The Traveler fr-1

by John Twelve Hawks

  When Maya returned to the diner, the two Mexicans had finished their meals and driven away. She and Gabriel ordered breakfast, then he leaned back in the booth and watched her carefully.

  “Let’s assume that people really can cross over into other realms. What’s it like there? Is it dangerous?”

  “I don’t know that much about it. That’s why you need a Pathfinder to help you. My father did tell me about two possible dangers. When you cross over, your shell-your body-stays here.”

  “And what’s the second danger?”

  “Your Light, your spirit, whatever you want to call it, can be killed or injured in another realm. If that happens, then you’re trapped there forever.”

  Voices. Laughter. Maya watched the door as four young men entered the restaurant. Out in the parking lot, the desert sun gleamed on their dark blue SUV. Maya evaluated each person in the group and gave them nicknames. Big Arms, Shaved Head, and Fat Boy all wore a mixture of sports team jerseys and workout pants. They looked as if they had just run from an athletic club fire and had grabbed their clothes randomly from different lockers. Their leader-the smallest man, but the one with the loudest voice-wore cowboy boots to make himself look taller. Call him Mustache, she thought. No. Silver Buckle. The buckle was part of an elaborate cowboy belt.

  “Sit anywhere you want,” Kathy said.

  “Hell yes,” Silver Buckle told her. “We were going to do that anyway.”

  Their loud voices, their desire to be recognized, made Maya nervous. She ate quickly, finishing her breakfast, while Gabriel smoothed some strawberry jam onto his toast. The four young men got the restroom key from Kathy and gave their breakfast orders, changing their minds and demanding extra bacon. They told Kathy they were driving back to Arizona after watching a boxing match in Las Vegas. They had lost a large bet on the challenger, plus additional money at the blackjack tables. Kathy took their order and retreated behind the counter. Fat Boy exchanged a twenty-dollar bill for some singles and began to play the slot machines.

  “You finished eating?” Maya asked Gabriel.

  “In a minute.”

  “Let’s get out of here.”

  Gabriel looked amused. “You don’t like those guys.”

  She rattled the ice in her water glass and lied. “I don’t pay any attention to citizens unless they’re in my way.”

  “I thought you liked Vicki Fraser. You two were acting like friends…”

  “This is a goddamn cheat!” Fat Boy pounded his fist on one of the slot machines. “I just put in twenty bucks and I didn’t even get one back.”

  Silver Buckle was sitting across from Shaved Head in a booth. He stroked his mustache and grinned. “Wise up, Davey. It’s set to never pay off. They don’t make enough money from this bad coffee so they rip off a few more bucks from the tourists who play those machines.”

  Kathy came out from behind the counter. “It pays off, sometimes. A trucker got a jackpot about two weeks ago.”

  “Don’t lie to me, honey. Just give my friend his twenty dollars back. It’s gotta be a law, or something, that you’re supposed to pay a percentage out.”

  “Can’t do that. We don’t even own those machines. We just lease them from Mr. Sullivan.”

  Big Arms came back inside from the restroom. He stood near the slot machine and listened to the conversation. “We don’t care about that,” he said. “The whole damn state of Nevada is just one big rip-off. Give us the money or a free meal.”

  “Yeah,” said Shaved Head. “I’ll go for a free meal.”

  “The food doesn’t have anything to do with the slot machines,” Kathy said. “If you ordered a meal, then-”

  Fat Boy took three steps over to the counter and grabbed Kathy’s arm. “Hell, I’ll take something other than a free meal.”

  His three friends howled their approval. “You sure about that?” Big Arms asked. “Think she’s worth twenty dollars?”

  “If she does the four of us, it’s five dollars apiece.”

  The door to the kitchen popped open and Kathy’s father came out with a baseball bat. “Let go of her! Right now!”

  Silver Buckle looked amused. “Are you threatening me, old man?”

  “You’re damn right! Now get your stuff and go!”

  Silver Buckle reached across the table and picked up the heavy glass sugar container next to the little red bottle of Tabasco sauce. He sat up slightly and flung the container as hard as possible. Kathy’s father jerked back, but the container hit his left cheek and cracked open. Sugar sprayed everywhere and the old man staggered back.

