“That doesn’t sound like a better plan,” said Pat. “You think Noah can find you here, but you know he can find you there. He got to the professor in Source, even with all her experience there. What makes you think he won’t find you?”
“He will.” Daniel took a swig of beer. “But you’re wrong—I do know he can find me here. He sent Drapeau for me in Barbados—I’m sure of it. The question isn’t whether he can find me, it’s how long it takes him after he starts looking. Like we’ve said, time moves slower there—I mean a lot slower. We were only in the float tanks four and a half minutes, but in Source we were there for hours. We got a lot done in that time. So the plan is: I go back, poke around, get near the tower, see what I can learn. Maybe I’ll run into one of the other Independents, who knows?”
“Pretty big risk for who knows.”
“No choice. To beat your enemy, you must understand what your enemy wants. Yes?”
“Yes.”
“I can’t learn that here. So I go back, ready to bug out as soon as I see a raincloud.”
Pat drank some bottled water. “Your call. But do me a favor and err on the side of getting back early. Don’t make me haul your corpse out of a float tank.”
Daniel raised his beer bottle. “Scout’s honor.” He took a swig. “Anyway, I don’t need a float tank.”
“She said it works faster in water. You’re gonna want to come and go quickly.”
“Don’t need it,” said Daniel. He didn’t know how he knew this, but he was absolutely certain. Something in him had changed in Source, and he knew crossing over would now be as easy as—a manic energy rose in his chest as he thought it, thrilled by the prospect of going back—as easy as spot-traveling. He said, “We’ll do it in the car. I’ll cross over from the seat, and you keep us a moving target.”
Daniel paused again, his finger hovering over Send. He read the email a third time.
Hey, You—
I’m really sorry it’s taken me so long to get in touch. Big developments with my AIT, and the life I thought I’d left behind has proven harder to leave behind than I’d anticipated. Wish I could tell you everything that’s going on, but it would take more time than I have. Things are complicated right now. Please understand, my feelings haven’t changed: I can’t wait to see you, touch you, hear your news and tell you mine, hear your laugh again. I meant everything I said before, and I’m asking you to hang on while I uncomplicate things. I know it’s a lot to ask, and I wish I didn’t have to ask it. But I do.
Stay well, and I’ll be in touch as soon as I can.
Love,
Me
PS: This email address is a one-time deal, so don’t reply. Respond by usual method. Will check it when I can.
It sucked, but Daniel couldn’t think how to fix it. He hit Send. And as soon as it was gone, he worried that he’d used all the wrong words.
“Things are complicated”? Idiot.
He fought the urge to write a quick follow-up to clarify that complicated didn’t mean another romantic relationship. They’d made no promise of exclusivity, but he wanted Kara to know he wasn’t playing the field in her absence. He decided he was being paranoid—she’d be rightly pissed that he’d been so vague, but she wouldn’t look for hidden meaning in it.
He put the phone away as Pat returned to the car and handed him a large coffee.
Pat started the engine and popped a caffeine pill. “Want one?” He put the pills away when Daniel shook his head, and pulled back onto the highway, away from the rest stop’s oasis of light, and into the dark night. “So how do we do this?”
Daniel took a sip of coffee and put the paper cup in the armrest holder. He pushed the button to recline his seat and closed his eyes. “Stay on the E40 toward Leuven, keep the radio off, and don’t chew gum. I’ll be back before my coffee gets cold.”
“You got it.”
Daniel opened his eyes. “And do not wake me unless we’re under attack.”
“Yeah, dissociative state, I remember.”
Daniel leaned back, closed his eyes, and folded his hands across his chest.
20
Daniel let out the breath he was holding and filled his lungs again. He was standing in the bedroom of his apartment in Source, just as he’d visualized.
Red walls, the same shade as his childhood home in New Orleans, and the same cedar armoire with the white porcelain knobs that had been in Tim’s room. He spotted the waxed leather shoes on the floor. His shoes, perfectly formed to his feet by many wearings in Source.
