Oonaverse

By Jonathan Waite

Oonaverse brings back the Koven of Khaos and their non-leader, Dracul von Ryan, in a tale of science gone strange. A potential new energy source becomes a gateway into a terrifying new world.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Apr 10, 2014
• ISBN: 9781291829976

Book preview

Oonaverse

OONAVERSE

By the same author

TETRAD

THREE WINDOWS

TWO MAGICIANS

By Jonathan Waite & Sam Armitage

THE EIGHT-MAN AUSTIN

THE OVERLY OBNOXIOUS OIK OPERATION

THE LOST GOATS and other tales of the Nyrond

OONAVERSE

by

Jonathan Waite

Copyright © 2014 Jonathan Waite.

All rights reserved.

ISBN 978-1-291-82997-6

To my mother

who knew

CHAPTER ONE

Later, months later, Sally drove past the house on the Ragstow road for the last time, and wondered how on earth she had failed to notice it.

By then, of course, it was festooned with scaffolding and acrawl with workmen, making good the broken roof beams, rebuilding the collapsed brickwork, replacing the shattered windows with smart new uPVC units with faux leading on the panes. In another month or two it would be utterly indistinguishable from any of the small detached houses in the row, down to the Mondeo in the carport and the Neighbourhood Watch sticker in the window.

But this was now. Before, when she had driven past it twice a day regularly for a little over two years, it must have stuck out like a half-eaten pork pie in a geranium pot...and yet she had never even seen it, just blanked it out and driven past, her mind focussing on Vivaldi or Rossini or whatever was on the stereo in a vain attempt to stop herself worrying about work. She tried to conjure up an image of it from before that terrible day, but it was false, her memory lying to please her. She had never once noticed the overgrown garden, the stove-in door, the broken glass and rubbish choking the path...never once seen the pale oval of a face at the window. Not even on the day it all began, at least for her.

She glanced to her left, smiled reassuringly, and concentrated on her driving. It would hardly do to let the automatic pilot take over. She could see it happening all too easily, if she let her mind wander like this...see herself blithely following the same old route to Ufford Hall, parking in the same space (assuming it was still there), maybe even climbing the steps to the door and trying to get in.

No. That was over. This was now. She indicated left as she approached the roundabout and took the exit for the motorway, trying not to think of a phantom Sally in a ghostly blue Metro indicating right, heading towards the outskirts of Ragstow, on that chilly morning just a few months ago...

*

Sally Windham parked her blue Metro carefully in the exact centre of the parking space that had been allotted her (ARCH TANTS said the white paint under her wheels), tutted at the emptiness of the space on her left (RESE ASSIS), got out of the car and collected her handbag and umbrella from the back seat. As she was climbing the three shallow steps to the main entrance of Ufford Hall, a brown Volvo of advanced years roared into the grounds, rounded the fountain the wrong way, and came to a stop with most of its wheels in RESE ASSIS and the fourth one in DIRECTOR. Sally shook her head, tutted again and showed her pass to the guard at the door.

Late again, is he? the guard said. Good thing he’s not doing anything important, innit?

Sally could think of nothing to say to this. The guard on the door had always struck her as surly and unpleasant, and his views on scientists were little short of blasphemous. She tucked her pass back into her handbag and barged through the double doors without speaking.

It had often struck her as strange that the Hall, a large and well-maintained building with a canteen, a library and a staff numbering more than a dozen, seemed to be run purely for the benefit of one small research project. There were four other laboratories in the building, but no-one ever seemed to use them, and the doors with their ripple-glass panes were always locked. The Director, a pale, harassed-looking man with a bald spot and a prominent Adam’s apple, came in maybe once in two or three months, spending the rest of his time in meetings either in London or abroad. Granted their work was important, possibly vital: even so...

Doctor MacAiken was already there (of course) and working (of course) when she entered Laboratory One. Sally kicked herself for not having set off earlier. Once, just once, she wanted to get there before he did, to impress him just a little with the strength of her commitment...

Ah, good morning, Sally, he said, looking up from a printout and smiling. Have you seen any sign of our Mr. Byrd yet?

