Rating: PG-13—for profanity, violence, and a few mild sexual references
Disclaimer: Carl Kolchak, Antonio Vincenzo, Ronald Updyke, and Miss Emily are all properties of Universal. The Third Doctor, Liz Shaw, Jo Grant, Mike Yates, and Sergeant Benton are all properties of the BBC. Brigadier Lethbridge-Stewart is a joint property of the BBC and character creators Mervyn Haisman and Henry Lincoln. Geoff Mackenzie, Alwyn Regan, Colin Rennard, Arthur Lloyd, and the various folks at the Camfield Bed & Breakfast are mine.
Author's notes: This story started out as a mid-sized story, and gradually grew to an epic 10 chapters, a prologue, and an epilogue. This initial posting represents only the first half of the story. The rest will follow: the last three chapters are already done, I'm just filling in some gaps and tweaking some bits in the middle. As this is still a story "in progress," feedback is of course welcome.
Continuity Notes/Spoilers: In Doctor Who continuity, this story takes place between The Green Death and The Time Warrior. Contains mild spoilers for The Green Death. For Kolchak, this story is set sometime after the end of the TV series and contains major spoilers for the pilot movie, The Night Stalker.
Dedicated To: Darren McGavin and the late Jon Pertwee, without whose indelible performances this story would not only have been irrelevant, but quite impossible.
FATAL SYMMETRY
PROLOGUE
It was 2:30 in the morning when Carl Kolchak walked into the darkened newsroom of the Chicago branch of the Independent News Service (INS). He was jet-lagged, bedraggled, and weary to the bone, and looked even more rumpled than usual in his light blue seersucker suit and beat-up straw hat. No one was in the office at this hour, and Carl was glad of the solitude.
He fell heavily into his chair and took a moment to just sit there. He turned his head to stare at the tracks of the L-train, located just outside the newsroom window. Then he heaved a sigh, pulled out his small hand-held tape recorder, and began to dictate into the machine.
"Tyger, Tyger burning bright
"in the forests of the night...
"In his most famous poem, The Tyger, William Blake wrote about a beast so deadly, it couldn't help but inspire awe as well as fear. The devil, Lucifer, Old Nick... pick a name. It's that existential dread that lives inside all of us... those thoughts, feelings, and insecurities that we bury deep inside ourselves and try so very hard to pretend aren't really there. And so we keep our 'tyger' pinned up in a cage, occasionally feeding him scraps to keep him quiet and complacent.
"All of this is metaphor, of course. But what if it was real? What if some force could draw all those fears out of their hiding places, causing them to flood the human mind all in one overwhelming instant?
"Well, that's exactly what happened in London, England, between August 11 and 13 of this year. Two days and two nights of terror, which cost several people their lives and at least one man his sanity.
"And to think, it all started at a press conference."
FROM THE DIARY OF CARL KOLCHAK
August 11, 7:53 A. M.
The Highwater Medical and Scientific Research Centre is one of the most respected scientific research centers in London, which in turn makes it one of the most respected such institutes in the world.
It was the professional home of Dr. Arthur Philip Lloyd, 47, a specialist in geology, mineralogy, and gemology. He was also an expert in psychology, which he had studied at university on the simple but irrefutable grounds that it is far easier to pick up women by knowing a lot about the human mind than by knowing a lot about old rocks.
Whatever his initial reasons for studying psychology, Dr. Lloyd had become highly regarded in that field as well. And this bizarre combination of specialties led to his being called in when a series of tests on an odd lump of white crystal freed from deep inside the ice in Antarctica yielded some startling results.
Dr. Lloyd was a meticulous man. He had spent two months refining the original data. He had then spent eight months running further tests of his own. Finally, he had called in some independent researchers in both fields, and they had spent an additional four months fact-checking his findings.
The result of all this testing and re-testing was a conference, beginning that very morning, and open to both the international scientific community and the press. It was already being touted as the scientific event of the decade.
It was the biggest day of Dr. Lloyd's career, and he had been fretting over every detail all morning. His fussiness had finally gotten his assistant to all but forcibly eject him from his lab; and now he was in the Institute's large lobby, helping the directors and some various sponsors to make sure everything looked just right for the arrival of their many distinguished guests.
His assistant, one Alwyn Regan, 36, was upstairs in the lab. He was giving it one final going over, making sure all was ready before going downstairs to join his boss.
If he had been just a little less thorough, perhaps the events of the next few days would have been very different...
Everything looked perfect, Alwyn reassured himself. The floor and walls were spotless. There were sufficient copies of Dr. Lloyd's prospectus to satisfy both the scientific visitors and the press. And the crystal was in place in its clear plastic display, a brilliant centerpiece to the room. Perfect.
Except...
Alwyn frowned, looking at the display case.
"Oh, goddamn it, Arthur," he muttered.
Arthur Lloyd had been fussing over that crystal all morning, paranoid energy personified. Alwyn had told him repeatedly not to touch the plastic casing over the crystal, that everything was fine, to just leave it alone.
