The Yanti

by Christopher Pike

  Such a warm hand, so nice to touch. “I guess the meeting’s over,” she said.

  He forced a smile, although he was clearly bewildered. “Did I miss something? What was decided?” he asked.

  “Nothing. You didn’t miss a thing.”

  Had she been able to drive, she would have offered to give him a ride. She felt the need to help him, and it seemed the emotion was mutual. As they stepped outside, and walked in the general direction of the bus stop—where she assumed he would catch a ride home—he suddenly halted and took out a business card and handed it to her.

  “Ali, I need to talk to you about certain things that have been going on at work,” he said. “But I can’t talk now, nor here. Could you call me later tonight? The bottom number on that card is my cell. I carry it with me twenty-four hours a day.”

  Ali studied the card. It carried the Omega business logo—three red wavy lines. Otherwise, there was nothing special about it. She put it in her pocket. “I’ll get you this evening,” she said.

  “Thank you.” He added, “That was an odd meeting, wouldn’t you agree?”

  Ali nodded. “It was a first for me.”

  He sniffed, turned his head in the direction of the ocean, which was barely visible between a row of old buildings. “Is the water near? I would so much like to walk beside the sea.”

  “It’s two blocks off to your left. I can take you there if you like.”

  He pulled his cane from his coat. “No need. Like I told you before, I’m not as helpless as I appear. I’ve been to Breakwater before. I’ll find my way around, once I get my bearings.”

  “Are you sure you don’t want to talk now?” she asked.

  His face darkened, then he shook his head. “Later would be better.”

  Guilt tugged at her chest as she watched him slowly walk across the fortunately empty street. She studied her feelings and could not understand their source. Of course, she had lied to him when she had met him, and she was leaving him to fend for himself in a town that was not his own. But it seemed he wanted it that way.

  No, there was no reason for guilt when it came to Mike Havor. He could take care of himself. But she was anxious to hear what he had to say. Working with Sheri, he must know a great deal about the woman . . . even if he did not know she was a monster.

  Ali turned and walked home.

  When she reached her place, Hector and Nira were playing catch on the front lawn with a beach ball. It was the first truly coordinated activity Ali had seen Nira display, and she wondered aloud at it. Hector nodded.

  “When Patricia and I watched her together, we were never able to get her to play ball.” He smiled at Ali. “You and your pal are good for her.”

  “You mean Cindy.”

  “Yes, Cindy.” He paused as he caught the ball Nira had just tossed him, lowered his voice. “So it’s true—Steve’s really dead?”

  “Yes.”

  “It’s hard to believe.”

  Feeling depressed, Ali sat on her porch steps. “We grew up together. He taught me how to ride a bike. And I taught him how to tie his shoes. We were like a team.” She wiped at her eyes. “It still hasn’t sunk in yet.”

  Hector set down the ball and came and sat beside her on the porch. Simply gesturing to Nira, the little girl did likewise. The way she obeyed him, it was as if a part of her knew of her connection to Hector. But how, Ali asked herself, was she to explain it?

  “I’m so sorry,” he said, with feeling.

  “Thanks,” she whispered.

  He was a handsome man. Cindy had said he looked like a contractor; that was true. He had the broad shoulders, the tan muscles from working outside. His hair was thick, dirty blond, unkempt. His deep blue eyes were not merely attractive, but keen. He was intelligent, Ali sensed, and liked to keep his own counsel. Cindy had spoken of his frankness, though; how he had grown impatient with her and Steve when he felt they were not being totally straight with him.

  Down the street, Ali could see her father’s rig approaching. Only then did she recall his pickup truck was still parked halfway up the mountain. He would want to know where it was. He would want to know a million things. So would Hector, if she opened her mouth. Yet she felt, finally, that they both deserved the truth. They were good men, and she sensed that she was going to need their help in the days to come.

  Ali nodded in the direction of the truck. “That’s my dad. Jason Warner.”

  Hector went to stand. “I should be on my way. I have a lot to do back in Toule. Working on a huge project.”

