Incunabulum 13: A Creepy Crepuscule
Saruman stood before his electric elf-zombie transformer with his protective eye-gear on and an expectant look on his face. He flipped a switch and the machine rattled, while the usual electrical currents passed over it. He flipped another switch and a mild shriek erupted from the power generator.
"Ha," said Saruman, shutting off the machine. "Let's hope that did the trick."
He pressed a button and the door of the tank slowly opened. A blue light shone out into the room from within.
"Rise, my creation!" commanded Saruman.
The queer figure inside slowly emerged—stiffly, and still shooting out blue lightning at nearby objects. It approached Saruman and slowly lifted its hand in salute.
Saruman walked around the thing, inspecting it. It had been an elf-zombie to begin with, but now its hair was a shade darker, which made it a sort of blackish-red. Its skin was just as white as before, but looked rather as if all the green had been burned out of it by electrical pulses (which it had). Its eyes were no longer comatose, but now had a keen, wolfish look in them and on its back the creature sported two brown bat wings.
"Whom do you serve?" asked Saruman, coming back to his original position just in front of the apparition.
There was a puzzled silence. Then the thing spoke.
"What was I supposed to say again?"
"Saruman!"
"Oh." There was a pause. "Why?"
"Because I command you to!"
"I'd rather not," said the creature, creeping tentatively towards the door.
"Where are you going?" asked Saruman. "I did not give you leave to depart!"
The crepuscule had gotten hold of the doorknob and instantly departed.
"Come back!" shouted Saruman.
From the darkness outside the laboratory door the creature's voice floated back to him.
"Cool. There's an elevator."
"Stay away from that!" said Saruman, dashing frantically out the door. He was only in time to see the lift plummet to ground level. He turned and made for the stairs.
He reached the bottom several minutes later and looked about feverishly for his escaped phantasm. The front door was open, and the creature was nowhere to be seen. Saruman paused to page his manager and then hurried out the door.
Down in his underground factory, Saruman found his manager overseeing the uruk-hai machines. He staggered up to the surprised orc, panting heavily.
"How many of those new prototypes did I tell you to turn out?" he asked.
"A couple thousand."
"Stop all production immediately. I've changed my mind."
"But we've already turned out fifteen."
Saruman thought rapidly. "Collect them all together," he said. "And track down the creep that sneaked out of my laboratory. I'll have to give them a speech and try to contain them for awhile."
We was turning to locate his recording crew when he bumped into Etwol, who was lounging about and watching the uruk-hai machines at work.
"What are you doing here?" asked Saruman. "You should be at your forge. You didn't make your quota yesterday."
"I couldn't help it," said Etwol and then added accusingly, "You promised me I'd get to fight."
"I can't spare you right now. I gave orders for you to teach the other orc smiths how to make swords—if you did that, I might be able to let you have some time off."
"I tried to and the slugs are too stupid to learn."
"Well, that's too bad for you."
Meanwhile the elf-zombie-vampires had assembled, along with the zombies that had not yet been transformed, and stood at attention saluting while Saruman mounted a temporary podium. The escapee had also been apprehended and was marched in by several orcs. Seeing that everyone else's hand was raised, he put his in his pockets.
"You are my fighting zombies and vampires," said Saruman, addressing the microphone. "You serve the White Hand. Do as I bid and you will taste man's blood—and brains," he added with a glance at the zombies. "Disobey me and you are all going to die. I created you and I can stick you back in that tank you came out of. So let's hear it from all of you: whom do you serve?"
There was a confused murmur of voices. The zombies attempted to say, "Zaruman!" but as soon as they opened their mouths they were suppressed by the vampires.
From the back of the room, Saruman's manager tried frantically to get his attention.
"Oh no, I'm late for my palantir call," muttered Saruman. "All right, think about it," he said out loud. "I'll be back soon."
He turned and hurried back to Orthanc. On the palantir, Sauron was waiting and whistling a snatch of song.
"Oh, there you are," he said, seeing Saruman enter. "You said you were going to unveil your newest invention today."
"Yes," said Saruman, hesitating. "Actually, there's been a little glitch in the system. I need a little more time to work out the plans."
"Can I see it?"
"Well—"
Saruman's manager entered and waved to him.
"Just a minute," said Saruman to the palantir.
"The vampires have come round," said the manager, looking pleased. "They're all for you now. They want to show their appreciation."
Saruman went out onto the top of his tower and looked down. Below the vampires had lined up with white hands plastered on their faces. When they caught sight of him they began to chant.
"North, South, East, West, who is the wiz that we like the best? Saruman, Saruman, Sa-ru-man! Hooray!"
Saruman turned red in embarrassment and hastily re-entered his palantir room.
"What was that all about?" asked Sauron.
"Nothing. Nothing. Where were we? Oh, that's right. You can't see the—things yet. They're not finished."
"You don't have a diagram, or anything?" It was not like Saruman to be reluctant to show off his inventions.
"I'll send you a live sample when they're finished," said Saruman hastily. "I have to hang up now. There's a lot to be done to get ready for the war on Rohan."
With that he covered up the palantir and listened anxiously to the shouts and cheers he could still hear coming from outside.