He’s just behind me, Doctor, Sally said, praying that he was. As usual, she was suddenly convinced that her hair was a mess, that auburn had been the wrong colour to go for in the first place, that her lab coat was the wrong shape and that there was a smudge on her nose. A quick glance at the reflective surface of a flask reassured her on all four points, even though the image looked uncomfortably fishlike, but the feeling remained. Next to MacAiken’s smooth, aquiline good looks, she couldn’t help feeling like a frump. And he was twice her age, for God’s sake. Why did some men just get more attractive with every passing year?

Good, MacAiken said with a nod, and returned to his printout.

In fact it was five minutes before Chris Byrd, short, stocky and blond, bounced into the lab with a coffee in one hand and a rolled-up Daily Mirror in the other.

Morning, all, he said brightly. Sorry I’m late, you wouldn’t believe it, the toast rose up and attacked me. It was a tough fight, but I finally cornered it by the sugar bowl and ran it through with the butter knife. A small white stone now marks the site of our battle—well, in actual fact it was a sugar lump, and Mrs. Dorsett has probably thrown it away by now, but I did scratch the date on it with a fork. What’s on for today?

There was a short silence. Chris made a comical I’m-in-trouble-now face at Sally, who looked away.

Now that we are finally all present, MacAiken began in measured tones, I can tell you that I completed the calibrations last night. He paused. The readings check out to nine decimal places. Today will be our first test run of the protocosm detector.

Sally caught her breath. It was true. It was really happening. Chris’s grin became even wider, and he punched the air. Yes!

However, MacAiken went on, before that happy moment arrives we have a tiresome ritual to go through, known in scientific circles as Impressing the Boss. He put down the printout and looked at them each in turn. Doctor Pricklow and Professor Gefarr from the Orthodox Research Consortium travelled down last night from head office. I need hardly remind you that the Consortium pays our wages, provides equipment, consumables and the very roof over our heads, on the understanding that any new particle, elemental force or scientific principle we uncover, particularly if it can be used to wipe out large numbers of people or cure the disease they invented last week, belongs to them.

Chris muttered something Sally did not catch.

Yes, Mr. Byrd, I believe the Consortium does number among its members certain influential defence contractors and pharmaceutical companies, MacAiken said. However, I think in this case we can supply a product of which no unethical or offensive use can possibly be made, and which—if developed sensibly—could well benefit the whole of humanity.

Sally fought back the urge to seize him in her arms and cover him with kisses. He probably wouldn’t understand. He might think it was just because he had made the biggest discovery of the century—any century—and that she was only interested in riding to glory on his coattails. Which she was, of course, but not just that. And besides, Chris was watching.

Anyway, MacAiken broke into her thoughts, I expect them within the next half hour or so, and the techs haven’t turned up yet as usual, so let’s all try to get the place cleaned up a bit, shall we?

The next twenty minutes passed almost silently as MacAiken, Chris and Sally shifted papers, dusted shelves, closed drawers and arranged components artistically around the surfaces. The two machines in the middle of the floor were already spotless, but Sally polished them again just for the sake of it.

The knock on the door caught them by surprise even though they had been expecting it. MacAiken took a last assessing look around the room, nodded approvingly and opened the door with a flourish.

Two men entered, both in their early twenties and wearing stained lab coats. One was of medium height and about the same width, with thick brown hair and beard. The other, tall, willowy and shock-haired, ambled along vacantly in his wake, stooping slightly and looking perpetually bewildered.

Ivan, Peter. MacAiken could not disguise the exasperation in his voice. We were expecting someone else.

Ivan and Peter were the technicians, supplied from the local labour pool to fetch and carry and do the scutwork—like cleaning up the lab, Sally thought sourly—which they did with minimal effort and a slapdash attitude that irritated Sally intensely. Even Chris called them Ivan the Terrible and Peter the Worse.

Hi, Doc, Ivan said, unruffled. Hey, someone’s been cleaning up.

Yes, Chris said pointedly. Us.

Nice job, man, Peter said. Who’s coming?

Couple of pesky bureaucrats from head office, wanting us to jump through hoops for them just when we’re getting to the really important bit of the project.

Oh yeah? Peter said. That’d be them, then.

