As for Faéthor’s line: if it existed at all, it would be pure (impure?) scarlet. But it didn’t, for Faéthor’s life was over. No life now for that ancient, once-undead thing, but true death, where he sped on and on beyond the bounds of being … all thanks, or whatever, to Harry Keogh. Bodiless, yes, the old vampire, but still the Necroscope knew how to track him. For in the Möbius Continuum thoughts have weight and, like time itself, go on for ever.
Faéthor, Harry called out, sending a probe lancing ahead as he launched himself down the time-stream, I’d like to pay you a visit. If you’re in the mood for it.
Oh? The answer came back at once, and then, astonishingly, a chuckle; one of Faéthor’s most dark, most devious chuckles. A meeting of two old friends, eh? And is it visiting day? Well, and why not? But truth to tell, I’ve been expecting you.
You have? Harry caught up with Faéthor’s spirit: with the memory, the mind which was all that remained of him.
Oh, yes! For who else would know the answer if not me, eh?
The answer? But Harry knew well enough what he meant. The answer – the solution – to his problem, assuming such a solution existed.
Come, come! Faéthor tut-tutted. Am I naive? Call me what you will, Harry, but never that! And now he gave a deadspeak nod and looked the Necroscope over. Well, well! But, you know, you never fail to amaze me? I mean, so many talents! And now this faster-than-life travel! Why, look-you’ve even outstripped yourself!
Even as Faéthor spoke, Harry’s life-line gave a wriggle, a shudder, and split down the middle. Half of the line bent back a little on itself and shot off at right-angles to the Necroscope’s line of travel, shortly to disappear in a brilliant burst of red and blue fire. But the other half, like a comet with Harry himself for its nucleus, sped on as before and kept pace with Faéthor.
Harry had been expecting some such. The phenomenon he’d just witnessed (which in fact had been his departure point for Starside) was in the probable future. But this was Möbius time, which is to say speculative time, and nothing was for certain. It was the reason why reading the future was so very hit and miss. For if in the real world anything contrary should happen to him between now and then, his departure simply wouldn’t happen. Or possibly not. In other words – and despite the fact that he’d seen it – it was only something which might happen.
But probably, said Faéthor. And again he chuckled. So . . . they’re driving you out, eh? No, Harry shrugged, I’m going of my own free will. Because if you stay they’ll hunt you down and destroy you.
Because I will it, Harry repeated. You brought yourself into prominence, said Faéthor, and they looked at you – closely! Now they know you for what you are. All of these years you’ve been their hero, and now you’re their worst nightmare come true. And so it’s back to Starside. Well, good luck to you. But mind you look out for that son of yours. Why, the last time you were there he crippled you!
Before continuing their conversation, Harry very carefully shielded his mind. Only show Faéthor the tiniest crack in the door and he’d be in. Not only to spy on the Necroscope’s most secret thoughts, but to lodge himself in his mind as a permanent tenant. It was the ancient vampire’s one chance – his very last chance – for any sort of continuity other than this empty, endless speeding into the future.
And so, when Harry was satisfied that he’d made himself impregnable: Yes, my son crippled me, he agreed. Robbed me of my deadspeak, denied me access to the Möbius Continuum. It was easy for him then, because I was only a man. But now . . . as you see, I’m Wamphyri!
You go back to do battle with him? Faéthor hissed. Your own son?
If that’s the only way. Harry shrugged again, mainly to disguise his lie. But it doesn’t have to be a fight. Starside is a big place. Even bigger, now that the Wamphyri are dead or fled.