Mindwar

by Andrew Klavan

  Commander Mars’s frown grew deeper. “Don’t,” he said.

  “Don’t what?”

  “Don’t get stuck in there, Rick.”

  “There are two other people in there already,” Rick said. “Are they yours? Did you send them in?”

  “Get some rest,” said Mars. “We need you to go back in. Soon. Very soon.”

  “Wait,” said Rick. “Those people—Favian and Mariel—are my friends. They’ve saved my life twice. They’re going to die in there if we don’t help them. They’re going to become like that other guy. If you want me to go back in, you have to help me get them out.”

  “I don’t make deals,” said Mars. “We’re doing what we can. We’re developing a technology that might help them, but . . . I’m not making any promises. Go back in or not. That’s your choice. For now, get some rest.”

  “No, wait!” Rick shouted. “Don’t go! I have more questions! I want to know . . .”

  But Mars had already vanished.

  26. PAST MEMORIES

  IT WAS 6 p.m., the first blue-dark of an autumn evening. The unmarked green van pulled up at the front entrance to the university. Juliet Seven twisted around in the driver’s seat to look at Rick in the back. He nodded at the crutches lying on the van floor at Rick’s feet.

  “You want me to hang around and give you a lift home?” he asked.

  Unstrapping himself from the rear seat, Rick gathered the crutches up. “I’ll be fine,” he said brusquely.

  “Suit yourself,” said Juliet Seven.

  He hit a button and the van’s back door lifted electronically. Rick slid out into the dusk.

  The van drove away. Rick stood alone on the sidewalk, looking through the filigreed iron gate that led into the campus. He could see students moving in small groups along the campus pathways under the streetlamps. They had books under their arms and backpacks on their backs. Their voices and laughter trailed to him where he leaned on his crutches. Normal life—the life he should have been living. He watched the students passing by, and his solitude weighed heavily on him.

  He was going back into the Realm at midnight—just a little over twelve hours since they’d brought him out—as early as possible. The MindWar scans showed that Kurodar’s fortress was nearly complete. Whatever Kurodar was planning to do, he would do it soon. It could be anything. He might destroy a nuclear plant or set off a missile. They didn’t know, but they had to find out.

  “You don’t have to go back,” Miss Ferris had told him. “Mars will use you and use you. He doesn’t care what happens to you, as long as he stops Kurodar.” She spoke in her usual unemotional way, with the usual blank expression on her face. Rick could not quite bring himself to believe that he had really seen her sobbing. It must’ve been a dream or something. “You nearly lost your mind in there,” she said. “And if you go back so soon, it could happen again. It could be permanent this time.”

  “I’ll go,” said Rick quietly. “I want to go.” He was still lying in the hospital bed, though he was wearing a fresh black T-shirt one of the nurses had brought him. He felt much stronger than he had when he first woke up. In fact, he felt much stronger than he had in months. He said to Miss Ferris, “But you have to help me. You have to help me get Mariel and Favian out of there. I can’t just leave them there to die—or worse than die. I won’t.”

  “We’re working on it,” said Miss Ferris. “We’ll do what we can.”

  Rick had heard this before. He didn’t know whether to believe it or not. But he didn’t have much choice. “I need to get out of here for a while,” he told her. “If I’m going to . . . well, if there’s a chance I won’t come back this time, there are some people I want to see . . . say good-bye to.”

  “I’ll get Juliet Seven to drive you home,” Miss Ferris said.

  But Rick had told the blockheaded bodyguard to bring him here, to the campus, instead.

  Now, gritting his teeth, Rick braced himself on his crutches and hobbled through the gate, onto the university grounds. With every step, he flinched as fresh pain shot through him. Because he was going back into the Realm so quickly, the MindWar Project doctors had refused to give him any pain medication that might mess up his mind. His headache had subsided, but his shoulder still throbbed and his legs felt as if they were on fire.

  Good, he thought grimly as he hobbled along. Let it burn.

