Hellboy: The God Machine (8 page)

"Come on! What now?" Hellboy muttered, and grabbed for his chair again.

Like an amoeba, the ghostly energy divided, splitting into two separate forms, each of them gradually becoming more and more defined. One of the shapes became a woman clothed in a pretty, high-collared dress from an earlier era. Her flesh was charred and blackened, making the cause of her death obvious. The second of the amorphous energies coalesced into an older man with thick, black-framed glasses and a balding head. Strands of ghostly hair wafted in the air where they had been placed in a pathetic attempt at a comb-over. The ghost wore a button-down shirt, oversize cardigan sweater, and sagging wool trousers.

The ghostly old man brought a hand up, adjusted the glasses on his face and smiled.

"Hey, Sally, look who it is," he said to the horribly burned woman floating by his side. "It's Hellboy."

The ghost rubbed his hands together as if in anticipation.

"I always wanted to meet this guy."

Chapter 6

A
bsolom Spearz was not happy.

Eight of his mechanical agents had been sent to Maine to retrieve the latest item from his list, but only one had returned. It stood before him now, swaying on its reinforced legs of metal and wood, the ornate Indian medicine bag clutched tightly in one of its spindly hands.

"Give it to me," he ordered, and the drone held the bag out to him.

Absolom carefully pried the Indian artifact from its rigid fingers, and brought it to his workstation. He felt his followers' eyes upon him. They were a nervous lot, and could he blame them? The last time they had attempted this task the result had been the demise of their corporeal forms. Now that they were once again flesh and blood, they did not want to risk losing their coveted physical shapes.

He took the bag and placed it inside the framework of a pyramid-shaped device constructed from strips of copper. A bank of machines nearby immediately began to click and chatter. Colored lights flashed wildly as a black needle on a gauge gradually began to move from right to left, measuring the degree of residual power stored within the medicine bag.

"Excellent," he stated, anger abating as he watched the needle fluctuate very close to the maximum level.

Absolom then took the medicine bag from within the pyramid, walking across the subterranean room to store it with the other items they had obtained over the last few days. The pallet was overflowing with objects collected by his clockwork drones--religious statuary, rare limited-edition books, children's toys--all items loved, and in turn, saturated with an energy created from adoration, an energy that would eventually be put to a far greater purpose.

He set their latest prize down beside an urn filled with the ashes of a writer who, if what Absolom understood was true, had established his own religion, setting himself up as some kind of earthly deity receiving messages from a being that lived amid the stars.

Blasphemy.

It took all of his self-control not to smash the man's remains to the ground for formulating such sacrilege, but he held his anger in check, for the faith-instilled power stored in the funeral urn was far too valuable to waste on a fleeting display of anger.

He turned away from the items to see that his followers had returned to their appointed chores. There was much still to be completed to set the stage for their god's arrival, and he was overjoyed to see that they had embraced these tasks with great determination. There were other things that required his own attention, Absolom knew, and he headed back to the clockwork drone still standing at attention where he had left it.

"What of your brethren? Who prevented their return?" Absolom reached out to his silent servant, cupping its cold, pale cheek. The corpse was that of a young man, its face gaunt from sickness. "If only I'd given you the gift of speech, eh?"

He removed a penknife from the pocket of his jeans and used the blade to slice open the decaying flesh of the drone's stomach. He reached into the cavity, feeling around for its power source. Recognizing its shape, he withdrew the battery for inspection. The spirit-energies were nearly depleted, he saw, and disconnected the power cell so that it could be recharged.

Absolom heard the sound of someone approaching and turned to see the dog gingerly padding toward him. "What is it, Silas?"

The mechanical voice box bolted to the shaved flesh of the dog's throat crackled to life. "Only one returned," Silas stated in a hollow, metallic-sounding voice.

Absolom started to feel the first twinge of regret for having constructed the device that allowed the canine Electricizer the ability to communicate.

"Shouldn't you be outside, patrolling the property like I asked?" he said, using a cloth to wipe the foul-smelling fluids of rot from the surface of the battery.

"What could have done this?" Silas prodded. "What could have prevented the others from returning to us?"

"It is not your concern." Absolom approached the dog and patted his large, blocky head. "Go back to your assignment."

