Chapter Fourteen: In Which The Ghosts Arrive, and Pearl Leaves
'In America, if there's something strange and it don't look good, you can call Ghostbusters. Unfortunately, we don't have that service in Sinnoh – you just have to get a priest and a flask of curried nightmares, and accuse them of fraud. No one knows why, but this seems to get rid of them about eighty per cent of the time.'
Sid 'Bram' Stoker, Home Exorcism for the Modern Sinnish Family
“All right,” cried Looker, bursting through the doors, “the jig is, as you say, up!”
Total silence greeted him.
“Eh? What is this?” He looked around, but it seemed his first glance had been right: the place was completely deserted. “
Mon dieu!” he muttered to himself, putting away his gun. “Ah, Looker, this time you have made the mistake of the ages! The Team Galactic – they are no longer here, and therefore so is Liza Radley!” He thumped a fist decisively into his palm. “It must be
le Diamant and Mademoiselle Gideon, of course. The detective and the reformed assassin... ah, they must be a duo
formidable!”
Looker ceased his monologue and went over to the stairs.
“Well,” he said, “if there is no longer Mademoiselle Radley, I shall look for clues. If I find them,
enfin, I shall find out where she has gone now...”
---
There was a dead silence for at least two minutes.
“No,” I said at length. “That – that can't be right.”
“I know,” replied Stephanie. “That was what I thought. But there's definitely something to this. It makes sense of every theory – whether he can travel through time, or is immortal, or whatever, he turns up.”
“But it can't be true!” I protested. “How can he live forever?”
“I didn't say forever,” Stephanie said mildly. “He's only been around about a hundred years, from what I can tell.”
“You're kind of missing the point,” I told her. “People don't live that long.”
“Some people do—”
“They don't live that long and look that young,” I clarified. “Don't be pedantic.”
“All right, all right.” Stephanie shrugged. “I can't really accept it either. But from what we know...”
I shook my head.
“I don't know, Steph. It doesn't seem right...” I leaned back and sighed. “Well, whatever. It's not what I was looking for.”
“Well, what did you expect?” Stephanie asked. “You do know you asked a philosopher to do this, not a computer hacker or a researcher?”
“I know, I know.” I ground my teeth. “I don't know what I wanted. Something that would explain all of this.”
“I don't know anything about that,” she replied. “You could find someone who does.”
That got me thinking: who might know? League people – Gym Leaders and stuff – might, but I doubted they would talk to me. There was something else, some forgotten person I could ask – but I couldn't quite remember.
“Well, thanks anyway,” I said, scratching at my bad arm and regretting it as it lit up into a veritable Christmas tree of pain. “Gah. I have no idea what to do next.”
Stephanie smiled.
“It's probably for the best. I don't even need to read your essay to tell you that it's crap; you should go home and do it again.”
“Forget it,” I replied. “This is more important. They want to kill me, remember?”
“Oh yeah,” she said. “
That little detail. I'd never have remembered that.”
After Iago, I was pretty much immune to regular sarcasm, which seemed to disconcert Stephanie a bit; she was used to being able to drive me crazy without any real effort.
“There's got to be someone who can tell me about Ashley,” I said, clasping my hands and resting my chin on them. “Somewhere in Sinnoh...”
Stephanie sighed.
“
If I thought this was a good idea,” she said, “and
if I was going to help you—”
“This being a strictly hypothetical situation?” I asked.
“Of course,” she affirmed. “So
if I were going to help you – which I'm
not – I'd suggest you get yourself East-side. To Veilstone.”
“To Veilstone?” I queried, confused. “To look into Galactic?”
“Well, you could,” she admitted, “though I think I'd leave that to the detectives. What I meant is, Veilstone's like Jubilife for the East.”
“Ashley said he has East-side contacts,” I said, suddenly seeing it. “He was going to get them to investigate the Galactics—”
“And if they're anywhere, they'll be in Veilstone,” she said. “It's about the only lead you have.”
“But,” I asked, a problem striking me, “how do I get there? Coronet's sealed off...”
Stephanie smiled.
“Oh, come
on, Pearl,” she said. “You're rich, aren't you? If you want to go East-side, I bet the world would have a hard time stopping you...”
---
OK, so I admit it. I
am rich. I've tried as hard as I can to avoid writing it down, but I guess it had to come out in the end. Thirty years ago, my family had been nothing; a couple of years before I was born, though, all the forces of fate combined to elevate them: my dad inherited a couple of million Pokédollars from a relative he hadn't known he had, a lucky stock investment had brought in four million more, and he'd been able to buy up all the pieces of the failing Spectroscopic Fancy Company, which he'd brought back to life and sold back to the original owners for a ridiculous profit. That in turn catapulted him and my mother from merely rich to
super-rich. Then I'd been born, and, well, been fairly comprehensively spoiled.