Digger’s theory, that Daniel had been here all along but just couldn’t remember, was the most reasonable explanation he could find. Once again, he had to face it: In Source, the fact that something was completely absurd did not make it untrue.
Which should be no surprise, since the entire human condition back on Earth was absurd. The difference being, on Earth, there were so many ways to distract yourself from this existential fact. Here it just refused to be ignored.
But if Source really was the fundamental reality, as people here supposed, then this apartment had existed here first. Had Daniel simply projected familiar details from his life in Source—the cedar armoire, the red walls, the rug in the living room—into the dream of his life on Earth, as Noah preached?
That way lies madness. Daniel drew a deep breath.
Union with the wave.
Be here now.
Surf.
A few deep breaths cleared his mind. He sat on the edge of the bed and changed into his Source shoes. He stood and closed his eyes, visualized his Sig in the nightstand until he felt the shift, then opened the drawer and withdrew the gun, popping the mag to confirm it was, indeed, loaded. He reinserted the mag and tucked the gun behind his belt. He closed the drawer and did it again, this time manifesting a Sharpie.
He wrote BREATHE on the palm of his left hand, then walked through the living room, crossing Kara Singh’s antique rug—or the rug he dreamed was Kara’s—and opened the balcony doors. The sun hung in the western sky as before, not a cloud to be seen.
He picked a spot on the patio two floors below, focused on it. Thinking: If you can see a place, you can be there. He closed his eyes and saw himself standing below, occupying that space. Felt the shift. Opened his eyes.
He was standing down on the patio. He remembered to breathe without reading his hand—the act of writing it down had been enough to lodge it in his mind.
Looking ahead, Daniel picked another spot almost a block up the road.
And spot-traveled again.
And again.
And again.
He glanced back to his balcony. He’d traveled three blocks in under ten seconds.
He was good at this.
A few blocks later, he decided on a bigger challenge. He visualized a dumpster in the alley around the corner. Waited for the shift, and felt it. He turned the corner to see his handiwork.
It wasn’t a dumpster. It wasn’t even close to a dumpster. It was more like a hunk of scrap metal, grossly misshapen, and it was only the size of a shopping cart.
Daniel shrugged off the disappointment. It was his first try. With practice, he’d get there. He turned his attention back to spot-traveling through town.
He stopped when a sudden chill ran down his arms, followed by a tingle on the top of his scalp. This was the feeling Dana Cameron had described—the feeling of someone’s presence nearby. He thought back to what she’d told him and put his attention on the feeling.
It seemed to come from behind him.
He turned around and faced the empty street.
The tingling subsided, replaced by . . . what? A feeling of curiosity, but not his own. Someone else’s curiosity about him? That felt true. The curiosity was restrained by caution, bordering on fear. And behind those two feelings was a deep and abiding sadness.
Daniel felt certain he was reading these feelings accurately. Curiosity, caution, sadness.
Whoever this was, it wasn’t Elias.
“I�
�m not with Noah,” he said to the empty street. “My name is Daniel Byrne.”
From around the corner walked a boy. About twelve, thin but not underfed, a mop of sandy hair hanging in his eyes, clothes and face a bit dirty—but the kind of dirty a boy gets after a day of outdoor adventure, not the kind that speaks of poverty or neglect. He wore blue jeans and a red T-shirt with the Flash logo on the chest. The boy walked forward tentatively, stopped with more than a dozen feet between them, and brushed the hair out of his eyes.
“I know who you are. Everyone here knows.” The boy looked at the ground. “Digger’s dead, isn’t she?”
“Yes,” said Daniel. “I’m sorry, she is.”
The boy blinked hard a couple of times, got it under control, and jammed his hands in his pockets. “Fuck.”
“She give you that shirt?”
The boy nodded at the ground. “She was my friend. She looked out for me the most.”