  Shaved Head slid out of the booth. He grabbed the end of the baseball bat, twisted it out of the old man’s hands, and held him in a neck lock. Using the butt end of the bat, Shaved Head struck the old man again and again. The old man went limp and Shaved Head let his victim drop onto the floor.

  Maya touched Gabriel’s hand. “Go out through the kitchen.”

  “No.”

  “This has nothing to do with us.”

  Gabriel looked at her with contempt and Maya felt as if she’d been slashed with a knife. She didn’t move-couldn’t move-as Gabriel stood up and took a few steps toward the men.

  “Get out of here.”

  “And who the hell are you?” Silver Buckle slid out of his booth. Now all four men were standing near the counter. “You’re not telling us nothing.”

  Shaved Head kicked Kathy’s father in the ribs. “First thing we’re going to do is lock this old bastard up with that coyote.”

  Kathy tried to get away, but Fat Boy held her tightly. “Second thing we do is inspect the merchandise.”

  Gabriel showed the uncertainty of someone who had only practiced fighting at a karate school. He stood there, waiting for the attack. “You heard what I said.”

  “Yeah. We heard.” Shaved Head waved the baseball bat like a policeman’s nightstick. “You got five seconds to get lost.”

  Maya slid out of the booth. Her hands were open and she felt relaxed. Our kind of fighting is like diving into the ocean, Thorn once told her. Falling, but graceful. Pulled by gravity, but controlled.

  “Don’t touch him,” Maya said. The men laughed and she took a few steps forward, moving into the killing zone.

  “What country are you from?” Silver Buckle asked. “Sounds like England or something like that. Around here, women let their men do their own fighting.”

  “Hey, I want her involved,” said Big Arms. “She’s got a nice little body.”

  Maya felt the Harlequin coldness overcome her heart. Instinctively, her eyes measured distances and trajectories between herself and the four targets. Her face was dead-unemotional-but she tried to make her words as clear and distinct as possible. “If you touch him, I will destroy you.”

  “Oh, I’m real scared.”

  Shaved Head glanced at his friend and grinned. “You’re in big trouble, Russ! Little Missy looks mad! Better watch out!”

  Gabriel turned to Maya. And, for the first time, he seemed to be in control of their relationship: like a Traveler commanding his Harlequin. “No, Maya! Do you hear me? I order you not to-”

  He was half turned toward her, ignoring the danger, and Shaved Head raised the baseball bat. Maya jumped on a stool, then onto the counter. With two long steps, she ran past the ketchup and mustard containers, jabbed her right leg forward, and kicked Shaved Head in the throat. He spat and made a gurgling sound, but still held the bat. Maya grabbed the end of it and jumped down, wrenching it out of his hand with one motion, then swinging the bat at his head with a second motion. There was a loud cracking sound and he fell forward.

  At the edge of her vision, she saw Gabriel fighting with Silver Buckle. She ran toward Kathy, holding the bat with her right hand and pulling out the stiletto with her left hand. Fat Boy looked terrified. He raised his arms like a soldier surrendering in battle and she drove the point of the stiletto through his palm, pinning his hand to the wooden paneling. The citizen gave a high-pitched scream
, but she ignored him and continued toward Big Arms. Fake to the head, but swing lower. Break the right knee. Crack. Splinter. Then follow through to the head. Her target fell forward and she spun around. Silver Buckle was on the floor, unconscious. Gabriel had finished him off. Fat Boy was whimpering as she marched toward him.

  “No,” he said. “Please, God. No.” And with one swing of the bat, she took him out. As he fell facedown, he ripped the knife out of the wall.

  Maya dropped the bat, leaned over, and pulled out the stiletto. It was stained with blood, so she wiped it off on Fat Boy’s shirt. When she straightened up, the extreme clarity of combat began to fade away. Five bodies lay on the floor. She had defended Gabriel, but no one was dead.

  Kathy stared at Maya as if she were a ghost. “You go away,” she said. “Just go away. Because I’m calling the sheriff in one minute. Don’t worry. If you go south, I’ll say you went north. I’ll change your car and everything.”