  Ali clasped his hand, gently pulled him back down.

  “You’re not going to work today,” she said.

  He blinked. “Excuse me?”

  Ali reached over, hugged Nira. “This girl sitting here. This beautiful little girl. She’s your daughter.”

  Hector looked at her as if she were mad. “Why do you say that?”

  “Look at her. Look at her closely. Then think of the face you see each morning in the mirror.”

  Hector grew stern, went to snap at her, but he could not help but look. And Nira, for her part, stared at him. The same mysterious way the little girl was drawn to Cindy, she was drawn to this man.

  “It’s impossible,” Hector whispered.

  “I know you see the resemblance.”

  “No,” he protested.

  Ali nodded. “Sure you do, but don’t worry. In a few minutes, after my dad gets here and finishes yelling at me, I’m going to show you several impossible things.” She paused. “Would you like to stay and see what they are?”

  He could not stop staring at Nira. “But I was never with that woman!”

  Ali rubbed Nira’s head, stood to greet her approaching father. “Not that you remember,” she said.

  Her prediction proved true. As soon as he exited his truck, without barely saying hello to Hector or looking at Nira, he grabbed her by the arm and took her inside and launched into a tirade about how irresponsible she had been lately. Ali let him go on for a while. Out the front door, she could see Hector and Nira playing catch again. The child almost looked happy; it brought a smile to Ali’s lips. Unfortunately, she smiled just as her dad was reaching full steam.

  “So you’re laughing at me now!” he shouted.

  “No,” Ali said, and reached for his hand, and for the power of her voice, wanting to use a morsel of it to help calm him down. “The last thing I’d ever do is laugh at you. But you have to stop yelling at me so I can talk. Here, sit on the couch, I’ll sit beside you. And I promise, I’ll tell you everything you want to know.”

  He sat reluctantly. Like Hector, he was an attractive man, but he was older, close to forty, more roughly hewn. His jaw was hard, firm; and his hair was dark, and presently cut short. That was her dad; he would not cut it for six months, then shave it all off like he didn’t care. He was not vain, he seldom used a mirror. But when her mother had been alive, his eyes had seldom looked anywhere but at her. No man had ever loved a woman more, and when she had died—at least when he thought she had died—a part of him had closed down and never reopened.

  Ali knew it was her task, right now, to reach that part of him. To heal it, if that was possible. She watched as he glanced out the window.

  “Where’s my truck? Who are those people?” he asked.

  “Your truck is fine. I had to take it for a short ride.”

  “What? You drove my truck? You’re thirteen!”

  Ali kept her voice calm. “Don’t worry, I drive quite nicely. And those people out there are my friends. They’re father and daughter.” She added, “Only he just found out a minute ago that the girl’s his daughter.”

  Her father was way beyond confused. “You told him, I suppose.”

  “Yes.”

  Her father nodded. “He didn’t know but you knew?”

  “Yes.”

  “Ali . . .”

  “Stop, Dad. My turn to talk, remember? I told you, I’m going to answer your questions. But before I do, I’m
going to ask you a question. And I need you to think real hard before answering it. Ready?”

  He did not look ready but nodded impatiently. She continued.

  “Since the day I was born, do you remember anything odd about me? Anything that made you stop and ask yourself the question—is my daughter different than normal girls?” Ali quickly held up her hand. “Don’t snap at me. Don’t give a flippant answer. What I am asking—it’s important. Just sit and think about it for a minute.”

  He stared at her. A faint sign of fear touched his face. “Why?” he asked.

  “Because what I’m going to tell you in a few minutes, what I’m going to show you, is going to shake you to your core. You’ll be better able to accept it if you know it in your heart, before I explain it to you.”

  He shook his head. “I don’t know what you’re asking, Ali.”

  “Just consider my question. That’s all.”

  He went to speak, then stopped, stopped altogether; his talking, his fidgeting. An entire minute went by, and then he sighed. When he spoke next, it was in a soft voice.