Why haven't I mentioned it before? It, well... It makes people look at you differently. People who a moment ago would be your friends suddenly decide that you're their most hated enemy. Even if I
am stupid (something that is still open to debate), it didn't take me long to learn that hiding certain facts about my background was usually the best way to go about making friends.
Not all people are like that, of course – Stephanie isn't, for a start. She's not above using me as a convenient source of cash when she runs out, but she doesn't treat me any differently from anyone else. In fact, the difference between her and other people is one reason why my parents wanted me to go to university; I was told I needed to learn a little more about
real life, and meet
real people – a name which seemed to suggest that my current friends were, in some way, counterfeit. The actual learning didn't matter; I stood to become the third-richest woman in the country some day, and would never need a job. It was just...
Actually, that's enough of that. This is a story about my trip to the end of time, just like the title says; let's keep it at that.
Stephanie wasn't wrong: it was easy for me to figure out a way to get to Veilstone. I went home, dumped the essay, found some sunglasses, a hat and a long coat, and, suitably disguised, slunk off towards the nearest Pokémon Centre.
I got lost on the way – twice. Unlike most kids, I'd never even attempted to become a Trainer. Usually, they tried for at least a couple of days before coming home; if they were lucky, they lasted a few months, or, if they were
really good, a few years. The best of the best made a career out of it, and were still doing it when they were twenty.
I, on the other hand, had never done it; I'd been afraid to. I hadn't wanted to leave home and go wandering through the countryside – it had sounded dangerous, and more than that, like hard work. And if there was one thing Pearl Gideon didn't like, it was hard work. (I've also noticed that recently she's taken to talking about herself in the third person, but I think I'll let that one pass.) So I'd never got myself a Pokémon, and consequently never been to a Pokémon Centre – and so it was with a certain amount of trepidation that I walked up to the automatic doors of the Hinah District Pokémon Centre.
Inside, it was pretty much as I'd imagined it: a glaringly orange colour scheme designed to burn out the retinas of anyone over the age of ten; a desk with a pink-haired receptionist; some stairs and a few doorways leading off into other rooms. There were a couple of kids talking amongst themselves at a glass-topped table nearby, and a Budew murmuring sweet nothings to itself between them. I frowned: I only had a basic schoolgirl knowledge of Pokémon, but I knew Budew were weak; those two Trainers were probably new, and not much good yet. They wouldn't be any help.
“Excuse me? Can I help you?”
I looked up, startled, and saw the receptionist was looking at me oddly; perhaps my disguise was slightly more conspicuous than I'd wanted.
“Yeah,” I said, coming over. “I need to get East-side through Mount Celestic, and it can't wait, so I'm looking for a Trainer to take me through the tunnels.”
There were more ways through the mountain than the passes and the air lanes; the whole place was shot through with caves like a cross-section of Swiss cheese. The downside was that these caves were full of wild Pokémon that, being quite strong, had absolutely no fear of humans whatsoever. Consequently, the only people who used the caves were Trainers and morons. (Since I wasn't a Trainer, I had a horrible feeling I fell into the latter category, but I was trying not to think about that.)
“I see,” said the receptionist. “Why are you dressed like that?”
“I'm a detective,” I replied. “Detectives dress like this.”
Actually, the only detective I'd ever met
didn't, but that wasn't going to stop me; I was modelling my detective style on those old film noir movies from the 1950s.
“O-
K,” said the receptionist, giving me a second odd look. “Try in the lounge; there are four or five Trainers in today.”
“Is that a lot?”
“It is,” she confirmed. “I don't even know why they're here at all, to be honest. There's no Gym in this city.”
“Yeah,” I pondered. “What would be the point of coming here?”
The receptionist shrugged.
“Beats me. D'you know—”
“Er, I need to go look for a Trainer...”
“Oh.” She drooped visibly. “OK, then. Bye.”
I got the distinct impression that the receptionist was somewhat starved of company; I supposed small children weren't the most entertaining people to talk to all day. And anyway, if five Trainers was a lot, she must spend most days alone in here...
I put her sad life from my mind (it wasn't hard, since I didn't really care) and went into the lounge; a moment later, I came back out, realising it was the canteen.
“First on the left,” the receptionist told me helpfully.
