dochermes | Entries tagged with golgora

"Golgora"

1/21/1986

In the moonless overcast night, Jeremy Bane was almost invisible in his black suit. Within the visor of his helmet, though, light enhancers gave him a good enough view to step silently through the woods. Silent with the stealth of long years of training, he made his way past anything that might make a noise underfoot. There was little snow, just patches here and there. It was close to midnight and he felt the usual feral excitement. The Midnight Wars, the secret wars he fought in, raged most fiercely in the dark when the powers of evil peaked. This was also the hour he lived for. The Dire Wolf slowly circled the two story white frame house that stood at the end of a long driveway. A beige Honda Accord sat before the front door, and two lights burned on either side of the front door. In the house itself, only one window on the ground level was on.

Bane spotted the watcher from a distance and crept up on him, unseen and unheard. ( the rest of the story )

"Death Threw a Party"

5/3/1984

I.

A gorgeous Sunday afternoon in early May was wasted on Jeremy Bane. He was so strongly nocturnal in nature that the warm sunlight and mild breeze actually annoyed him. He was much more at home on dark rainswept nights, but he had to follow leads wherever they led. The stolen Nekrosan gem had to be recovered before its innate properties began to manifest. The Dire Wolf had driven for two miles before he pulled over onto a side street in increasing grumpiness. Rows of houses that were all the same. How did these people not pull into the wrong driveway all the time and walk in through a door exactly identical to the one on their own house? Maybe they did and everyone just mumbled politely while the mistaken ones went back out.

He had been told that the Pleasant Valley Park had started as a postwar development to provide afforable housing for returning veterans looking to start families. Not many of those original homes survived. Over the years, they had been steadily replaced by identical pre-fab one-story white board houses all constructed overnight to the same plan. The more he took the scene in, the more it troubled Bane. It seemed creepy. Why didn't some of these people paint the outsides blue or yellow or even purple or pink? Put up tree houses for the kids? There was a small above-ground swimming pool in back of a few of the houses, but even they seemed to have all been purchased and installed by the same company. Each front yard had a tiny garden bordered by red bricks, and they all had roses as the main flowers.

Oh well. It was none of his business. His life was the Midnight War. Still only in his late twenties, the Dire Wolf was so lean and taut that he seemed menacing even when sitting still. The all-black outfit with its turtleneck and sport jacket didn't help, nor did the hostile pale grey eyes in a narrow face. Bane started up his Mustang again and eased out onto the main street for a few more blocks. There it was, Hart Lane. He pulled over and got out of the car. The smell of charcoal burning was everywhere and the sharp tang of hamburgers grilling made his stomach growl.

Kneeling in her tiny garden much like every other tiny front yard garden in the Pleasant Valley Park, an elderly woman sheltered beneath a floppy sun hat and huge round-rimmed purple sunglasses glanced up from where she had been proudly examining her circles of roses. There was one yellow and one white bloom standing out in the center of the burst of crimson. As she saw the ominous man in black approach, her tentative smile faded.

"Mrs Agnes Gray?" asked Bane quietly. He came closer and squatted down so she didn't have to crane her neck up at him. "I'm not from the police. Or the FBI. I'm not looking for Joanne to arrest her."

The old woman had a metal lawn chair behind her and she used its support to lever herself up to her feet, then dropped down to sit on it. "Then just who are you, young man?"

"My name is Bane, Jeremy Bane. To be honest, I'm concerned with retrieving that purple jewel that is in Joanne's possession. I don't care how she obtained it, that's not my business. I'm not out to arrest her. But she is in real danger as long as she holds it." He did not move closer, facing Mrs Gray over her rose garden.

"I don't understand. Joanne is just fifteen, she is only a girl..."

"The owners of that gem are terrible people," Bane told the woman. "Worse than Mafia mobsters. Worse than ex-Nazis or Russian KGB agents. They are killers when there is no need to kill. For her sake, I need to get that gem so they come after me instead of her."

Mrs Gray studied his face thoughtfully. "I don't know why but something in your voice convinces me. You're genuinely worried about her. Do you even know her?"

"No, not at all. But I have seen too many innocents after the Nekrosim got their claws on them. Joanne is your niece. Can you tell me where I can find her?"

The elderly woman lowered her head. She did not answer for so long that Bane thought she had fallen asleep, but finally she looked up. "I don't know why I should trust you, son. But I've learned to follow my instincts. She's probably with her sorta boyfriend, Gary. He lives almost on the other side of the Park, right before you reach the highway. 512 Maple Street. His father Jack Greene drives a silver Carmen Ghia."