  “I never did understand how your hair changed into the same color as your mother’s. A few weeks ago, after you guys went up on the mountain.”

  Ali nodded. “Go on.”

  “No, wait. On the phone, you said that Steve was dead. Is that true?”

  “Yes.”

  “How did he die?”

  “He was murdered. So was . . . Let’s not go there, not yet. Stay with the question. Was there anything about me, as I was growing up, that made you think I was unusual?”

  Again, he paused. “I didn’t understand . . . when you first spoke.”

  “You mean, you couldn’t understand what I was saying?”

  “No. I was shocked you were talking at all. Didn’t your mother ever tell you?”

  “No. What?”

  “You were six months old, and all of a sudden, you were talking in full sentences. Your mom didn’t know, but I took you to a child psychologist to be tested.”

  “Why didn’t you tell Mom?”

  “Because it was like she wanted to hide the fact.”

  Ali nodded to herself. That made sense. Knowing she was a fairy, her mother would not have wanted to draw attention to her.

  “What did the psychologist say?” she asked.

  “You had an IQ off the charts. He was unable to measure it, and not just because you were so young. He said he had never seen anyone like you before. He asked if he could write a paper on you, get it published. I got you out of there real quick.”

  “Did you notice anything else unusual about me?”

  This time her father smiled. “Well, you always gave great neck rubs. Even since you were a tiny girl, and had no strength in your hands, you just had to rub the back of my neck and head when I came in from a long trip and I would feel instantly better.”

  “Why do you think?”

  “Oh, I’m sure it’s because I was always so happy to see you.”

  Ali shook her head. “It’s not that.”

  “What is it then?”

  “You remember when Ted Wilson got hurt up in the forest? All the doctors said he was going to die?”

  “Yes. He’s fine now, isn’t he?”

  “Yes.”

  “I always told you the doctors at Breakwater Memorial were quacks.”

  “The doctors were not wrong about his prognosis. Ted was going to die.” She added, “But I healed him.”

  Her father did a double take. “Huh?”

  “I healed him. Just as I would heal you of your fatigue and your stress when you would come home. But don’t stop, Dad, go on. I sense there’s something else you’re not telling me.”

  “You sense? Ali . . .”

  “Tell me what it is. What made you think I wasn’t a normal girl?”

  This time he had to sit back on the couch. Many emotions played over his face: fear, confusion, and yes, wonder. He frowned as he recalled whatever it was, but he also smiled briefly.

  “I remember the fish loved you,” he said.

  “Huh?”

  “When you were two, I took you out fishing on a small boat. Your mother didn’t want you to go, but it was a calm day, and the water was flat as a lake. We just paddled out a mile or so, and I threw my line overboard and sat there. Then you began to hum this melody—I had never heard it before—and in a few minutes the boat was surrounded by fish. They were mostly on your side of the boat. When you leaned over the side to look at them, with me holding onto your legs, they seemed to try to stick their heads out of the water so they could see you—in person.” He added, “I told your mom about that one. She just laughed.”

  “Did she ever let you take me fishing with you again?”

  He frowned. “No, as a matter of fact she didn’t. I wonder why.”

  “I know why. She didn’t want to call attention to me.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “From the time I was born, Mom knew who I was.”

  He stopped frowning, stared at her, the fear returning. “Of course she knew who you were. Your mother’s gone, but you’re . . . Ali, you’re our daughter.”

  She nodded. “True. I’m your daughter. But I’m also something else.”

  “What?”

  Ali stood. “It’s better if you see than if I try to explain.”

  Her father also stood, reluctantly. “See what?”

  “I’m going to show you and Hector something. In the backyard. But not Nira, the little girl. I’m going to lock her in my room for a few minutes, and close the blinds.”

  “She’s just a little girl. Won’t she get scared?”

  Ali headed for the front door. “She’s autistic, or rather, she appears autistic. She won’t understand what’s happening. She’ll sit quietly in my room. At her own house, her mother kept her locked away most of the time. Nira is used to it, trust me, she won’t get upset.”