  He wanted the pain. He wanted to hurt. He wanted to remind himself that he had changed. That he was a new, tougher Rick. Or, that is, he was the old Rick again, the unbeatable Number 12. He had changed in that moment when the dragon fell out of the sky. That moment when he thought he had failed at everything. Now he was going back into the Realm, and if he failed again—if Kurodar pulled off his mission, whatever it was—he would have nothing but failure to show for his time on earth. And that was unacceptable. That did not happen to Rick Dial. It could not happen to Number 12.

  He had let himself go. He knew that now. He had let himself become weak. Ever since his father had gone, he had nursed his hurt and anger. Ever since the accident, he had hidden away in his room playing video games. He had whined and sulked about the end of his football career without even trying to get back into shape. He had wasted four months of his life, and now it turned out they might have been the last four months he ever had.

  So let the pain come, if it made him angry, if it made him strong, if it made him mean enough to win.

  He hobbled farther into the campus. The university buildings loomed around him, large and impressive: majestic stone edifices with massive columns and carved pediments. Lights had come on in their windows, and as Rick labored past, he could see night students in their classes and lecture halls. He saw them leaning on their desks, listening to professors, sometimes raising their hands. He felt an ache at the sight, a yearning to be among them, living the life he had thought he was going to live.

  Too bad, he told himself. His new-old toughness. Live this life.

  He hobbled on.

  He knew Professor Michael Jameson would still be in his office at this hour. Jameson was the chairman of the Physics Department. He always worked late—Rick’s father had often talked about it.

  Sure enough, when Rick reached the Physics Building—a five-story white structure in a more modern style than most of the others on campus—he saw the light still burning in the professor’s window. Gripping his crutches in one hand and the banister with the other, he hopped his way up the front steps, flinching with the pain and thinking angrily, Good, good, good! Let it hurt! You deserve it!

  All the same, he was glad there was an elevator inside. He rode it up to the third floor.

  Jameson’s outer office was empty. His secretary had gone home. The door to the inner office stood open, and Rick could see the professor in there, assembling some papers, stuffing them into a briefcase, preparing to leave for the night.

  He heard Rick’s thumping steps and looked up. Startled, he let his mouth drop open a moment before he spoke.

  Then he said, “Rick?”

  Rick flashed a tense smile and limped into the small, book-lined room. Professor Jameson watched him, motionless with surprise, his hands still on the briefcase that sat atop his massive wooden desk.

  Jameson was a tall man, stooped and paunchy. Sloppy, with wrinkled slacks and a shirt that was always coming untucked in back. He had thin reddish hair, strands of it combed over the top of his head in a useless effort to hide his increasing baldness. He had light, kindly, intelligent eyes behind large glasses. A soft, thoughtful face. Rick’s father and he had been friends a long time. Jameson was the man who’d convinced Rick’s dad to bring his work here to Shadbrook U. But Rick couldn’t help but notice the professor was not glad to see him. In fact, he looked nervous, worried.

  Rick came to rest in front of the desk, breathing hard from the effort.

  “Good to see you, Professor,” he said.

  Jameson nodded. “You, too, Rick. It’s been awhile. You . . . you’re looki
ng good.”

  It didn’t sound convincing and Rick wasn’t convinced.

  Rick noticed that Jameson’s glance flashed past him toward the door—as if he were waiting for someone, nervous that someone would walk in and find Rick there. “Do you . . . do you want to sit down?” the professor said. He tried to sound casual, but he didn’t.

  Rick shook his head. “I won’t stay long,” he said. “Really, I just want to ask you one question.”

  Jameson took a deep breath. He nodded. “All right.”

  “Did my father say anything to you before he left town? Did he give you any idea of where he was going? Or why?”

  The professor wasn’t much good at masking his emotions. Rick could see how uncomfortable the question made him. He did that thing people do with their mouths where they open and close them and make noises but don’t actually say anything: bff, bluff, boof . . . Gesturing with his hand all the while. Finally, he got some words out: “I understood he . . . he left a . . . a . . .”

  “A note,” Rick said. “He did leave a note. It said he was running off with a woman he used to date in college.”