“Yeah, thanks,” I replied, feeling faintly foolish, and went in.
It was a large room, amply furnished with sofas, rugs and the biggest television I'd ever seen outside my house; dotted around were four kids sprawled at various angles over the furniture. They did this in such a way that they actually managed to cover five sofas between them – an impressive feat.
“...other news, the notorious 'Hamburglar' was arrested last night after a four-hour siege at an unspecified address in Chicago, America,” the newscaster on the TV was saying. “A bungled burger heist pulled off in conjunction with Captain Pete 'Crook' Jarvis led to him being chased by police to an abandoned warehouse, where they killed two police officers and wounded five more in the ensuing gunfight. Mayor McCheese is said to be 'overjoyed' by the news...”
I coughed.
“Uh, excuse me,” I said. “Is there anyone here who'll take me East-side through Mount Celestic?”
Four heads turned around to look at me, blinked, looked again, and stared in bemusement.
“Why are you dressed like that?” asked one boy, sitting up.
“I'm a detective,” I said, beginning to feel frustrated. Did no one else watch detective movies? Didn't they know the protocol? “Besides, I've got enemies after me; this is a disguise. Look, that's beside the point. Will anyone here take me East-side or not?”
The boy shook his head.
“Nah. I'm waiting for the Global Trade Symposium.”
“The what?”
“Over on the west side of Jubilife,” explained the kid next to him. “In a few days' time, there's going to be a huge event there – Trainers from all over the world will gather to trade Pokémon and stuff.”
“Oh.” So
that was what the big building they'd been cleaning up for the past two months was for. “Are you all here for that?”
Four heads nodded.
“So none of you are going to take me East-side?”
“Nope,” said the first boy cheerfully. “We got here early and we'd like to keep it that way.”
“I'll pay you,” I offered.
“Sorry,” he said. “If I miss this, I have to wait two years before the next one.”
I ground my teeth.
“Isn't there anyone who
isn't going to the stupid Symposium?” I asked desperately.
“She could try Marley,” said a girl who had previously remained silent.
“Isn't she here for the Symposium?” asked the boy.
“No.” The girl shook her head. “She's just passing through, from what I hear.”
“Wait,” I said. “Slow down. Who is this?”
“Marley,” replied the girl. “She's here too.”
I looked around, but saw no one.
“Really?”
“Not
here here,” the girl said crossly. “I mean, staying at this Centre. She's probably in one of the practice rooms.”
“The practice rooms?”
“Second on the right behind the counter!” the receptionist called in from the front room. “Right past me!”
“Wonderful,” I muttered to myself. “You again.” Then, louder: “Well, thanks anyway.”
“No problem,” said the second boy, who was the one who had offered the least help of all. “Glad to help.”
I resisted the urge to put his head through the TV screen and tell him he'd done nothing (and believe me, it was only the fear of arrest that stopped me) and went out into the lobby again.
“Back so soon?” said the receptionist.
“Not to talk to you,” I said. My patience was wearing thin; not having had previous experience of Trainers, I didn't yet know that they were all
seriously weird. “Just passing through.”
The receptionist sighed, crestfallen, and pointed silently in the direction of the practice rooms. I thanked her coldly, went through the door and found myself in a short corridor liberally studded with sturdy-looking steel doors. There were noises coming from behind one of them, so I knocked on it and went in.
Immediately, what felt like a solid wall of heat struck me full in the face; I closed my eyes and took a step back, coughing as the dry air prickled in my lungs. I forced my eyes back open a second later, and saw something that might have been the love child of a tiger and a chemical explosion beating the crap out of a punchbag in the centre of the room. It had also, for reasons unknown, decided to set itself on fire – hence the blast of heat. For the first time since coming inside, I was glad I was wearing sunglasses.
Behind the blazing monster stood a small girl who was just as weird as her pet: she looked like a fusion of Goth and ballerina, with a touch of extra evil thrown in for good measure. Dressed all in black and white, and with skin so pale it was almost transparent, she looked at me with a curious equanimity that I'd only seen once before, in Ashley.
“Return, Hamish,” she said, and the fiery monster vanished in a flash of red light; almost instantly, the temperature dropped about eight degrees. She stepped forwards, looked at me from under hooded eyelids, and asked: “Who are you?”
“I'm Pearl Gideon,” I told her, trying hard not to stare at her. I'd never seen anyone who was
entirely monochromatic before. “I need to get through Mount Coronet.”
“What are you wearing?” asked Marley, though apparently without any real interest.