Daniel wanted to approach the boy and put a hand on his shoulder. But he didn’t. With Digger’s death confirmed, the boy was now mostly sadness and fear, curiosity plummeting.
“Son, what’s your name?”
The boy spoke without looking up. “My Earth name is George. People here call me Huck, but I never read the book. Anyway, I like it better than George.”
“It’s a good name,” said Daniel. “How did you know Digger died, Huck?”
Huck continued talking to the pavement. “She told me she was gonna try and help you, said I should stay away for a bit, to be safe, ’cause Elias don’t want anyone talking to you. I saw you guys walking on the beach, but I stayed away like she said. Then the storm came and I hid in a basement.” He looked up, finally, and held Daniel’s gaze. “I hope you’re worth it.”
A mix of grief and guilt knotted Daniel’s gut, and he swallowed to clear the lump in his throat. “I hope so, too,” he said.
Huck watched Daniel for a moment without speaking, and Daniel realized the boy was tapping into his feelings, reading him. Finally the boy said, “You gonna help us? You gonna save us from Noah?”
“Not sure I can, Huck,” said Daniel. “I’m gonna try. But I think Digger was right. Probably best if you try to stay on Earth for a bit. You should be back with your folks.”
Huck shook his head. He looked away for a few seconds, deciding. He said, “You know how Noah says Earth is just a dream?”
“Digger told me.”
“Well, my dream was a shithole basement apartment full of cockroaches in Kokomo, Indiana. My parents were junkies. They blew the place up trying to cook meth one day when I was at school. First grade. They went to jail and I bounced around foster homes ever since. So my dream life on Earth ain’t much worth dreaming. Way I figure it, Source is probably just another dream, but at least it was a good one till Noah showed up and wrecked everything. Besides, I can look after myself better here. I don’t need money, I can manifest new clothes whenever I need, or a soccer ball when I’m bored.”
“Are there other kids here?”
“They all went to live in the tower, but the grown-ups who stayed indie are nice. Wish I could see them more. Anyway, save your breath. Earth sucks. Here, I’m on an adventure, even when it’s scary. I don’t go back to Earth anymore and I never will, no matter what happens.” Huck shot a nervous glance at the white tower in the distance. “I’m gonna split. Two together doesn’t usually draw them out, but after what—after Digger . . .”
Daniel nodded. “Keep your head down, y’hear?”
“I will.” Huck shifted foot to foot. “Good luck.”
Daniel stepped forward, shook the boy’s hand. “You’re a good man, Huck. Stay safe.”
21
Daniel extended the brass telescope to full length, thinking:
Arr, matey! Manifested meself a pirate’s spyglass, I have.
Only, he hadn’t visualized a telescope he’d ever seen in the material world. He’d manifested the spyglass of Billy Bones, from the copy of Treasure Island he’d read and re-read as a child. The telescope he’d imagined, while immersed in the book and imagining himself as young Jim Hawkins.
Daniel’s personal Platonic form of a pirate’s telescope, in physical form.
It really is all just a dance of energy and information.
Shit. Daniel collapsed the scope, his heart picking up speed, skin electric. He could not afford a rush right now, but clearly some part of his mind wanted off this ride. He stood frozen, consumed by dread, as he caught the faint smell of coffee in the distance.
Coffee.
In a car.
In Belgium.
Was he there, or here? Was he dreaming right now? Or was Earth a dream . . . or both . . . or were they both real, or—?
Now coffee was joined by another scent—the new car smell of the rented Mercedes. A cold sweat broke out on Daniel’s forehead and the world began to shimmer and he became dizzy, his moorings slipping.
No, no, no. Be here now.
He drew a long, slow breath through his nose, held it, then pushed it out through pursed lips.
And again.
And again, turning the spyglass around in his hands, feeling the cool, smooth brass, feeling the weight of the thing.
Thinking: This is solid.
Thinking: Surf the wave.