  “Well, uh . . .” More bffing and bloffing. The professor’s cheeks actually turned pink. Then, not unkindly, he said, “Look, I know this has been a hard time for you, Rick. You’ve been through a lot. Your father. The accident . . .”

  Yeah, and you don’t even know about the dragons and spider-snakes and crocodile men, Rick thought with a small smile. But out loud he said, “I’m not looking for false comfort, Professor. I’ve been sitting around with my thumb stuck in my mouth too long. I just want the truth, that’s all. When I saw that note, I guess I was so angry, so hurt . . . I didn’t really think about it. But now . . . Well, look, you knew my father as well as anyone. Does he strike you as the sort of guy who walks out on his family without a word?”

  The stooped, sloppy professor made another series of uncomfortable gestures and shrugs. “Well . . . sometimes . . . sometimes when a man reaches middle age, he goes through an emotional crisis . . . he starts to reexamine his life . . .”

  “Sure. But did you ever know my dad to do anything—anything at all—without being straight and honest about it?”

  Professor Jameson finally stopped spluttering. He looked Rick straight in the eye and spoke as if the answer had just occurred to him. “Actually . . . no,” he said. “No, I never did. His just running off like that . . . It stunned me as much as it stunned anyone. It didn’t make sense.”

  “That’s right. I’ve been so ticked off about it . . . so depressed . . . it didn’t even occur to me until now. But it doesn’t make any sense. That’s why I’m asking: Did he say anything? Anything at all that might have given you a clue about his state of mind?”

  Professor Jameson began to shake his head no—but then he hesitated. He went on gazing at Rick. And Rick could see the thoughts unspooling behind his eyes.

  “There was this one conversation we had,” he said at last. “About—I don’t know—maybe a week before he left, a little more. I walked in on him in his office. The door was open. He was sitting there in his chair. He was playing with a rubber band in his hands and he was looking, you know, at that cross he always had on the wall. And when he heard me come in, he turned to me . . . He looked like his thoughts were a million miles away. And he said, ‘What if you had to sacrifice everything you love in order to save everything you love?’ I had no idea what he was talking about. He was looking at the cross, so I naturally thought . . . Well, I thought I had interrupted him while he was thinking about some sort of Bible stuff . . . Jesus . . . sacrifice . . . Not my kind of thing. And before I could say anything, he snapped out of it. We started talking about other things . . . school things. I didn’t give it much thought after that, but . . . well, that was only a week or so before he disappeared.”

  As the professor spoke, Rick found himself slowly raising his head, lifting his chin.

  What if you had to sacrifice everything you love in order to save everything you love?

  Rick didn’t know exactly what that meant, but he knew it meant something, something important.

  “Listen,” he began, “do you have any idea what my dad was working on when—”

  But before he could finish, another voice sounded behind him:

  “All right, Daddy, I’m ready to drive you . . . Oh!”

  Startled, Rick turned—and there in the doorway was the professor’s daughter: Molly.

  27. THE LOST

  HE HAD FORGOTTEN how pretty she was—or maybe he just hadn’t let himself think about it too much. She was wearing jeans and a sleek yellow coat belted at the waist. Her round freckled face was pink with the cool evening weather. She looked good, Rick thought. He had forgotten how good.

  Now Rick knew why the professor had seemed so nervous. He had been expecting his daughter to arrive and was worried about what would happen when she and Rick met after Rick had avoided her for so long. The three of them—the professor, Rick, and Molly, frozen with surprise in the doorway—all stood in startled silence a moment. Then they all started talking at once.

  “Oh, I didn’t know you were . . . ,” Molly started.

  “Molly, I didn’t . . . I wasn’t . . . ,” the professor said.

  “Oh, hey, I didn’t know you were going to . . . ,” said Rick.

  And then they all fell silent again.

  Molly broke the silence with a laugh. “Okay, that was awkward!”

  Rick gave a rueful smile. “Look, I didn’t mean to break in on you guys. Actually, I was just gonna head for home . . .”

  “No, don’t,” said Molly firmly. And then she said, “I mean it, Rick. Don’t. I’m tired of being avoided. It’s bad for my ego.”