“I could ask you the very same question,” I retorted crossly; obviously no one at all in Jubilife knew anything about detective movies.
“You could,” agreed Marley. “You wouldn't get anywhere, though.”
I frowned. This was exactly like trying to talk to Ashley; it was like she was his little sister or something.
“Look, will you take me East-side or not?” I asked, changing the subject. “I can pay you.”
“How much?”
“I don't know. How much do you want?”
“I asked you first.”
“Uh... twenty thousand dollars?” I suggested.
“Thirty,” she said. “You're rich enough to afford it.”
“How do you know that?”
“Nothing you're wearing costs less than twenty thousand dollars,” she pointed out.
Damn. This girl was good.
“Fine,” I sighed, taking off the sunglasses. “Thirty it is.”
“Good,” said Marley. “When do you want to start?”
And so it came to pass that twenty minutes later, I was sitting next to her on a train bound east for Oreburgh, hoping against hope that she wasn't as weird as I thought.
---
“Are you sure about this?” asked Iago, looking around nervously. “If anyone sees us...”
“Calm down,” replied Ashley. “I'll just use one arm. I can hide it easily.”
“If Cynthia finds out...”
“She won't,” he replied forcefully. “At least, she won't if you don't tell her. If you do tell her, I'll probably have to get a new keeper, because either she'll kill you or I will.”
A discouraging amount of experience had taught Iago to know when he was beaten; his shoulders sagged and he sighed.
“Ash-
ley...”
“Ah, you hate me now, but one day you'll look back on this and think: what a wonderful day out!”
“No, I'm going to hate you for all time. Filthy human scum.”
“If you were capable of hurting me, that'd hurt,” said Ashley calmly.
“If
you believe that's an effective comeback, you need a crash course in insults.”
“Sticks and stones, Iago – though those wouldn't be much use either, would they? Now, stand aside and let me get through here.”
Iago reluctantly shifted to the right.
“If you lose control...” he said.
“I don't lose control,” Ashley said sharply. “Well, all right, sometimes I do – but not often. That is, I think, the main thing to be conscious of here.”
Both he and Iago were thinking of Darkling Town. It was universally agreed amongst those in the know that that hadn't been Ashley's finest hour.
“It'll be fine,” the detective continued, the grey draining out of his irises. “Don't you trust me?”
“Have I
ever trusted you?”
Ashley's eyes flickered yellow, and his right arm shot out.
“No,” he said mildly. “I suppose you haven't. Shall we, then?”
The way now clear, he allowed Iago to pass through first, and then followed after, eyes grey again.
---
Being the astute people that you are, you will doubtless have noticed the absence of our favourite Galactic-affiliated duo in the last chapter and so far in this one – and those amongst you who are even
more astute will have worked out that this must have something to do with the suspected Croagunk stabbing. Those of you who are
exceptionally astute will have realised that Liza and Tristan must have been uncertain whether or not Pearl was dead, and so were waiting around the hospital to see if she came out the next day or not.
Those exceptionally astute people are, of course, correct, and so we find Tristan sitting in the car with Stravinsky on Sunday morning, watching the hospital doors and eating Kinder Eggs as quickly as he could unwrap them.
Where was Liza? She was at the Pokémon Centre with Tristan's Croagunk, who had been incapacitated during the events of last night and who needed to be healed. Tristan was unable to take him, having been banned from every Pokémon Centre in Sinnoh some years previously as the result of a series of unfortunate events involving (inevitably) three orphans and a count.
“There she is,” said Tristan, pointing to the young Miss Gideon, walking down the steps. “Damn it. She's not dead.”
“Yeah,” agreed Stravinsky. “I didn't think she would ever mend; I thought that never more would she crawl round, being embedded in the ground.”
“Will you please stop doing that?”
“Doing what?”
“Referencing!”
“Oh, you get it,” said Stravinsky, surprised. “Wow. You're better-educated in Sinnoh, aren't you?”
Tristan thumped his forehead against the dashboard.
“Just stop!”
Stravinsky smiled, and started whistling 'Hotel California'. Tristan sighed, pulled out his phone and called Liza.
“It's me,” he told her. “She's alive. What? Hey, it's not
my fault – no one could have seen that coming! Well— Oh you are, are you? I...” Tristan trailed off and his eyes went wide. After a moment or two, he crossed his legs. “Ouch,” he said. “OK. I'll shut up now.”
He hung up and stared ahead glassily for a moment or two.
“She whispered those certain exotic words to you, didn't she?” said Stravinsky.