"Thank you, ma'am," Bane said, already up and heading back for his car. "I'll do everything I can to see no one gets hurt."

"I believe you," Mrs Gray said to herself as she gingerly got down again to kneel over her roses.

( the rest of the story )

"A Face Like Death"

[1969]

8/22-8/23/1979

Against the backdrop of twilight beyond the wide picture window, Golgora's head and shoulders were just a dark, ominous outline. The small red glow which marked the tip of his cigarette brightened as he drew upon it. "Proceed."

Harold Werner sat on a plain straightback chair in a circle of light from the ceiling. He was haggard, with dark circles under watery blue eyes and two days' growth of blond beard, but he had never been a large or imposing figure in his best days. Now he hunched forward, hands folded loosely and looked down at the floor. "Master, before we begin, may I-"

"No. Wait. Report first," came the hollow voice.

"Yes, Master. Your faithful servants have been watching the building on East 38th Street these past weeks. There has been much activity, many people coming and going, and we have identified eight regular visitors. It is most remarkable. Kenneth Dred died in his sleep last month. He had been a Midnight War adventurer in his youth and in his old age, he acted as counsellor and mentor to new adventurers. Two years ago, he hired a street thug called Jeremy Bane to act as his agent."

( the rest of the story )

"The Will To Die"

(7/9/1972) [original title "Die With Open Eyes"]

12/10/1981

I.

A cold, drizzly December morning in New York City, dark as twilight. A petite blonde woman and a tall black man walked slowly, talking, going nowhere in particular. She wore a white raincoat and had her hair pulled up into a ponytail that reached her collar. He was wearing a dark brown suit with a tan dress shirt, but no tie, his collar pulled up.

"What's taking so long to set up your clinic, anyway?" Cindy asked after a minute of silence between them. "Red tape?"

Ted Wright let out a breath. There was grey in his short hair and beard, and he had a heavy, sad face. "More than I ever thought possible. I closed my practice two years ago, but I am still on call at the Jefferson Memorial when their ER is swamped. I thought I would get approval for my clinic right away."

The blonde telepath bumped up against him in a friendly way. "Too bad you can't tell the medical board about what you've learned at Tel Shai. Your Blue Guide powers would be a big help in any hospital."

"Never happen," he grumbled. "They'd think I was insane, or worse, a fraud. My skills are mostly in diagnoses and helping people heal, and I couldn't explain how I did it. I'd be up on charges in a blink."

Cindy slipped her arm around his waist, sticking her thumb in a loop of his belt. "Well, WE appreciate you. Once you get your clinic set up next door, you can help people without insurance know what's wrong with them, and we'll still have you on hand for our wild and crazy adventures.'

He patted her on the back. "Thanks. You know, I was at Tel Shai for two years before you and Jeremy and the others showed up. I really was not clear on what I was going to do with my skills... Cin?"

She had stopped right in midstep. They were near the George Washington Bridge, close enough to see the cars crawling along its three thousand feet of concrete and metal. Her mind, the priceless telepathic mind that made the KDF a viable team instead of a disorganized group with nothing in common, had suddenly reached out in anxiety. She had picked up on something. The Will To Die!

Then she saw him, a tiny figure climbing up on one of the swaying cables which supported the bridge, and she knew with a dread certainty that he was going to jump. Even worse, her mind picked up that he was being made to do so. "Ted! That man up there!" she cried, pointing.

Wright had snapped into instant alertness, following her line of sight. He sprinted forward, trying to get as close as he could. Behind him, Cindy had snapped the Link from her belt and said into it, "Jeremy. Get the corby to the George Washington Bridge! Hurry!"

The man now standing high on a pylon was wearing a white shirt and dark pants, all that could be made out at this distance. As Wright came running to the shore of the Hudson, the faroff figure swayed and spun end-over-end as it plummeted down through the air. "No!' shouted Wright and he held up his open hand. There was nothing obviously unusual about that long-fingered, dark-skinned hand but it was the focal point which Thaddeus James Wright used to visualize his power. Now a faint, barely visible shimmer of pale blue light came into existence around that hand- exactly like the aura of flickering blue energy which sprang up around the falling man.