  Professor Jameson quickly snapped up his briefcase. “I’ll just . . . I’m going to . . . I’ll wait for you in the car,” he finally managed to say. And then he rushed out of the room as if the police were after him.

  Molly lifted one shoulder and one corner of her mouth. “Daddy doesn’t do too well in awkward social situations.”

  Rick nodded. “Me neither,” he said.

  “Well, it can’t be that bad,” said Molly. “I mean, we’ve known each other a long time. It’s kind of silly for us to be all embarrassed like this.”

  Rick nodded. “I guess.”

  But then they were silent again, and the awkwardness hung over them.

  Finally, Rick said, “Look, I’m really sorry I haven’t called you or anything.”

  “Well, yeah!” said Molly. “You should be. It hurt my feelings. I’d beat you senseless, but you’re all on crutches and pitiful and everything, it wouldn’t look right.”

  Rick nearly smiled. “You’re all heart.”

  “You don’t even send me an e-mail? You know how bad that made me feel?”

  “Yeah. Sorry. I stink.”

  “You do. Definitely.”

  “I was feeling sorry for myself basically. I was afraid you were gonna feel sorry for me, too.”

  “That’s what you say,” said Molly. “But I think you were really afraid I’d drag you to the gym and make you work out and get you back in shape.”

  Rick snorted. It actually was kind of funny. He had been so afraid of this moment. The two of them meeting. Her seeing him on crutches. He’d been so afraid she’d pity him, and force herself to hang around in his room with him when all the time she was dying to be outdoors, at the track, on the bike paths or something. He hadn’t considered the fact that Molly wanted to be a school athletic coach. Dragging him to the gym—that’s probably exactly what she would have done.

  “Just answer one question,” Molly said. “And don’t lie.”

  “I won’t lie,” said Rick. “Or if I do, I’ll try to make it sound really believable.”

  She ignored the joke. She said, “Is there some other girl? Is that why you didn’t want to see me?”

  Rick was about to protest that there was no one else, but the words went silent in his mouth.
He thought of Mariel. Did she count? Was she even real? How could he begin to explain his feelings about a silver spirit who only lived in a computerized universe?

  “Okay,” said Molly when he didn’t answer. “I take the question back. You figure it out, and then explain it to me. But whatever you do, don’t just go dark on me again, okay? I’m insecure enough as it is.”

  “Yeah,” Rick said with a laugh. “Right.”

  There was more awkward silence between them. They seemed to have an endless supply of it.

  Then Molly said, “Well, look, I’d like to stay around and torture you about what a jerk you’ve been, but my dad’s waiting out in the car and you know these absentminded professors: he can’t find his way home by himself. So I’m gonna give you one more chance. But I’m warning you: if you do call me, I’m gonna put you through a rehab so painful, you’re gonna wish I pitied you.”

  Rick smiled at her. “It’s good to see you, Molly.”

  When she smiled back, her round cheeks glowed. She stepped forward and kissed him lightly.

  “It’s good to see you, too, Crutch-Boy,” she said. “Don’t be a stranger. Okay?”

  “You got it,” said Rick.

  He saw her start to blink back tears—then she quickly said: “Seeya.”

  She turned and hurried out, and Rick thought: If I live.

  28. RECKONING

  HE COULD FEEL the minutes passing—what might be the last minutes of his life. All through dinner, he felt them going by, one by one by one.

  They ate at the kitchen table, Rick and Raider and their mom. Raider chattered away the whole time. Yammer, yammer, yammer. It seemed his piping voice never ceased. Such-and-such happened at school and his teacher said such-and-such and his best friend Shane did such-and-such and wasn’t such-and-such stupid and wasn’t such-and-such great and on and on. When did he find time to breathe? Rick wondered. When did he find time to eat?

  On another day, he might’ve been annoyed by the constant chatter. He might’ve told the kid to clam it. But today, he listened patiently. He thought: These may be the last minutes I get to spend with him. If he didn’t make it back tonight, he wanted Raider to remember that his big brother listened to him, cared about him.