Who? Chris said, just as Sally caught sight of the figures standing in the doorway—oh my God, the door was open—

Doctor Gilbert Pricklow, said the elderly man. This is my colleague, Professor Hilda Gefarr. Pesky, mm, bureaucrats, at your service.

*

The black Toyota was occupied by two professionally large men. It looked nothing like a shark, but there was a definite suggestion of sharkness in the way it moved along the country roads just outside High Wycombe. The two large men were also unlike sharks. There was a clear distinction. Sharks need the scent of blood to put them in the mood.

They drove without speaking. An avant-garde film director, hunched in the back seat with notebook at the ready, would have been disappointed at the lack of snappy dialogue and contemporary pop-culture references. They drove with the air of men who have done this a thousand times before and will do it a thousand times again, and who ran out of conversation after the first fifty.

They almost missed the weed-choked entrance. The Toyota demonstrated its ABS brakes, and then its power steering, and moved smoothly up a gravel drive whose ruts had evolved entire ecosystems since they had last been used. Ancient trees overhung the drive, dappling it with cool shade through which the morning sunlight danced, and if either of the men had known the word bosky, he might have been tempted to use it.

Eventually the car emerged into something like a field, except that there was a large house standing in it, or the remains of a house, windowsill-deep in long, waving grass. Parked beside the house was a battered, brightly-painted Routemaster bus, and next to the bus was a cluster of tents in equally bright colours.

The man who was not driving uttered a sound: not quite a sigh, not quite a chuckle, though it carried elements of both. His companion braked smoothly, and the two men got out of the car.

Between the tents was a cleared space, where three people were sitting cross-legged on the ground, with bowls and platters round them. A young man in a beige anorak and a worried look edged round to watch the men as they approached. A plump girl who might have been Asian or Latin replaced a ladle in a large tureen of what looked like porridge and sat back calmly. And a tall man with wild black hair and startling green eyes, wearing torn jeans and a frayed grey blanket wrapped round his shoulders like a poncho, stood up and moved to intercept them.

One of the men took a folded piece of paper from his breast pocket, unfolded it and read it aloud in a bored singsong.

Notice is hereby given that this land has been acquired for development by the Schandel Corporation and all persons currently in illegal occupancy of said land are required to vacate said land immediately. As an earnest of the Corporation’s good will we are authorised to offer a cash gift in the sum of fifty pounds to assist with relocation expenses.

On cue, his companion pulled five crisp new ten-pound notes from a brown envelope and fanned them in front of him like a hand of cards.

This offer is conditional upon immediate departure, is non-negotiable and will not be repeated. It does not represent any obligation moral or otherwise on the part of the Schandel Corporation. The speaker folded the paper and replaced it in his pocket.

Fifty pounds, you say. The man in the blanket spoke in a soft southern Irish accent. That’s a deal of money, or it was in my grandfather’s day. What do we know about the Schandel Corporation, Rachel my love?

He had not raised his voice, but the flap of one of the further tents opened and a small, compactly built Oriental woman in a navy blue trouser suit emerged. Her hair was cut short, her face impeccably made up and her voice, when she spoke, was clear and precisely enunciated.

The Schandel Corporation is a multinational pharmaceutical concern whose base is in Interlaken, Switzerland. Net profits, at the end of the last financial year, were reported as in excess of two billion pounds, a large proportion of which was derived from the sale of defective vaccines in emergent African countries. Fatalities resulting from the use of these vaccines were estimated in the region of fifty-four thousand. No grievance was successfully brought against the company, which is currently lobbying for favoured status in Britain as a potential source of new jobs. No actual development is envisaged, on this or any other site.

Thank you, my dear, said the man in the blanket. He raised one eyebrow. Fifty pounds, you said? Doesn’t seem all that much now somehow.

The man with the money shoved it back into the envelope. His companion stepped forward.

Look, Shamus, he said, you heard me. Fifty quid to go now and save yourselves a lot of trouble. It’s a fair offer. Fifty quid’ll buy a lot of diesel for that old rattletrap. He jerked his thumb at the bus. Of course, if you want it the hard way...

