thalamus.” He raised a hand to forestall Hunter’s protest. “I don’t think you have to worry. There’s plenty left.” The thought seemed to amuse him.
Bridges explained. “The thalamus stimulator was easy to implant but required surgery to dig back out, which is when we discovered that your thalamus has become enlarged—permanently, as far as we can tell. Grown, not swollen. We don’t know how to explain it, but there’s no reason it should pose any problem for you.”
“Easy for you to say.”
“In any case,” the head of the Project resumed in a heavy voice, “you won’t need the device anymore. Primus appears to have been destroyed, most likely in the explosion of that sodium bomb. All of the instrument readings went dead at that instant. We’ve scanned for it, but without success. A damn shame, too. She was a fine ship. Her potential for healing was incredible.”
Hunter shot a furtive look at Emma. She returned it with a tiny motion of her head. She had told them nothing.
Unless Curtis Heller had been cremated, the ship could probably be recovered and repaired.
He would have to think long and hard about that.
# # #
Mannis sat at his desk, swiveling slowly back and forth in his chair. He held a small pin in his hand, occasionally rolling it between his fingers, watching the way it caught the light. It was one of many pins in his collection. Recording devices, all of them. He had just been going through a series of very special ones that, at great risk, had been planted throughout the wardrobe of White House Chief of Staff, F. Arthur Black. They were voice-activated, with a capacious memory for something so small, and they contained some damning evidence.
He was saddened by that. It had proven Hunter and Kierkegaard correct, but he would much rather they had been wrong.
The man he had once admired, even emulated, had been a betrayer and a thief, first seeking to steal Emma’s innocence, and then finally her life. He deserved punishment; she deserved justice. He, exposure; she, release. Yet the world would not let that happen. F. Arthur Black was too powerful and too important. If the full truth were revealed, the scandal could tear the government into splinters. The country was not strong enough for that, not right now.
So the secret must never come out.
He reached for the remote control and aimed it at the television hanging in the corner. CNN was still showing live coverage from a crash scene: a chaotic light show of flashing beacons, red and white and blue, from the dozens of emergency vehicles that filled the view. All to minister to just one dark mass of twisted metal, barely visible amid the swarming shadows. A fatal accident involving one of the country’s most influential men, the White House Chief of Staff. The man known secretly to others as ‘Patruus’, a Latin word for ‘Uncle’.
The cause of the brake failure would never be discovered. In that line of work, the Silent Man was the very best.
# # #
Finally, there came a time when the submersible pilot and the president’s daughter were left alone. After a few trial steps around the floor, he walked her back to her room. They didn’t speak—it felt strange to do so. Scarcely a few dozen words had ever passed between them. They would have to get over that.
He could no longer sense her mind at all. Its absence was a shock, and a sorrow. Whether it was because of the loss of the Primus connection, or the psi amplifier in his neck, he didn’t know.
What of those last few moments in the clinic with Curtis Heller? Had there really been five more bombs? Had he and Emma really found them and destroyed them together, through no more than pure force of will? Or had it all been a hallucination of an oxygen-starved brain? There would never be any proof, one way or the other.
Maybe it was all a dream.
So much of his experience of the past weeks seemed like that. Had the joining of their minds been a dream, too? If real, it existed no longer. They would have to get to know each other the old-fashioned way, through the words and gestures that had served humankind for so many generations, and yet were still so prone to misunderstanding.
As she lay on her hospital bed, he sat beside her, lightly stroking her arm. Her flesh was as soft and cool as satin, her dark eyes warm and liquid, framed by naturally long lashes. He leaned forward and breathed in the clean scent of her skin and the perfume of her hair, caught the moist sweetness of her breath. When they kissed, he tasted the light salt tang of her supple lips. He could still experience her in this way, through his senses. That should be more than enough for any man.
Except it wasn’t a sure thing. He was an out-of-work sub-jockey; she the daughter of the world’s most powerful man—two different classes of society, for all America pretended otherwise. On the other hand, Emma’s carefully selected and approved husband had tried to take her life. Perhaps even a president could learn from that.
As if reading his thoughts in his face, Emma said softly, “Daddy owes you. In more ways than one. He won’t forget that. Besides…” She smiled. “It’s not like I’m about to give you up!” Her white teeth matched the sparkle of her eyes, and then she pulled him hungrily to her.
The heat of her kiss infused him, filled him, blocking out the world. He surrendered eagerly as it drew him in…
deeply …
deeply ….
And then she was there, an undeniable presence within his mind (or was he in hers?), a lightly glowing figure enshrouded in a flowing fog. He could sense that she was naked—devoid of disguise. It felt as if she touched his hands, then held them, and her love wrapped around him like an entity all its own. He basked in its warmth, bathed in its bliss.
Then he knew that the fog would slowly lift and that the horizon was already luminous with the first rays of a new dawn. He was a man broken but not crushed, blinded but with eyes that would learn to see once more.
They had much to discover about one another, perhaps more completely than any couple before them.
But it had not been a dream. The dream was just beginning.
Acknowledgments
Writing is a solitary occupation, but a writer who doesn’t involve others in the process is probably making a mistake.
I want to thank two Davids, David Goforth and David Robinson for taking on the Goliath of a (then) unpublished novelist’s first attempt at full-length science fiction.
My friends of the Sudbury Writers Guild are as talented as they are supportive and encouraging. It’s nice to know you always have my back.
The experience of working with Robin Carson as editor of the first short story I ever sold was so positive, it was fated that we would work together again on my first SF novel. Thanks again, Robin, for performing corrective surgery on the manuscript so professionally and yet so gently that it was nearly painless!
Thanks to Juan Padrón for such an eye-catching cover.
I truly appreciate the support of the Ontario Arts Council in the creation of this book.
And my gratitude always to my first reader and foremost supporter, Terry-Lynne, who never fails to believe.
More Great Reading From Scott Overton
BEYOND: Stories Beyond Time, Technology, and the Stars
Ride a bright flame of imagination across time and space with fifteen mind-stretching stories beyond time, beyond technology, and even beyond the stars.
A man who can walk through walls.
Agents who repair the mistakes of the past.
An invasion from beneath our feet.
A man who learns his replacement body was previously owned and died mysteriously.
A disastrous experiment to harness the awesome power of a hurricane.
Don’t be afraid to go BEYOND.
“Scott Overton is a storyteller of boundless skill...a writer to watch.” —Mark Leslie, author of Haunted Hamilton and I, Death
DEAD AIR
It’s a hard thing to accept that someone wants you dead. It forces you to decide if you have anything worth living for.
/> When radio morning man Lee Garrett finds a death threat on his control console, he shrugs it off as a sick prank—until minor harassment turn into undeniable attempts on his life. When the deadliest assault yet claims an innocent victim, Garrett knows he has to force a confrontation.
“A gripping, insightful debut from a veteran radio personality and gifted wordsmith.” —Sean Costello, author of Here After
Find out how to add these to your own collection at www.scottoverton.ca .
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
A radio broadcaster for more than thirty years, Scott Overton described that world in his first novel, the mystery/thriller Dead Air, published by Scrivener Press. Dead Air was shortlisted for a Northern Lit Award in Ontario, Canada. But most of his writing is science fiction and fantasy. His short fiction has been published in numerous magazines and anthologies.
Now a freelance author and voice talent, Scott works from his home on a lake in Northern Ontario. His distractions from writing include scuba diving and a couple of collector cars.
You can learn more and read free stories at Scott’s website www.scottoverton.ca .
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