with astonishment. It was clear from their haste they had no desire to linger any longer than was necessary. Olivia seemed perturbed, but Randal was dismissive.

“Clearly, it was their last delivery of the day. Didn’t you notice how exhausted the short one looked?”

He didn’t pay much attention to her subsequent answer. He was already mesmerized by the crate, by what Markowitz might have shipped to himself, and why. The grey box was at least three feet long and two deep, and judging by the labels affixed to it Randal could only assume it contained specimens from the expedition. Why else go through the effort of shipping it to the university? It was bizarre he sent them ahead of his arrival, but Randal supposed Markowitz was no longer at the age where carrying large crates was something he relished. Perhaps it was easier that way.

Yet it took Olivia to ask the real question, the one Randal was avoiding.

“If the crate is already here, why aren’t they?”

It was a good question, Randal had to admit. There were no words to explain it satisfactorily to either of them, and perhaps his lack of an answer made the situation far worse. Olivia muttered to herself as her face grew pale, and her hands trembled with certain fear. She deteriorated quickly, fumbling her cell phone from her pocket, dialing with worried precision. Randal watched her put the phone to her ear and stare at him vacantly, two beams burning thorough him as she waited. He saw her eyes grow wider, more desperate, with each unanswered ring. Eventually, Randal could no longer bear the absent scrutiny.

“Hang up, Olivia.”

“I can’t,” she said. Her voice warbled. “Not until I hear his voice.”

“If Linden were going to answer, he would have by now. It doesn’t mean anything. There are a million reasons this crate is here and he and Markowitz aren’t. A million, at least. Stop worrying.” He didn’t intend to be so blunt, but his curiosity about what the crate contained was possessing him, and her nervous blubbering was getting in the way. “Maybe we should unpack whatever is in here and start cataloguing it. The more we are ready for Markowitz when he gets back, the more likely we are to end up with our names on his paper.”

“I don’t
care
about my name on the paper. I want to know where they are.”

“They’re coming, Olivia. They’re coming. Trust me.”

“But how do you know?”

Randal thought for a moment. It was difficult with her staring at him. Even with swollen eyes and running mascara, she still had an effect on him—the simultaneous sensation of both hope and hopelessness.