  Gabriel went out the door first and Maya followed him. As she passed the coyote, she undid the latch and opened the door of the cage. At first the animal didn’t move, as if he had lost his memory of freedom. Maya kept walking and glanced over her shoulder. He was still in his prison. “Go ahead!” she shouted. “It’s your only chance!”

  As she started up the van, the coyote walked cautiously out of the cage and surveyed the dirt parking lot. The loud roar of Gabriel’s motorcycle startled the animal. He jumped to one side, recovered his nonchalant attitude, and trotted past the diner.

  Gabriel didn’t look at Maya as he turned back onto the road. There were no more smiles and waves, no graceful S curves across the broken white line. She had protected Gabriel-saved him-but somehow her actions seemed to push them farther apart. At that moment she knew with absolute certainty that no one would ever love her or heal her pain. Like her father, she would die surrounded by enemies. Die alone.

  34

  Wearing a surgical mask and gown, Lawrence Takawa stood in one corner of the operating room. The new building at the center of the research quadrangle still wasn’t equipped for a medical procedure. A temporary installation had been set up in the basement of the library.

  He watched as Michael Corrigan lay down on the surgical table. Miss Yang, the nurse, came over with a heated blanket and folded it around his legs. Earlier that day, she had shaved all the hair off Michael’s head. He looked like an army recruit who had just started basic training.

  Dr. Richardson and Dr. Lau, the anesthesiologist brought in from Taiwan, finished preparing for the operation. A needle was inserted into Michael’s arm, and the plastic IV tube was attached to a sterile solution. They had already taken X-ray and MRI images of Michael’s brain at a private clinic in Westchester County that was controlled by the Brethren. Miss Yang clipped the film to light boxes at one end of the room.

  Richardson looked down at his patient. “How are you feeling, Michael?”

  “Is this going to be painful?”

  “Not really. We’re using anesthesia for safety reasons. During the procedure, your head needs to be completely immobile.”

  “What if something goes wrong and this injures my brain?”

  “It’s just a minor procedure, Michael. There’s no reason for concern,” Lawrence said.

  Richardson nodded to Dr. Lau and the IV tube was attached to a plastic syringe. “All right. Here we go. Start counting backward from a hundred.”

  In ten seconds, Michael was unconscious and breathing evenly. With the nurse’s help, Richardson attached a steel clamp to Michael’s skull and tightened the padded screws. Even if Michael’s body went into convulsions, his head wouldn’t move.

  “Map time,” Richardson told the nurse. Miss Yang handed him a flexible steel ruler and a black felt-tip pen, and the neurologist spent the next twenty minutes drawing a grid on the top of Michael’s head. He checked his work twice, then marked eight separate spots for an incision.

  For several years neurologists had been placing permanent electrodes into the brains of patients suffering from depression. This deep-brain stimulation allowed doctors to turn a knob, inject a small amount of electricity into the tissue, and instantly change a person’s mood. One of Richardson’s patients-a young baker named Elaine-preferred setting two on the electronic meter when she was home watching television, but liked to turn her brain up to setting five if she was working hard to create a wedding cake. The same technology that helped scientists stimulate the brain would be used to track Michael’s neural energy.

  “Did I tell him the truth?” Lawrence asked.

  Dr. Richardson glanced across the room. “What do you mean?”

  “Can the procedure damage his brain?”

  “If you want to monitor someone’s neurological activity with a computer, then you have to insert sensors into the brain. Electrodes attached to the outside of the skull wouldn’t be as effective. In fact, they might give you conflicting data.”

  “But won’t the wires destroy his brain cells?”

  “We all have millions of brain cells, Mr. Takawa. Perhaps the patient will forget how to pronounce the word Constantinople or he might lose the name of the girl who sat next to him in a high-school math class. It’s not important.”

  When he was satisfied with the incision points, Dr. Richardson sat on a stool beside the operating table and studied the top of Michael’s head. “More light,” he said, and Miss Yang adjusted the surgical lamp. Dr. Lau stood a few feet away, watching a monitor screen and tracking Michael’s vital signs.

  “Everything okay?”

  Dr. Lau checked Michael’s heartbeat and respiration. “You can proceed.”