"But what if there are forces that have learned of our return?" Silas asked, moving his head away from the man's comforting touch. "What if, like before, they are gathering to stop us from completing our sacred task?"

Absolom sighed. The thought had crossed his own mind, but he had not wished to give it credence.

"If only we could see what it saw," Silas's voice crackled. "Then we would know for certain if our plans are in danger."

The sudden pain inside Absolom's head was sharp, causing his eyes to water. It wasn't the first time he had felt such agony, like having steel needles driven through his skull. He called them his spells, and they signaled the beginning of some new, wondrous idea, when his mind would be filled with the designs and the knowledge to build the most incredible of machines. They were a gift from his god, the means by which to guarantee Qemuel's eventual arrival to the world of man.

"Absolom?" he heard the dog-Silas call to him, his electronic voice box the result of a spell very much like this one just two days ago. But Absolom was already in the grip of his vision, and his hands twitched eagerly to create that which was now burning in his mind.

He moved like a man possessed, snatching up pieces of metal, circuitry, and wire at a fevered pace. In a matter of minutes, the image inside his head had become a reality, and the pain inside his skull began to fade as he attached the last of the wire connections to a power source. Absolom gazed down at his hands to find them smeared with blood, tiny razor cuts in the tips of his fingers weeping crimson as the device neared completion.

The dog's tail wagged happily as he approached. "Was it something I said?"

"The eyes," Absolom said. "We'll see what it saw through its eyes."

He took out his penknife again and extended the blade as he approached the drone. There was little time for subtlety. He simply shoved the blade into the corner of the clockwork man's eye and popped the gelatinous orb from its socket. He repeated the process with the other eye, leaving just enough of the optic nerve dangling from each.

As he had suddenly known how to build the bizarre device, Absolom knew how to operate it as well. He brought the eyes to his workstation and carefully inserted two long, needlelike sensors into the ends of the dangling nerves.

His creative spell had caught the attention of the others, and they had wandered over to see what new invention their god had bestowed upon him. He didn't mind, for what they were about to see would help them in their task, showing the potential threat to their mission.

"As you're all aware," he said, flicking switches and turning dials on the front of the virgin device, "eight of our agents were sent out to recover yet another object of worship, but for some reason, only one returned.

"With this machine, we will see what our servant saw." A twenty-two-inch monitor, one of many scattered about the subbasement, came to life, the image upon it starting out barely visible, but slowly coming into view.

Absolom stepped closer, squinting, trying to discern the blurred images. "Who are you?" he asked, as two shapes slowly began to take form.

He reached down to the eyes resting upon the surface of his worktable, making sure that the connection to the optic nerves was solid. He gave one of the attachments the slightest jiggle, and the image appeared as clear as day--as if they were looking through a window.

And his disciples gasped, Annabel Standish letting out a tiny, frightened scream.

A woman, flames blazing from the tips of her fingers, and even more disturbing, a red-skinned monster, had appeared upon the monitor.

"Brothers and sisters," Absolom said, unable to tear his eyes from the nightmarish visage. "We knew that our attempts to bring our god into this world, to purify the evils here, would draw the attention of those who would stand against us. Our worst fears have been realized."

He reached out, tentatively touching the image of the crimson beast upon the screen.

"It appears that the Devil himself attempts to thwart our plans."

The first thing Tom Manning noticed as he opened the door into the lab was the extreme drop in temperature. He could actually see his breath.

"Why is it so cold in here?" Liz asked, entering behind him.

He had met up with the agent as she left the infirmary and been a bit startled to see the extent of her injuries. She wore a loose-fitting tank top, and the exposed areas of her face and arms were covered with small bandages. After he'd confirmed that her injuries were mostly superficial, they had headed for R and D together, while Liz briefed him on the mission that had earned her those wounds.

Now Manning stopped short and Liz stumbled against him. His eyes fell upon the mangled body lying on the floor, then he stared at the two ghostly apparitions floating in the air above Hellboy, Abe, and three of the Bureau's top science geeks.

"Can't let these guys out of your sight for a minute," Liz muttered.

"Join the party, boss," Hellboy said as he caught sight of Manning. "I was duking it out with one of those robot zombie things and when I busted open its power source...well, we got ghosts. Call the exterminators."

