In the Court of the Yellow King (29 page)

Campbell went home that night in a mental haze. Gibson had noted his disposition, even offered to drive him home but he’d refused. His fellow agent meant a lot to him, and he didn’t want to show weakness before her. He drove to his apartment knowing that if he’d left his car at the Bureau, it would have meant her picking him up in the morning and more time alone with her.

He stepped into his apartment, flicked through the day’s post, then slumped on the couch, drained of energy and also, feeling poisoned. The Carcosan’s had that effect on him, every single time. A shower wouldn’t clean the psychic stink from him, and neither would changing clothes.

A little later he plugged the memory stick into his computer, re-watched the movie, and was disgusted and confused all over again. Afterwards he put the offending object in his wall safe. The tiny object seemed offensive there, polluting the sanctity of his mother’s heirloom jewellery, his safety cash.

He stripped, worked out on his treadmill for half an hour, then took a shower before going through a few glasses of Jim Bean, laid on the couch naked while watching television. At 11 p.m. he went to bed, masturbated, and fell into an uneasy sleep.

As with every day after a Carcosan Event, a 9 a.m. conference was held by Mr. King. Usually this was in regards to what the aliens had given them, and what they would do with information gleaned from their technology. Campbell was not looking forward to it. For a start, it would be the ideal time to admit to owning the memory stick. Secondly, he felt like shit. The night had been a long one, waking constantly from vivid dreams about Gibson intermingled with nightmares about the Carcosans. Still, he went through the motions of getting up at 7:30 a.m., showered and dressed. He was on the motorway and winding his way around slow moving traffic at 8:15, was in the offices with ten minutes to spare. When he left home he’d brought the memory stick with him. For some reason, he felt it was safer on his person.

When he stepped into the large, white-walled Conference Room B, sugar-loaded coffee in hand and his brain still foggy from last night’s poor sleep, the tense atmosphere hit him like a sledgehammer, instantly clearing his head. Fellow agents were already seated at the circular, glass-topped table at the centre of the room. The King stood before the TV on the far wall, his scarred, stony face looking more cadaverous than usual. He turned to Campbell at his entry, as did the other agents. All looked worried, to a man. All men... Gibson wasn’t present and this, for a start, seemed wrong – in Campbell’s experience she had never been late for anything. Then The King spoke.

“They’ve taken one of our own.”

Those worried faces stared at him. Campbell wasn’t partnered with Gibson, but he did spend a lot of time with her, had formed a friendship, of sorts.

“Gibson,” he said quietly.

The King opened his mouth, stretching his pockmarked cheeks to reveal white, perfect teeth. “Sit down Campbell,” he said finally. “We have it on surveillance.”

Campbell slumped into his seat, his coffee ignored as he watched The King fiddle around with a remote control.

“I just had this spliced together by the tech team,” he said.

The screen came to life, revealing black and white surveillance footage of the reception room downstairs. The time code at the bottom right said 8:19 a.m. The King pressed fast forward, zooming two minutes ahead, and on the screen Gibson came walking through the doors into the reception.

Her hair in a ponytail, she wore a black trouser suit, her usual attire. For some reason she looked unusually flustered. Campbell, feeling a fluttering in his chest, looked around self consciously before returning his gaze to the screen. Another scene followed, Gibson walking down a corridor on the first floor.

“No sound on these,” The King said, “but the explosion was heard throughout the building.

“Explosion?” an agent whispered and many nervous glances were shared. Campbell kept his eyes on the screen. Gibson entering an elevator, the next camera shot showing her stood inside the elevator. All looked normal, and then Gibson shuddered, spasming where she stood. This happened two further times, then she dropped her briefcase. Next, her head turned directly towards the camera. Her mouth opened wide, her head flicking back so brutally that Campbell flinched like he’d heard it snap. Gibson’s eyes rolled back in her skull, leaving nothing but staring whites. She froze there, and the screen turned to static.

Silence filled the room until a few agents muttered to one another across the table. The King switched the screen off and sat heavily in his chair. Campbell noted this peripherally as he continued staring at the screen. He watched his own dim reflection and screamed inside.

“She never left the elevator,” The King said.

Tortured and violat
ed. Mutilated for sad
istic, insane needs.

“Forensics have been over it with a fine tooth comb.”

They’ll deposit the
remains in front of
us, with a smile.

“Nothing. The explosion had no natural source. We believe it was just some part of the abduction transition.”

An agent said in a panicked voice, “This could be an attack! It had to happen eventually.”

Another said, “Any of us could be next.”

Campbell rose from his seat. All heads turned to him, but the only gaze he acknowledged was The King’s. He said, “We have to get her back.”