Sure enough, Arthur's fingerprints were visible all over the casing.
"Christ's sake," Alwyn sighed.
He pulled a handkerchief out of his jacket, then stepped forward and removed the casing. He wiped the prints clean rapidly, meticulously, taking care not to replace Arthur's fingerprints with his own.
The case clean, he started to replace it... and then, suddenly, he stopped.
He cocked his head, listening intently."Music?"
It was very faint, but he would have sworn he heard music. Just on the edge of his hearing. He set the case to one side, and then strained, concentrating on the sound.
"Verdi?" he whispered. No, not Verdi. But definitely an aria, as haunting as anything from any opera he had ever heard. He bent his ear toward the music, straining to hear more clearly.
He did not even notice that he was bending his ear downward, directly over top of the crystal.
The aria filled his mind. It sang to him in languages he would never know; yet somehow, he understood every word. It sang of isolation, of despair, of hopelessness and loneliness. Alwyn's heart wept with the force of the feeling.
"So beautiful." Tears streamed from his cheeks. He closed his eyes, crossing his arms over his chest, and let the mournful chords wash over him.
The music cleansed his mind of every thought. He forgot everything; and the more he forgot, the more the music consumed him. As he forgot the press conference and the visiting scientists, the music grew louder. As he forgot Arthur Philip Lloyd and the past months of tests and studies, the music grew clearer. As he forgot friends and family and lost loves and past regrets, the music grew richer and more textured than anything he might ever have imagined.
Finally, when the music had drowned everything in his conscious mind, he forgot his own name. He was no longer Alwyn Regan; he would not have recognized the name "Alwyn Regan" if it was said to him. All that he was, all his thoughts and feelings, were one with the music.
Then the music stopped, and the voice spoke to him.
Help me.
The man who had been Alwyn Regan did not want to listen to the voice at first. Words were unwelcome intruders now. He needed the music. It was the air that filled his lungs, it was the blood within his veins.
Help me!
The voice promised him more music. Not just that one, simple aria. Why settle for one aria, when there was so much more? Overtures and intermezzos, medleys and symphonies, masterpieces of such purity that they would shatter his very soul.
But first he had to listen to the voice. First he had to obey.
The man nodded. "Anything," he swore. "Anything."
Led by the voice, the man lifted the crystal up in his hand. He held the crystal in front of his face for a moment, staring deep into it, waiting. The music started again. Softly now, however, so that the voice could continue issuing its orders.
The man wrapped the crystal carefully inside the handkerchief, and placed it into his jacket pocket. Then he turned and walked away, leaving the lab clean, dust-free, and immaculate... and leaving an empty display case as the room's centerpiece.
It was only 8:00, and Arthur Philip Lloyd was not due to deliver his opening speech for an hour yet. Even so, the visiting scientists had already started to arrive. Arthur greeted them in the lobby, chatting amiably as the secretary at the reception desk located each man's nametag. Arthur could tell it was going to be a perfect day. He had not felt so energetic since his early childhood.
He heard the familiar chime of the elevator as the doors opened. Arthur looked over, and saw Alwyn Regan step out.
Arthur smiled, and waved a greeting to Alwyn.
"Excuse me," he said to the Swiss professor at his side. "I just need to have a quick word with my assistant."
Arthur sprinted over to his assistant. "Hi, Alwyn. You were right, I definitely needed to get out of that lab. Truth be told, I've going a little crazy all day." He reached out to touch Alwyn's shoulder.
Alwyn turned and Arthur gasped as he saw his friend's eyes. Dead eyes. Utterly devoid of personality or expression.
Arthur reeled back, feeling suddenly lightheaded. He did not even notice as his assistant turned and walked to the entrance, leaving the building.
Several men, both the visiting scientists and a couple of personnel from the Centre, ran over to Arthur, asking him what was wrong.
"N-nothing," he said, shaking his head. "Sudden dizzy spell. I'm fine."
"Big day for you, Arthur. A bit of pre-conference jitters is normal, probably healthy." Colin Rennard, the Highwater Centre's Deputy Director. A thin, bespectacled man who knew his science well enough, but for whatever reason had opted to focus his energies on administration.
Rennard excused himself from the scientists and discreetly escorted Arthur toward the elevator.
"There's a small conference room on the second floor, Arthur. Totally unoccupied. We've got an hour until you're supposed to speak. Have yourself a lie-down. I'll have someone from security tap on the window when it's time. All right?"
Arthur rubbed his forehead, directly over his right eye. All of a sudden, his head felt very heavy, thick with... something.
"All right, Arthur?" Rennard pressed harder.
Arthur nodded. "I... think I will lie down. Thank you, Colin."
He stumbled into the elevator, fumbling with the button for the third floor.
He stumbled from the elevator to the small conference room. He slammed the door shut and, seconds later, collapsed to his knees on the floor. The pressure in his head was rising, the pain worse than any migraine he had ever suffered. He curled up into a fetal ball, clutching his head in his hands, whimpering.
Somewhere at the edge of his consciousness, Arthur was dimly aware of the sound of music.