Whatever Earth was, he reminded himself, this place was real and he’d only made progress by surfing the wave. After parting ways with Huck, he’d focused on spot-traveling, pushing his limits with each jump, and he was now able to travel three blocks at a go. And he’d successfully manifested a dumpster—admittedly, about half the size of a normal dumpster, but normal in all other respects. And now he stood on the rooftop of a four-story apartment building, less than two blocks from Noah’s tower, with line of sight to the main entrance.
He scanned the sky in all directions—a sheet of blue, no cloud anywhere. If weather was the indicator, Noah’s attention was not currently focused on Daniel’s whereabouts. He took another deep breath as his heart rate decreased. The coffee aroma had dissipated, and he was surfing again, in the now.
He raised the scope to his eye and pointed it at Noah’s front door. He’d positioned himself with the sun behind the tower, and he could see inside well enough.
A glass wall fronted the tower’s airy modern lobby. The floor and pillars and reception desk were clad in white marble, a black marble water fountain providing contrast. Daniel could see part of a sitting area—chrome and smoked glass tables, white leather Barcelona chairs and couches.
This was the first impression Noah presented to newcomers. Not exactly Saint Peter at the pearly gates, but Noah wasn’t selling the premise that they’d arrived in heaven, just that they were finally awake.
Daniel panned the scope back through the lobby.
Nobody home.
He raised the spyglass, scanning each floor along the way. All empty, and he remembered Digger telling him the bottom 350 floors were vacant. He held the glass level and looked into the floor directly across. The entire floor was open—interior walls only finishing the stairwells and elevator banks and support beams—ready to be framed into luxury apartments or Spartan dormitories, meditation halls or dining halls, schoolrooms . . . whatever Noah decided, as more people crossed over to Source—or woke up.
Or maybe Noah hadn’t built the tower so tall in anticipation of increased population. Maybe its height was simply intended to strike awe in the hearts of the population already here when Noah arrived.
A simple and overwhelming display of power, not lost on Daniel.
His fear now told him entering the tower was a suicide mission. It forced him to remember his existence in a car in Belgium, insisted he cross over, now. But by facing the fear directly and thinking it through, Daniel found he could abort the adrenaline rush. So he thought it through.
Bottom line: He could not face off against Noah without knowing more, and he couldn’t learn more without entering the tower. He had to face the fear and do it anyway.
>
If not now, when?
This truly would be a suicide mission, however, if he allowed his fear to come with him into that tower. Daniel kneeled on the rooftop and sat on his heels. He put the telescope to one side, straightened his posture, and made his hands into a Zen mudra in his lap.
He let his gaze fall, unfocused, to a patch of rooftop four feet ahead and spent a couple minutes counting breaths, then moving beyond counting, beyond breath itself, until there were no thoughts, only awareness.
After abiding in stillness for a few minutes, Daniel finished his brief meditation with:
Today is a good day to die. But I’ve decided to stay alive until tomorrow.
He stood and stepped to the rooftop’s edge, looking straight across, into Noah’s tower. Distance: about one and a half blocks. Daniel could easily do three.
There was, however, a double-pane window between Daniel and his intended destination. Would that make a difference? An image—Daniel re-manifesting outside the window, pedaling the air like Wile E. Coyote—came to mind unbidden, and he felt himself smile. The meditation had done its job.
He focused his attention on a spot beside the stairwell door, about twenty feet beyond the window.
If you can see a place, you can be there.
It worked.
Looking back across the empty interior of the tower, through the window, to the rooftop from whence he came, Daniel experienced a sense of pure wonder and undiluted joy. For a moment, he allowed himself to imagine what Source could be, post-Noah.
Once again, he ached to show Kara this place, to explore its potential together.
Post-Noah.
Daniel cleared his mind and entered the stairwell. Long way up to 350—taking the elevator to 349 was a minor temptation, but there was no way to know if one of Noah’s soldiers was monitoring the elevators.
So he spot-traveled a landing at a time, all the way up.
The Savior's Game (The Daniel Byrne Trilogy Book 3) Page 12