  Richardson lowered a bone drill attached to an adjustable arm and carefully cut a small hole in Michael’s skull. There was a high-pitched grinding noise; it sounded like the machinery in a dentist’s office.

  He pulled the drill away. A tiny dot of blood appeared on the skin and began to grow larger, but Miss Yang wiped it away with a cotton swab. A neuropathic injector device was mounted on a second arm that hung from the ceiling. Richardson placed it over the tiny hole, squeezed the trigger, and a Teflon-coated copper wire the width of a human hair was pushed directly into Michael’s brain.

  The wire was attached to a cable that fed data to the quantum computer. Lawrence was wearing a radio headset with a direct link to the computer center. “Begin the test,” he told one of the technicians. “The first sensor is in his brain.”

  Five seconds passed. Twenty seconds. Then a technician confirmed that they were picking up neural activity.

  “The first sensor is working,” Lawrence said. “You may proceed.”

  Dr. Richardson slid a small electrode plate down the length of the wire, glued it to the skin, and trimmed off the excess wire. Ninety minutes later, all the sensors had been inserted into Michael’s brain and attached to the plates. From a distance, it looked like eight silver coins were glued to his skull.

  * * *

  MICHAEL WAS STILL unconscious, so the nurse remained beside him while Lawrence followed the two doctors into the next room. Everyone pulled off their surgical gowns and tossed them into a bin.

  “When will he wake up?” Lawrence asked.

  “In about an hour.”

  “Will he have any pain?”

  “Minimal.”

  “Excellent. I’ll ask the computer center when we can start the experiment.”

  Dr. Richardson looked nervous. “Perhaps you and I should talk.”

  The two men left the library and walked across the quadrangle to the administrative center. It had rained the night before and the sky was still gray. The roses were cut back and the irises were dry stalks. The Bermuda grass that bordered the walkway was dying. Everything looked vulnerable to the passage of time except for the windowless white building at the center of the courtyard. The official name for the building was the Neurological Cybernetics Research Facility, but the younger members of the staff called it “the Tomb.”

  “I’v
e been reading more data concerning the Travelers,” Richardson said. “Right now, I can anticipate some problems. We have a young man who may-or may not-be able to cross over to another realm.”

  “That’s correct,” Lawrence said. “We won’t know until he tries.”

  “The research materials indicate that Travelers can learn how to cross over on their own. It can occur because of long-term stress or a sudden shock. But most people have some kind of teacher to instruct them.”

  “They’re called Pathfinders,” Lawrence said. “We’ve been looking for someone to perform that function, but we haven’t been successful.”

  They paused at the entrance to the administrative center. Lawrence noticed that Dr. Richardson disliked looking at the Tomb. The neurologist stared at the sky and then at a concrete planter filled with English ivy-anything but the white building.

  “What happens if you can’t find a Pathfinder?” Richardson asked. “How is Michael going to know what to do?”

  “There’s another approach. The support staff is investigating different drugs that could act as a neurological catalyst.”

  “This is my field and I can tell you that no such drug has been developed. Nothing you take into your body is going to cause a rapid intensification of neural energy.”

  “The Evergreen Foundation has a great many contacts and sources. We’re doing everything we can.”

  “It’s clear that I’m not being told everything,” Richardson said. “Let me tell you something, Mr. Takawa. That attitude is not conducive to a successful experiment.”

  “And what else do you need to know, Doctor?”

  “It’s not just the Travelers, is it? They’re only part of a much larger objective-something that involves the quantum computer. So what are we really looking for? Can you tell me?”

  “We’ve hired you to get a Traveler into another realm,” Lawrence said. “And all you need to understand is that General Nash does not accept failure.”

  * * *

  BACK IN HIS office, Lawrence had to deal with a dozen urgent phone messages and more than forty e-mails. He talked to General Nash about the surgical operation and confirmed that the computer center had picked up neural activity from every section of Michael’s brain. During the next two hours, he wrote a carefully worded message that was e-mailed to the scientists who had received grants from the Evergreen Foundation. Although he couldn’t mention the Travelers, he asked for explicit information about psychotropic drugs that gave people visions of alternative worlds.