Manning stared at the floating specters, jaw hanging open in astonishment.

"Oh, God," Liz gasped.

It took Manning a second to realize that she wasn't reacting to the ghosts--it was hardly the first time she'd seen one--but to the charred appearance of the female phantom, who had obviously burned to death. Manning figured the burned woman stirred up disturbing memories from Liz's past, of the day that she'd lost control of her unique ability and killed her entire family in a flash fire.

But Manning's astonishment was reserved for the other ghost, the male specter who floated beside her.

"Uncle Steve," he said softly. He moved toward the apparition as if pulled by some powerful force, not really wanting to believe in the sight before him, but suddenly realizing that everything that had happened to him of late now made a twisted kind of sense.

"Hiya, Tommy," the spirit said cheerfully.

"Uncle Steve?" Hellboy said. "You're related to this spook?"

Manning nodded, unable to take his eyes from the ghost. "He is...he
was
my uncle."

"Freakin' small world," Hellboy muttered, crossing his arms and shaking his head in amazement.

Like a balloon caught in a current of air, the ghost of Manning's uncle drifted across the room to hover before him.

"It's been a long time, Tommy," Uncle Steve said, his voice sounding exactly as Manning remembered.

He didn't quite know how to describe what he was feeling; a bizarre mixture of surprise, sadness and a little bit of fear thrown in for good measure. Slowly, he nodded; it
had
been a long time. Manning thought back to his childhood, when he'd spent two weeks of every summer vacation in Lynn with his eccentric Uncle Steve.

Steve was an oddball, an unapologetic bachelor with eccentric qualities and even more bizarre interests. Everyone in the family thought he was weird, which was probably one of the reasons Tom had gravitated to him. He'd never tired of hearing his uncle's countless stories about his travels around the globe with the merchant marine, and his uncle never tired of telling them.

A floodgate of memories from his youth burst open. His first drink of beer, fishing in the Saugus River, learning how to play poker: All of those memories involved Uncle Steve. Even his perspective on the world was partially thanks to this man.

Unc had always believed that the world was much more than it let on, that it was a place of hidden mysteries. At first, Tom hadn't really understood what the man was talking about, but gradually, as the summers passed, he began to believe that his uncle just might have been a little crazy. Books and magazines on UFOs, lost civilizations, the Bermuda Triangle, Big-foot, and Atlantis littered his apartment; no theory was too wild for his uncle. In the beginning, it had been sort of cool being lectured about the secrets of the world, but as Tom grew older, his feelings began to change.

He remembered his uncle's phone calls every June, how excited he'd been, wondering when Tom would be coming to stay with him. But after a while, Tom hadn't wanted to go anymore. He'd had more friends around his home, and was starting to notice girls, and the fact that his uncle was becoming increasingly eccentric did not help matters. Tom was growing up and really didn't have time for crazy relatives.

If Uncle Steve had been disappointed, he really hadn't shown it, telling him that he understood, and that maybe they could get together sometime later in the year or even the following summer, and then would launch into some story about cattle mutilations in Montana, and how he'd like to take a trip out there to investigate. But as far as Tom knew, Steve never did take those trips, instead remaining in Massachusetts, reading his books and magazines, uncovering new secrets about the world from the safety of his La-Z-Boy.

Darker memories from the last time he'd seen the man pushed their way past the pleasant remembrances, forcing Manning to recall the bad along with the good.

Tom had lost touch with his uncle over the years. In fact, Steve hadn't even bothered to show up for the funeral of his own sister, Tom's mother. But Tom continued to think of his weird uncle from time to time, wondering where he was and what he was doing. There was even a part of him that wondered if the old-timer had passed away without anyone being the wiser. And then he'd received the phone call from a social worker--Uncle Steve had been arrested for attempted arson and been sent to Mount Pleasant for psychiatric evaluation.

Tom had tried to ignore the phone call, but he felt a certain responsibility not only to his uncle, but also to his mother's memory. She'd always felt bad for Steve, even though he had pretty much rejected all of her attempts to maintain a relationship.

Manning studied the apparition hovering before him. The ghost of his uncle appeared precisely as Tom remembered him from those summers so long ago.