Wright stood with feet well apart, jaw clenched, all his will and concentration pouring into the gralic energy that surged invisibly from him to the falling man, whose descent slowed down as if something was supporting him. Gravity contended with the transcendental power of gralir. Slower and slower, the man floated down to the brown water. He hit with only a small splash and no impact. Standing on the barrier holding back the river, the Blue Guide swayed and kept focussed. Something was fighting him. Some unseen occult force was at work, making the manifestation of his powers much more difficult than was normal.

From midtown, far more quickly than normal aerodynamics would explain, a black helicopter hurtled overhead. The Corby's passage was almost silent and could not heard over normal traffic noises. The craft curved around tightly, diving down close to the river surface. Leonard Slade was at the controls, swinging the copter around in a manner that would have made a true Human pilot black out. Within seconds, he was just a few feet above the surface over the man. Oddly, the rotor blades spun but did not seem to generate much wash, only a little spray rose from the river. An observer might wonder if the Corby was really being lifted by the blades.

The blue glow of Wright's manifestation was visible from beneath the surface, where the man had sunk. Slade slid the hatch open and dove smoothly into the water. No one was close enough to see that the helicopter was hovering stable without anyone at the controls. A few seconds passed, then he broke the surface with the man under one arm. Again, there were no observors closer than the drivers in the traffic on the bridge and they could not tell how he got back up into the hovering copter. If someone had been nearer, it would be seen that he rose up out of the water as if pulled on a non-existent cable. Leonard Slade wore a black jumpsuit with numerous pockets and devices attached. He had short black hair and calm dark eyes, The handsome, olive-skinned face showed no emotion as he drew his own Link to speak to Cindy watching from the shore.

"This man is dead," announced the Trom. "He deliberately drowned himself."

( the rest of the story )

"The Experience Which Comes Last"

(2/26/1975, as "The Captive of Golgora")

2/14/1985

I.

Jeremy Bane felt ill at ease. It was a decent neighborhood out on Long Island, with a low crime index, and at seven o'clock at night should have been safe enough. But a lifetime of violence had left Bane permanently suspicious, with wary instincts that never entirely relaxed. His grey eyes were restless, checking rooftops and doorways even as he spoke. Cars went by, but he could tell by the way they moved that the drivers were concerned with their own lives. "Dr Palen, maybe one of my team should wait in your house with you for a day or two. Or maybe we should keep you at our headquarters building in Manhattan."

Dr Samuel Palen was watching this thin young man who dressed all in black, and who carried an air of brooding tension with him. He was nervous near Bane. Palen was sixty, well-fed and soft. A respected scholar with several published books on the occult, he was not used to be next to someone with so much nervous energy. "Thank you, Mr Bane," he said as he started up the short walkway to his house. "But I'm sure that won't necessary. I'll lock the doors and windows."

"Your work carries a certain amount of risk," the Dire Wolf insisted. "You are almost done translating that Nekrosan text of their holy books. This could give us valuable information. They are a secretive and murderous Race, and I think they may want to stop you from finishing," Bane was trying hard to be persuasive without being intimidating, but this was something he wasn't good at. Even in the dusk, his grey eyes flashed like cold steel.

Palen dismissed this with a wave of a hand. "No. Seriously, no. The Nekrosim are a mythical species. Even if something like them did exist ONCE, that was thousands of years ago. I am in no danger. Believe me, I wouldn't take any chances." He chuckled unconvincingly. "I'm no two-fisted hero like the famous Dire Wolf."

"I suppose. I still am not happy about this. You have my number, doctor."

Dr Palen nodded and turned to step up to his front door, keys in hand. "I should be done with the translation in a few weeks," he said. "I'll see you then. Goodnight, Mr Bane."

The Dire Wolf watched the scholar enter his house and heard the click of the door locking. All his instincts were tugging at him to go in the house and stand guard, but Palen had refused protection. Bane scowled in the gloom. Almost invisible in his long black topcoat, he began to circle the block, eyes moving quickly , looking for anything out of place.

In his study, Palen had set a huge mug of coffee on his desk, shoving aside some of the litter of notes to make room. The study was cluttered with books and papers on every available surface. Adjusting the reading light, Palen dug around in the center drawer of his desk for his glasses. Then he brought a key from his pocket and unlocked a side drawer, tugging out a thick manila folder.

Somewhere in that room, a burning pair of deep-set eyes watched him hungrily.

Palen carefully spread out a series of 8x11 photostats, clicked his pen and set to work. The museum had not wanted him to keep the original Nekrosan manuscipt, so he worked from these stats. Lost in concentration, he was entirely unprepared for a rasping whisper which came from directly behind him, a hoarse hollow voice that sounded like it belonged in a grave.