Shamus, is it? the other said. And we were getting on so well, too. Now I’ll tell you my name, just so that you know it, you ignorant English arsewipe. It’s Dracul von Ryan. Von Ryan for the noted traitor, and Dracul for my great ancestor, the famous Irish vampire Finn Dracul. Dracul von Ryan. Try to remember it. His tone had never altered, but a chill was on his face. Now as to the bus—well, I leave it up to you. How far d’you think we’d get in that? No, I’m thinkin’ we’ll be takin’ your car and all. He stepped past the two men and examined the Toyota. It’s clean, it’s roomy—I’ll wager it’s one of them there moderan cars that all but does the drivin’ for you. Now that’s what I call a fair trade. What d’you think, Wayne?

Again, he might have been speaking to someone close at his side: the man who appeared from behind the bus could not possibly have heard him. He was big and well-muscled, with long grey hair, a Biblical beard, and very unBiblical biker’s leathers. He ambled up to the two men, who found themselves moving aside to let him pass, and studied the car critically.

Not bad, he said at last. His voice was deep, gravelly and South London. Dunno, though. Radiator tends to go on these new jobs.

There was a muffled thump, and steam began emerging from under the bonnet of the Toyota.

Don’t think much of the tyres, either, Wayne went on.

One by one, bif baf bif bof, the tyres burst and the car settled further into the long grass.

Needs a lick of paint here and there, too.

The two men watched the big blisters forming under the spotless black enamel.

Now listen to me, you two. Dracul captured their attention effortlessly. There’s two ways we can do this. You can walk back down the drive and hitch a ride home to your larcenous employers, or— He paused. Or you can crawl. On your bellies. Eatin’ a peck of dirt every yard of the way, and relishing it. What you do after that is up to you. Rachel?

Lady Veronica Glancing, the owner of this land, has kindly granted us free use of it for the term of her life. When the representative of the Schandel Corporation called on her, she was therefore unwilling to sell the land. The representative gave it as his understanding that we had departed, and undertook to send his agents to confirm this fact.

Go, said Dracul.

When the power of coherent thought returned to the two men, they found themselves standing in the middle of the road with an eighteen-wheeler bearing down on them. They leapt for the safety of the drive, spent some time in swearing, and finally began to walk back the way they had come.

It did not noticeably improve their temper to find no trace of the envelope containing the money.

The paintwork was purely sadistic, Wayne, Dracul said, laughing.

Yeah, Wayne said, his tone inviting anyone to explain why this was a problem. He was stroking the bonnet of the Toyota with one hand; the other was clutching something that hung on a string round his neck. The blisters were already disappearing as if they had never existed. Don’t worry about it. I’ll have her up and running again by this afternoon.

I can’t see why people keep trying. The young man in the anorak got to his feet. It’s not as if it’s that much land. You couldn’t build a factory on it, not these days.

Land is power, Frankie my love, Dracul said. Besides, there are those to whom we are an ever-present running sore, to be extirpated at all costs.

The other members of the coven were coming out now: Dik, a thin, pallid young man in a stained white coat; Marsha, a huge black woman, head and body swathed in multicoloured silk, face alight in a grin of pure mischief; Allie, skinny and scarlet-haired, in camouflage pants and grey vest. Tilda, the plump girl, got up and began gathering up crockery.

Are we all fed? Dracul said. Good. Then let’s to the town to earn a crust.

No need. Allie grinned wickedly, and Dracul’s face fell.

Allie, child, what have you done this time?

Allie held out an envelope. The corner of a ten-pound note could be seen poking out of the top. I just gave him a wee nudge, she said. He missed his pocket.

Dracul groaned, and Dik slapped his forehead in exasperation.

You know what this means, don’t you, Allie? Dracul said.

I don’t, Frankie whispered to Tilda.

We have taken the money, she explained, so now we have to go.

We do?

’T is the only honourable course, Dracul proclaimed. Then he winked. But this way we get to come back after we’ve spent it.

*

So why are we still here? Frankie asked.

The tents had been packed, the bus loaded, Wayne had taken the Toyota into town to dispose of it, and now everyone seemed to be just sitting around. Dik and Tilda were having their usual low-key argument over the trays of herbs, and Marsha seemed to be praying (the presence of a particularly fervent Christian in a coven of witches was only one of the puzzles Frankie had yet to solve). Allie was sitting a little way off with her back to the group and her arm round a large grey dog who was her constant companion and whose name changed from moment to moment.