The King had flatly refused Campbell’s request. It went completely against protocol. Campbell had argued that protocol had been broken as soon as they’d taken Gibson. The King still refused. Campbell had gotten angry, shouted. The King had ordered him from the room or face suspension.

Campbell sat in his office and brooded, fingering the memory stick.

Rev
enge is sweet
.

He slipped off the end cap and examined the USB. It was still tarnished with black residue, despite multiple uses. With unconscious volition he brought it to his nose.
Sulphu
r, the stink of hell
. Campbell plugged the memory stick into his machine and found, as before, an .avi file. He clicked the link.

This movie was different. Impossible, but there it was.

Men in black combat boots and fatigues, their faces concealed behind black balaclavas, stepping over the Carcosan corpses. They were armed with MP5 machine guns, the preferred weapon of choice for the F.B.I’s own Black Ops teams. The leader with the sign, for this was most certainly a continuation of the other footage, stood to the right, talking animatedly with another masked man.

Of those examining the dead, one nudged a corpse with his foot. The leader budged past him as he strode towards the camera’s POV. The man he’s been talking to dropped his arms dramatically in resignation. The sign was dropped, and the leader signalled to the one holding the camera. The view changed to that of the leader’s head, armoured shoulders, and the terrible Carcosan sky. The leader raised a gloved hand and started pulling his balaclava up. Campbell saw a stubbled chin, then the leader had the balaclava past his lips and up over his nose and eyes, leaving the head past a thick tangle of unkempt sandy brown hair. Campbell gasped at the face, for his own, familiar visage stared back at him.

“How... What the hell?”

Impossible, it’s impossible. No, not re
ally
, he realized, as offerings from the Carcosans had defied time’s arrow before. Who was to say he couldn’t do the same, at least if he was there, in their world?

He knew just what to do.

A betrayal, a betrayal of The King
and
the F.B.I., was what was required to retrieve Gibson. He couldn’t just leave her there, suffering at the clammy hands of those terrible beings.
I can’t
, he thought, sat in her office, a room already cleared of her personal belongings. It wasn’t right. She had a family. What if he was next? What if The King was next? Would a retrieval be in order for
him
?

Campbell looked at the only remaining object on Gibson’s desk: her telephone. He picked it up and dialled a little used, in house number connected to Project Yellow Sign.

“Yes?” answered a male voice.

“This is Agent Campbell. We need a small team for a Black Operation. I know this is out of the blue, but The King ordered it. Yes of course I have proof. Just get a team together. We’re going through the incursion.”

A barrage of expletives followed, giving Campbell pause. He bit his lip then said, “We’re going through, armed. We’re going to retrieve a lost agent. Be ready in twenty.” More arguments followed, then Campbell added, “Bring a video camera.”

He checked his watch.
One-fifteen, The Ki
ng should be out
. Campbell rose from the desk, looked around the bare room wistfully, and steeled himself for the next part of his unsanctioned operation.

The King’s office stood two floors above Gibson’s, and after popping to his own office to collect a few folders, Campbell headed there trying to hide his nerves from those he passed in the corridors. As soon as he reached his destination, he was forced to deal with The King’s secretary, Mrs. Bell, a small red-headed woman with a stern demeanour who told him flatly to come back when Mr King returned from lunch.

“He needs these files on his desk when he comes back,” Campbell lied, waving his props in the woman’s face. He ignored her further protestations and walked past her desk, into The King’s office.

What could she do after all? Complain to The King when he returned? All going well, Campbell would be long gone.

The King’s office was cream, with dark brown carpet tiles underfoot. A large pine desk stood against the north wall, against which stood a large cabinet stroke bookshelf filled with books and files. The one window, upon the east wall, was shuttered with a blind. He looked around briefly, then stepped towards and around the desk. Campbell sent the office door a look but the secretary didn’t appear to interfere with him. He slapped the files onto the desk, sneered at the framed family photos stood there, then moved The King’s chair, leaning down to reach the safe beneath the desk.

Fiv
e, seven, nine, two
, he thought as he typed the numbers into the safe’s keypad. All the agents connected to the project knew the code, just in case something happened to The King. No one would have thought of using it for this. The door unlocked, Campbell opened it and found sealed letters, a few files, a Glock 22 (he took this, pocketing it), and the device, wrapped in its black cloth. He hesitated over touching it, briefly, then he was barging from the office, past the shocked Mrs. Bell and towards either his doom or his destiny. He didn’t know which.

It took taking the elevator to the basement, walking down those cold corridors, then entering the currently unguarded, summoning room before everything finally hit home.

Fuc
k, I’m going into the
ir world. Their helli
sh world. And what if
I’m already too lat
e?