"Good evening, Dr Palen. Your work going well?"

With an undignified squack of fright, Palen jumped up and knocked his chair over backwards. He whirled around and his heart almost stopped.

The intruder was a thin, bony man just under six feet tall. He wore a dark brown jumpsuit that fitted loosely, its legs tucked into high polished boots. A narrow sash over one shoulder ended in a small spiked lead ball, and there was a 1911 broomhhandle Mauser in a flap holster on his belt. But Palen noticed none of that. He was staring in shock at the man's face. The intruder looked like a living skull. There was no hair on the head, only two small holes for ears. Heavy overhanging brow ledges, a tiny snub of a nose, a wide toothy mouth that grinned maliciously... all combined to make him an unnerving sight.

"Who ARE you?" Palen managed to squeak.

"My name is Golgora! A Nekrosan of Perjena," the skull-faced man said. "You have studied my Race, doctor. Are you... happy to see one of us in the flesh?"

Palen backed away but was caught up by the bookcase behind him. There was nowhere to go. "What do you want?"

"Don't be coy, my little Human. You know of my kind. You know what we are like. Surely you must be... ah, thrilled to know that a Nekrosan has come back to the world." He was moving closer slowly, hideous face grinning. "Ah, that must be the text you were working on."

As Palen's eyes darted to the notes on his desk, Golgora lunged forward and drove a hard tight fist to the side of the man's face. Pain exploded in the old man's head, lights flashing in his eyes as he dropped to the floor. In the back of his mind, Palen realized that maybe he should have listened to Bane after all.

"I will take that text," grated the Nekrosan, "as I will take you. You will join me in the quest to solve the Great Mystery. Death itself!"

Palen had managed to get up on one knee, reaching for a bookshelf to steady himself. He had never been punched full force by a skilled fighter before; it hurt worse than he could have imagined. "You're crazy! Absolutely crazy!"

Bony fingers clamped down over Palen's mouth and the muzzle of that Mauser jabbed hard at his cheek. "Ignorant words! For one of my Race, I am quite sane. You will come with me. You will face the greatest experience of your empty life... for it is the experience which always comes last!" Golgora drew back the pistol and brought its butt down with brutal force. The last thing the terrified Palen saw was that leering skull face.

In the darkness outside, Jeremy Bane had returned to stand in front of the house. Although he had not found anything in the neighborhood to justify his anxiety, he had long ago learned to trust his instincts. Now he stared at the modest, one story white frame house with shingle roof. There was no garage, nothing in the yard other than patches of stubborn snow. The neighboring house had a single flickering blue light in an upstairs window, where TV held someone entranced. Bane frowned and was about to walk back to his car at the end of the block when he heard a door slam softly at the rear of Palen's house.

At that sound, the Dire Wolf blurred into motion, sprinting through the yard and around the house quicker than any athlete. In the street behind Palen's home stood a dark Lincoln, motor idling and headlights off. There were three men in sight. One wore a dark commando outfit and some sort of stupid skull mask, certainly the ringleader by the way he was standing. A bigger, beefy thug was shoving a limp unconscious form into the back seat of the Lincoln and the third man was standing on guard, a revolver in his hand. It was this man who swung around at the light sound of Bane's racing footsteps. He was alert and ready, with gun already drawn, but even so he was taken by surprise at just how fast the Dire Wolf moved.

Plunging across the yard faster than a real wolf, Bane seized the man's gunhand and yanked it down toward the ground. In the same motion, he smacked the edge of his other fist down at the base of the thug's neck with a crack as sharp as a branch snapping. Even as that goon dropped, Bane spun on one foot, whirling to whip out his leg in a spinning reverse roundhouse. It caught the bigger man perfectly, right on the side of the jaw, and he fell to his hands and knees. Still in the same series of moves he had planned in the second he saw these three, Bane swung to face the guy in the skull mask.

For a bare instant, he hesitated as he recognized his opponent. "Gol-" he got out before the spiked lead ball caught him high up on the side of his head. That dazed him. Golgora whirled his strange weapon overhead, lashing out again and again. Even partly stunned, Bane blocked one strike but the spiked ball bounced around and smacked hard at the back of his head. The leather strap with the ball at the end was a unique Nekrosan weapon, combining elements of a whip and a mace. Bane fell, not quite unconscious but unable to resist as Golgora lashed out savagely at him, until his men coaxed him into leaving with their prisoner.

( the rest of the story )