  In minutes, Ali had Nira cloistered away, and Hector and her father standing in the middle of her backyard. They shook hands and introduced themselves to each other, but their eyes were on her. Ali felt a pang for Hector then. At least with her dad, she had given him warning that something odd was about to happen. But with the contractor . . . she had already blown his mind once today by saying he was the father of a child he couldn’t recall having . . .

  The backyard was isolated. Behind them were trees, so many trees, which stretched for miles and miles, until they eventually thinned and then vanished near the top of Pete’s Peak. On the south side of the backyard was a low hill no one could see over. North were two houses, but they were distant, and set at such an angle to her own house that someone would have to stare out the window at just the right angle and instant to see the miracle she was about perform.

  Yet she disliked the word miracle—the superiority it implied. Her gifts were natural. Eventually, she knew, as evolution automatically moved everyone forward, they too would be able to work wondrous feats.

  Ali disliked having to resort to such a gross display of power to convince Hector and her father who she was. The problem was time—they didn’t have much. Sheri was not bluffing. The invasion was near. She needed their help to stop it. Indeed, she had a sneaky suspicion that one of them was the key to preventing the horror that was about to descend on Earth.

  “Ali . . .” her father went to speak.

  “Keep your eyes open and watch.” Ali closed her own eyes as she spoke, but she did not need her sight to know her green field was swelling in power. The luminous transparent egg had already begun to expand from her head, and from beneath her feet, as it slowly raised her from the grass and into the air. Ali let herself rise up about ten feet before she opened her eyes, and what she saw in that instant was wonderful—more than she could possibly have hoped for.

  Hector’s mouth had dropped open in awe.

  He was stone. He was a statue. He was in shock.

  However, her father was smiling. There was a tear in his
eye, but he was nodding his head, as if he had known all along. Better, he was so close to laughing that she had to laugh; then he had to join her, and soon she was tumbling in the air, doing cartwheels, out of control, having fun, her long red hair flying like a wizard’s wand. For a few minutes, at least, it was like when she had first returned from the mountain after discovering that she was a fairy. When she had stroked his head and promised him that everything was going to be all right.

  One miracle aside, it took hours of discussion to make clear to her new partners how complex the problem was that faced humanity. Her demonstration had opened up for them a completely new portion of the universe. Their very consciousness was having to expand to include her. It went back to the analogy Nemi had used when she had met him in the hollowed-out redwood. The creation was like a TV set. So many channels could be viewed on one screen. And Hector and her father had been sitting on a couch all their lives, watching a single repetitive program, unaware that they held a remote that could be used to change the channels to other shows. Her brief flight had almost shattered their TV sets, but fortunately they were intelligent men, and imaginative. More important, they were brave souls.

  Yet that did not mean they did not want answers.

  Ali knew it could take days to give them every one they asked for.

  Finally, she had to stand and raise a hand and say as much.

  “The elementals are coming as we talk,” she said. “I cannot stay here and allow that to happen. I have to get back to my allies in the green world. But before I leave, I have to develop a plan to stop the invasion. To do that I need more information.”

  “Information about what?” her father asked.

  “It’s not as though we know many other fairies,” Hector added.

  Ali turned to Hector. “You know Sheri Smith. You grew up in Toule—you must have friends who work at Omega Overtures.”

  He nodded. “One of my best friends works at the firm. Why?”

  “I need a copy of their new game. It hasn’t been released yet. It’s called Armageddon. I need it immediately.”

  “Why?” Hector asked.

  “Sheri Smith built this successful software firm for a purpose. She’s using it somehow—perhaps to prepare the world for this invasion. I’ve studied her first huge seller, Omega Overlord, and it deals with the end of the world. It has sold about forty million copies. It’s played all over the world. In it, Earth has been poisoned by a nuclear holocaust, and it’s currently being overrun with evil cyborgs. But it has magical creatures in it as well. Ones that resemble . . .”