Vision

by N. D. Hansen-Hill

  It was him.

  His hatred and self-disgust were mutating his healing into something else. It was the bully in the playground problem all over again. Only this time, he had a feeling the “bully” was his own distorted self-image. He'd taken the role of judge on himself, and he was meting out punishments to his clients.

  He'd lowered his hands quickly, before he could damage the diamond belt-owner's health further.

  Symtech had bailed him out of his failures—all without a word, of course—which had made him realise he was nowhere near as “free” as he'd claimed. He hadn't killed anyone; merely made their lives a whole lot more uncomfortable, and surgery a lot more imperative, which had almost been enough to make him discount it. Almost—but not quite. He'd no longer gone into a healing flippantly.

  And he'd no longer been selective about whom he was going to heal.

  Now, though, as he knocked, again and again, on Josh's door, he realised how close he'd come to losing more than his healing spirit. Where were they? Just like with Dustin, Erik wanted to be there, to back them up.

  As much as he'd once wanted to leave them behind, he now regretted whatever decision they'd made, to leave him.

  * * * *

  The metal had buckled in the crash. “More goddamn complications!” Josh complained. “You still alive in there?” he bellowed.

  “You're taking so long I was gonna ask you the same thing!”

  Ren scowled. “It's so irritating, to have an ungrateful victim.”

  Josh just glared at her.

  “Don't give me that look! If we had the truck, we could have been out of here an hour ago! And we wouldn't have to walk back across the goddamn desert!”

  “They said ‘sneak'. How the hell can you sneak with a goddamn truck?”

  She didn't say any more—just looked around till she found a metal rod they could use as a crowbar. With both of them heaving and tugging, the door finally gave, with an enormously loud cracking boom. Josh and Ren gave, too, landing in a heap as the door was sprung open.

  Josh got up into a crouch, then poked his head into the cabin. “Yoo hoo!” he yelled. Frowning, he climbed in. Ren came in behind him. “Come out, come out, wherever you are!”

  They called, they threatened, they cajoled and in the end they gave up. The fungus was there, Ren was certain, in the doctored rice that stood in bags along the fuselage. But that was all.

  The cabin was empty.

  * * * *

  “It's been twelve hours,” James remarked. He watched Valterzar adjust the IV and take Dustin's pulse. Zar checked his pupils again, took his temperature, then rolled him on his side and checked the dressing on his leg for signs of suppuration.

  James got the impression Zar was busying himself to take his mind off his concerns—and his grief. Jamie didn't have to be telepathic to realise Josh's and Ren's deaths had hit Valterzar hard.

  “He should be in a hospital, but that's not in the programme,” Valterzar told him. “I'm doing all I can, short of calling Erik.”

  “Erik'll be here,” Merrie told him. “You don't have to call him.”

  James looked at her doubtfully. He didn't say it, but she knew what he was thinking.

  “He had a lot of resentment to work through, but he misses you, Jamie. All of you.”

  James settled back in a chair. “How can you tell?” he asked Merrie. There was more than a trace of bitterness in his voice. Josh, Ren gone. Dusty could well be on his way out. Somehow, he'd never thought his circle of friends would be narrowed down to Merrie, Erik and “Zar". He wanted to cry, but he couldn't. Wanted to yell, but that was out, too.

  I'd settle for punching someone's face in—

  He was looking in the mirror. All of a sudden, a vase full of artificial flowers flew across the room and slammed into the glass, shattering it. Valterzar shot him an angry look.

  James merely slumped further in the chair. “Pardon,” he said flippantly.

  “Better you than someone else,” Zar retorted, deliberately turning his back. Unwilling to turn his frustration on someone else, James had shattered his own reflection.

  Suddenly, James couldn't stand it any more. “I need to know how it happened,” he told Merrie.

  “Merrie—” Valterzar began.

  “Please,” James whispered.

  “It's all right, Zar.” She sat down on the chair, and took an unseeing look around the hotel room. Zar knew she was trying to steady herself enough to speak without crying again. She sighed deeply, then described that last, horrific scene. “A crashed plane. In the desert. J-Josh had holes in-in his b-back.”

  “And Ren?” It was Dusty's voice. He was lying there, one hand clasped over his eyes. His voice was husky. “What happened to Ren?”

  “Her head,” Merrie cried, tears now pouring down her face. “The bastard shot her in the head.”

  “No—he—didn't," Dustin whispered.

  Valterzar folded Merrie in his arms. His voice was raspy with unshed tears. “I'm sorry, Dustin.” It was obvious he meant it.

  Dusty lowered a trembling hand. His eyes, moist and bloodshot, met Valterzar's determinedly. “He hasn't—and he won't,” he said firmly. “Because I'm going to stop him.”

  Valterzar opened his mouth to argue, and then it just hung open. There was a glint in Dustin's eyes that told Zar the man meant it. Merrie must have thought so, too. She took a shuddery breath, her expression sad, but at the same time, hopeful.

  It was Jamie who spoke up, though. He'd seen the determination in Dusty's eyes, too, and it had reminded him of his own, just before he'd slung the vase across the room. Stranger things had happened ... He told Zar, “You heard the man. Leave a note for Pretty Boy Erik, and let's get going. We have a plane to find.”

  * * * *

  “We may have a problem,” Marcus Jekkes said. Smythe had told him to take a seat, because his agitated pacing was getting on his nerves.