Tristan nodded dumbly, and the driver patted him on the shoulder.
“It's all right,” he said sympathetically. “You'll get over it. You'll spit out the demons, popping out of holes.”
“It's... how would she... are there even any
bones there?” Tristan asked in a trembling voice.
“I'm not a doctor,” replied Stravinsky. “What does she want you to do?”
“Follow her,” said Tristan, eyes refocusing. “See what she's doing now, and tell Liza where she can find her when she gets back.”
“Why not kill her?”
“Because she doesn't think I can get it right.”
“She's not wrong there,” muttered Stravinsky, and started up the car. “I'd better I better I bet you would bungle it.”
“That's
such a badly-done joke.”
“Do you want to get out and walk?”
Tristan shut up.
“I didn't think so,” said Stravinsky with dignity, and drove off in pursuit of the blue-haired figure in the street.
---
“Bond, I'm
ti-red.”
“Madam, you cannot get tired any more,” sighed Bond. “You are dead.”
“But I
am tired.”
Bond wondered if perhaps complaining was Ellen's way of passing the time; he was quite sure that neither of them could get tired.
He certainly wasn't, and they had been walking for about twelve hours now.
“We're almost there, madam.”
At first, they had tried to hitch a lift – but that had failed, as no one could see them, and those that could perceived them as ghosts, and drove on faster. Then, Ellen had had the idea of grabbing hold of the cars and riding on the roofs – but this too had been unsuccessful; being incorporeal, both she and Bond found it difficult to hold physical objects, and the cars moved too fast for them to get a grip on them.
So they had resolved to walk down the side of the motorway, and a long and tedious journey it had been, too; however, they could not abandon their quest, and so had no options but to continue.
Now, as the first buildings of the nation's capital rose up from the horizon and into view, Bond felt a certain sense of relief; at least Ellen would soon stop complaining. If he hadn't been such a good butler, he would have sighed – it wasn't her fault, really. He would expect nothing less of someone who had turned fourteen in 1939, and had then been brutally murdered.
Not for the first time, Bond wondered why he and Ellen had survived death, if that was the right word, and no other members of the household had; presumably, there must be some reason, but he was a butler, not a thanatologist, and so knew not what this reason might be.
“Gosh,” said Ellen, interrupting his thoughts. “Look at Jubilife!”
Bond did, and Bond blinked, and Bond gaped.
Jubilife was
huge.
It spread right the way across the horizon, and no matter how far Bond looked to the left or right, it didn't seem to end; not only that, but it soared up into the sky higher than seemed physically possible. The buildings were glorious spears of glass and metal, taller even than those they'd seen in Eterna; the people were vibrant and brightly-coloured, with dyed hair and strange clothes. There were more motor-cars, and bigger ones, and above it all a swirl of pigeons blew across the city like greying confetti.
“Have we gone even further into the future?” wondered Bond, when his voice returned. “This is... this is more than Eterna.”
“By a long way,” agreed Ellen breathlessly. “How did they build all this in just seventy years?”
“I have no idea, madam,” replied Bond. “It scarcely seems possible that it could be done in a
hundred years.”
And they might have continued rhapsodising for several hours longer if a red light the size of a tennis ball appeared in front of them.
Ugh, said the light, in a Ghostly sort of voice,
I hate Jubilife.
“What?” asked Ellen, puzzled.
“What?” echoed Bond, not knowing who Ellen was talking to.
Something that greatly resembled a human skull (albeit sans mandible) materialised around the eye, and then a shapeless black cloud appeared around
that.
“Oh,” said Bond. “Is this Mans' friend, madam?”
“Excuse me,” said Ellen, “but are you Pigzie Doodle?”
The Duskull – for such it was – drew his fog together indignantly and harrumphed.
I don't like that name, he said petulantly.
“But you are him?” persisted Ellen.
Yes, admitted the Duskull at length.
But don't call me that, it's embarrassing. Call me Ishmael.
“You're a whaler?”
No, I'm a device for cheap gags, replied Pigzie Doodle – or possibly Ishmael – dismally.
You're looking for the two humans who came into your house earlier, right?
“That's correct,” confirmed Ellen.
What do you know about them?
“Nothing,” said Ellen. “Well, we know that that woman is... we know who she is.”
“We would rather not say, in case she hears,” added Bond, deducing correctly what Ellen was talking about. “We have no idea what she might be capable of.”
Pigzie Doodle rolled his single eye from one socket to the other and back again.
Oh boy, he said.
It seems I have a lot of explaining to do...
