Last War Of The Necromancers

"You make me laugh, McCabe," the Dumar project had told him. It had not moved, merely stood motionless, frozen in the middle of the room. "After all the wonderful times we've had together, the beatings, poisonings and tortures. After all that history, you've still got the sheer balls to come down here.

"I reckon you've got a fundamental flaw in your mental health."

McCabe had waited as the Project had said its piece, hearing the smile in its voice.

"Cos a sane man, after inflicting the kinds of mindless atrocities you have, would steer clear of me. After all you know what I'm capable of, you helped make me what I am today," the Dumar Project had raised one eyebrow, the only sign it could move at all. "Do you think I might snap one day? Attack you and break your neck maybe? See if the creation will turn on the master?" Dumar paused as if waiting for a reply.

Alan McCabe simply stared at his creation.

It, he had always thought of it as 'it,' was based on a human form, the basic DNA was human but had been manipulated, even while still in utero. All the traits that could be used to the Company's advantage had been tweaked to perform better than average, strength, speed, intelligence and more, including vision, hearing and olfactory performance. Billions in research, development and training; years of planning, trials and work had culminated in the thing that stood before McCabe.

It had been an almost complete failure.

Some slight deviance in its genetic coding, an unspotted malfunction in its bio-circuitry or a small developmental problem. So far, the abnormality had not been found, could not be cured. In spite of hundreds of hours-worth of hypnosis, psychological evaluation, re-training and medical examinations, there had been no progress.

"You won't kill me, Dumar," McCabe's voice had been calm as he spoke. "You enjoy my failure too much."

"Never said anything about killing you," the Dumar project had regarded the black clothed man before it. "Some kind of crippling injury, though, now that might be amusing," its voice had been light, almost conversational.

McCabe had left.

A high-pitched beeping roused McCabe from his thoughts, he swivelled round in the large chair and pressed a button that was flashing like a warning beacon. As the intercom clicked into life, two words only issued from the speaker.

"Come up."

This was followed by a click of finality as the line was abruptly closed.

McCabe stood and straightened his black, silk tie, stooped to open one of the drawers in the desk and took a small mint from within a tin. The hot sensation of the strong mint burned itself into his tongue and McCabe took a deep breath as the heat spread, calming himself and closing his eyes. For more than five minutes, Alan McCabe stood in this one place, not changing position, remaining as still as if he had been carved there.

Allowing his eyes to open once more, McCabe walked slowly towards the door of his office and then across to a lift. There was no haste in any of the Shadow's movements, the past could not be changed, he knew all too well, therefore he saw no need to rush in the slightest.

Standing before two tall, brushed steel doors McCabe carefully touched the tip of his right index finger to a circular 'Call' button next to them and a touch of anger flickered through him as the disc lit up in a cheery red.

Why was this such a cheerful moment? McCabe wondered as he waited for the lift which would take him to the top floor and the end of his career. Possibly his life.

***

The first thing he noticed was the pain.

Deep, nagging aches screamed from just about every muscle, making him feel as if he had been beaten with some blunt instrument. Breathing hurt, he decided, as pain lanced through his chest and back when he attempted to take a breath. Something was trying to bash its way out of his skull, with pressure throbbing at several points. The moment he flicked open his eyes he regretted doing so as white-hot arrows of pain shot into the retinas at the back of his eyeballs, bringing a moan.

Laying for a moment, trying to master the pain and gain some semblance of control, he realised, with rising panic, that he could not move his arms. Slowly, purposefully, he allowed his eyelids to open a fraction at a time until, eventually, he was able to keep them open. His vision blurred momentarily causing him to squeeze his eyes tightly closed again. Once more he attempted to see and slowly, painfully, the room came into focus.

Surprise, shock and confusion replaced the fear that had been building in his chest as, far from being in the familiar surroundings of the Company building, he appeared to be in some kind of stone-built room. As he was immobile, he was unable to make out a great deal about the room itself, light-grey stone walls stretched away on three sides, he could see wooden beams criss-crossing the ceiling and what looked like rough tiles above those.

He lay in a massive, wooden framed bed with a large number of pillows and cushions propping him up and a thick stack of blankets covering him. Highly polished, intricately carved, dark wooden pillars rose from each corner of the bed and were joined at the top by beams that had dark red velvet curtains hanging from them. As the stranger rolled his eyes around he noticed a small window, a wooden door opposite with large black hinges and handle, set into the monotonous grey stone wall.

Grunting with the effort he managed to turn his eyes slightly to the left to see a large, dark wood chest of drawers with gold-coloured handles and a light trim inlay. On top of its highly polished surface he could see a jug and two clay cups, a large bowl stood next to a larger jug made from some kind of pottery. His eyes ceased their examination as they lit upon an item which was at once completely out of place in this setting and simultaneously as familiar as his own face.

The machine pistol was a custom-made weapon designed, built and tested in the Company's laboratories, it had been ergonomically crafted to perfectly fit his grip and was matt finished, reflecting barely any light. Capable of automatic and semi-automatic firing while discharging .44 rounds, it could be used to fire over two hundred rounds a minute in the correct hands. Those hands belonged to the man lying partially paralysed in the huge bed. At the moment, however, the weapon was in the hands of what appeared to be a young woman. Unbelievably she held the destructive pistol with both thumbs resting lightly upon the trigger and was peering directly down the barrel as if trying to figure out what secrets lay inside.