Frankie had been with the coven about three months, and still felt very much an outsider. He had latched on to the group at a pagan camp in the New Forest, to which he had gone in the hope of finding the inspiration for an article that would launch him on a glittering career in journalism. For a while Dracul’s motley collection of misfits had seemed like the ideal subject, and Frankie had passed himself off as a fellow pagan in order to join them. His cover had lasted exactly four days, though sometimes he suspected that they had seen through him right from the start.

To his surprise, no-one had objected to his staying with them, and over the following weeks he had gradually come to realise that there was something here more important to him than a story. Two months after the pagan camp, he had ceremonially tossed his tape recorder into a rubbish bin (from which Wayne had quietly rescued it a few seconds later) and thrown in his lot with the coven. Now, after another month, he was still wondering why.

Dracul shook his head and wiggled his finger in his ear.

Damned infodumps, he muttered. Sorry, Frankie, what was it you said?

Frankie repeated the question.

We’re waiting for a reason, Dracul said.

A reason?

A reason to go.

But—I thought you said that we had to go because Allie had—

Ah, that was the cause. Not the reason. Dracul grinned at Frankie’ confusion. Frankie love, every event has both a cause and a reason, both an effect and a result. Causality is a lot trickier than your average scientist thinks. Consider a well-known scientific event, the fall of an apple. The cause of its falling is gravity, true enough, but the reason it falls is that the stem breaks. The effect of its falling is a headache, the result is that you go around claiming to be Isaac Newton. Nothing happens without a reason and a cause. We have cause to go, since Allie has put us on our honour by her thievin’ ways, but we haven’t got a reason as yet.

Frankie saw a glimmer. You mean we haven’t got a place to go to, he said.

Bright lad. I can’t have us just wandering aimlessly around the countryside. People will think we’re a bunch of hippies or something. So, I’ve got people lookin’ for somewhere that needs us to be. Dracul turned his head very slightly. Anything, Allie?

The scarlet-haired girl moaned slightly, and seemed to shudder. Then, in a low voice without any trace of her usual Glasgow accent, she said:

​"A golden egg with a deadly snake in:

​A red-hot oven to put my cake in:

​Tomorrow night on a battery charger;

​A tiny thing, but inside it’s larger."

Slowly, almost sedately, she toppled sideways and landed, snoring softly, with her head pillowed on the dog’s flank. It gruffled protestingly, but did not move.

I’d say that’s about our lot for today, Dracul said. Somebody make her a bit more comfortable, Arbogast there’s going to want to pee at some point. Hm. Eggs and ovens, snakes and cakes...or eggs and cakes...

Battery eggs, Frankie put in, half-jokingly.

Good one. A tiny thing, but inside it’s larger. That’s your egg all right. Something about to hatch.

I’ve never heard Allie do poetry before.

Doesn’t happen often. When it does it usually means someone’s trying to get a definite message across. Who, and why, those are other questions. Are you getting all this down?

What? Frankie was startled. No.

What kind of a writer are you supposed to be? Never mind. It went like this. Dracul recited the doggerel from memory, followed by the gist of the subsequent conversation. Frankie scribbled dutifully. Make me some copies of that. We’ll talk it round when we’re on the move.

Wait a minute, Frankie said, looking up. Last week, when I asked you about—something or other, I forget—you told me that there was no such thing as cause and effect, just a set of improbable coincidences linked together by sheer bloody-mindedness.

So?

They can’t both be true.

What can’t?

That explanation and the one you gave me just now.

Dracul grinned.

Well? Frankie demanded. And if you say ‘Yes thank you’ I’ll—I’ll feed you this notebook. Put some fibre in your diet. Which one is the true explanation?

How the hell should I know? Dracul looked at Frankie, and sighed. I’m a Chaos Magician, you ninny. For me the basic structure of the universe is flowing, fluid and completely fluxed up. If I ever found out what one thing really was, I’d be powerless. Ask me again in five minutes and I’ll give you another answer—and even then I may be lying. Or the universe might have changed. He became uncharacteristically earnest. "Don’t come to me for certainties, Frankie boy. Ask Tilda, she’s got