Elrond's head was ringing from a telepathic call. He knew who it was, because there was only person in Middle Earth who called people up in that manner. One would think that his mother-in-law, Lady Galadriel, wouldn't bother calling him now that her daughter no longer lived in Rivendell—it was awkward, and people thought it odd. Despite Elrond's subtle hints, however, Galadriel was in the habit of calling him often to ask fondly how he and the kids were doing. Elrond always replied that they were doing fine, even if Elladan and Elrohir were travelling through the Paths of the Dead or Arwen was being slowly poisoned by Sauron's evil eye.
"Hello," said Elrond.
A creepy voice on the other end of the line said eerily, "Something festers in the heart of Mirkwood. I feel it in the air."
"The forces of Mordor will probably attack Lothlorien from Dol Guldur," said Elrond patiently. He personally thought Galadriel ought to have figured out that much, even without her mirror.
"No, I'm not talking about Dol Guldur. I sense a grave danger, but further to the north. All is not as it should be."
"Why don't you talk to Thranduil about it?" suggested Elrond, more in hopes of getting her out of his head than with any conviction that she would learn anything from Thranduil.
The voice on the line took on a prophetic quality. "Thranduil knows of the danger, but he is powerless against it. He conceals it."
"How do you know?" asked Elrond suspiciously.
"I don't," admitted Galadriel. "That's just a guess. Shall I go and see?"
Elrond hesitated. "Perhaps you should," he said reluctantly. "It has been a long time since Thranduil communicated with me and Elrohir suspects he's not telling us everything."
"Goodbye," said Galadriel and hung up.
Elrond was relieved that the call had ended, but he felt a trifle guilty setting Galadriel and her mirror on Thranduil who, as far as Elrond knew, had not really done anything wrong. Still, Thranduil could take care of himself, Elrond thought, and so he turned his attention to more important matters—at present the mining of Rivendell and its research facilities, in case he was forced to abandon it.
It had been a busy winter for Saruman. Not only had he had to create and fit out an army of tens of thousands, but he'd had to deal with ent demonstrations, the freezing of his hydroelectric power generating system, and a surprise visit from Grima Wormtongue. On top of all of that he was kept busy running to answer palantir calls from Sauron, who was always wanting to know everything that was going on.
"This is the second time you've called me in as many weeks," said Saruman to his palantir. "Don't you realise I'm trying to prepare for a war? And the last time you called you made me late for an album signing. Sometimes I think this ally idea is not such a good one."
"Is your army ready?" asked Sauron, unperturbed.
"Well, almost," said Saruman. Grima was looking over his shoulder at the palantir. He thought it was extremely interesting, being only familiar with Skeype.
"What about the zombies and vampires? Are you going to unleash them now or save them for later?"
"To tell the truth," said Saruman (wondering as he said it whether he should), "I'm not going to use them at all. They're too hard to train. The zombies can't think about anything but brains and the vampires have an independent streak—at least when the moon is full. Besides, it's too much work bringing them up from the Dead Marshes. I've lost a lot of orcs that way."
"Hmm," said Sauron. "Pity. It would have been interesting. In fact, it was the one idea you came up with that I really liked. I know—what about sending some of them over to Mordor, since you're not going to use them anyway? Remember, you promised me a live sample."
"I can't just pop them in the mail," protested Saruman. "And I can't spare any orcs just now, either."
"I sent half a dozen snagae over the other day with material for your blasting powder," said Sauron. "You could send the zombies back with them."
"I'd have to send someone along who knows how to handle them," said Saruman. "They can be somewhat unpredictable—that's why I'm not using them in my army."
Grima tugged at his sleeve. "You could send Etwol," he said. "We won't need him."
"Yes, I will," said Saruman. "After I take out Rohan, I'll still have Gondor and the elves to deal with and I'll need more orcs and more swords. –So it's no go," he said, turning back to the palantir.
"I don't care whom you send along or if you send anyone along," said Sauron. "I do want some zombies and vampires, though. I want to use them against the elves—they won't shoot their own people."
"You don't know them," said Saruman darkly.
"I want to try it, anyway. So send them over."
"Too ba—" began Saruman.
"I know," said Sauron, interrupting him. "What about those two halflings?"
"What? What?" asked Saruman, looking around him in overly dramatised bewilderment.
"You know—the halflings that my orcs were supposed to bring to Mordor but your orcs took to Isengard by mistake."
"No they didn't," said Saruman.
"Then what happened to them?"
"I don't know."
"Look," said Sauron. "I can send a nazgul over to fetch the zombies—and the halflings."
"That won't be necessary," said Saruman. "I don't have the halflings and I'll send the zombies as soon as I can arrange an escort."
He hung up hurriedly and proceeded towards the lift with Grima close behind. At ground level he summoned Etwol and the Mordor orcs via a small messenger snaga. They appeared shortly.
"You wanted an army," said Saruman to Etwol. "Here you are. Take what zombies you can find down below along with any vampires you can convince to follow you and go straight to Mordor. This scum will go with you," he added, gesturing towards the Mordorians. "Now get out of my sight."