  Jekkes wondered how nervous Smythe would be, after he heard the report. It would be Smythe's fault, for setting his people up, but Jekkes would bear some of the brunt. It was his job to point out hazards. He'd missed a big one.

  “What?”

  “We're running counter to a drug control programme—for eliminating illegal crops.”

  Smythe snorted. “We're helping to find the fucking plane. In other words, to clean up their mistake. They're field-testing an unauthorised mycoherbicide: one that's being labelled a ‘terrorist’ threat to agriculture.”

  “They didn't bother to mention any hazard—until now.”

  “Fusariosis? Magnus will pick up on that one.”

  Jekkes shook his head. “They had a self-destruct order. If, for any reason, the plane went down, the plane and its payload were to be destroyed.”

  “A suicide mission?” Smythe sounded incredulous. “Over a mycoherbicide?”

  “Nothing so drastic. The pilot could bail out, but if the plane didn't blow up on impact, the pilot was expected to eliminate any evidence.”

  “And any witnesses?”

  “Dead. Same thing with anyone attempting to interfere. The pilot is a commando, operating under special orders. He'll do whatever it takes to ensure his mission is carried out.”

  * * * *

  Dustin was absolutely silent as they climbed into the trucks. Valterzar didn't even bother trying to change his mind. If Dusty truly thought there was a chance for altering the outcome, it was worth attempting.

  “Humouring me?” Dustin asked as he stretched out across the back seat. It was the first time he'd spoken since he'd announced his intentions.

  “Probably,” Lawrence told him. His smile, however, belied the coolness of his tone. “About now, I'd prefer to grasp at straws than face the truth. Give me a healthy dose of unreality.” He put the truck in gear, then looked in the mirror. “You okay?”

  Dustin gave him a thumbs up. At this point, with his head pounding, it sure beat a nod.

  Lawrence went on, “For the moment, I'd like to
think we're ‘exploring our options'. So, get some sleep if you can. When it's time, I want to make sure you're up to the challenge.”

  They'd driven for a while when Dustin's voice sounded from the back. “I owe you,” he admitted. “Thanks.”

  “That's my job,” Lawrence replied, and Dusty was sure he picked up a tinge—just the tiniest trace—of bitterness in the other man's voice. If James was right, and Valterzar was “one of them", he was probably feeling pretty resentful right now.

  Dusty realised how amusing it would be if “Zar” was a fellow psi-guy, and didn't even know it. “You know, a ‘czar's’ a kind of tyrant,” he joked.

  Lawrence glanced at him in the mirror, caught the glint in Dusty's eyes, and his lips creased in a smile. “Suits me,” he said.

  * * * *

  He was determined to find them. If they were all gone at the same time, it made sense that they were all in one place, sent at the behest of the “agency".

  Erik had decided a long time ago not to let Charles Smythe screw with his head. Smythe was merely the latest in a long line of insensitive cretins who tried to wield other people's abilities like some kind of sword. It had been “test"—"test"—"test” for years, but the real “tests", Erik suspected, had been how well they'd handled themselves with members of the public—how well they could function in camouflage.

  It hadn't started out that way. Years ago, each of their mothers had been given an illicit drug at twelve weeks to “sustain” a difficult pregnancy. Unfortunately, the compound was found to greatly increase the risk of a crib death during the first six months. Worried about their offspring, the parents had opted for supplemental treatment. Erik wondered whether they would have taken their chances instead, had they realised how much they'd have to worry about later.

  It had been hell for kids like Ren, who had normal siblings. Erik still didn't know which of the treatments had set them up for what each of them had become, but he guessed the prenatal treatment had been a primer, and the postnatal some kind of genetic stimulant for proteins that would “switch on” specific areas of the brain. James had spoken angrily about “gene therapy” and Erik knew he had good reason for his anger. If Dusty and Ren had suffered for their “gifts", Jamie had had it worse. Now, he could control his temper, but when he'd first come to their school, his anger had been, quite literally, all over the place.

  That school had saved their lives. It had been a first opportunity to relax, to find peace, to be “at home". They were encouraged to develop their abilities, and taught how to hide them.

  A scam. Set up, all the way. Given hell, taught to be hellions, then made to be grateful for the opportunity to be among other, similarly hellacious personalities. All a farce.

  To some extent, it had backfired. Erik knew they were supposed to be some kind of team, and the word “Cluster” had been used within his hearing once or twice. Each of them had a different skill that could be called upon to complement the others. In the beginning it may have been something less profit-oriented and more humanitarian—maybe even an honest attempt to correct a pharmacological mistake. But for a long time now, there'd been a commercial aspect to it that had made Erik cynical enough to want to take the profit-making for his healing into his own hands.

  But Symtech would be making its profits elsewhere. Even now, it might be trying to recoup some of its investment in this particular Cluster. Erik knew they'd take advantage of anything he'd offer: not only was he one of the “Cluster", but his interest could only prove beneficial to the others—some security for the investment. As he went in, unannounced, to visit Charles Smythe, his reception was much different from the greeting six years ago when he'd declared his independence. Smythe appeared not only pleased, but greatly relieved, to see him. Within fifteen minutes he'd booked Erik on a flight, arranged his hotel and transport, and given him a general idea of where to look.

  As he sat on the plane an hour later, Erik had to admit that Smythe's eagerness, and the degree of cooperation, was enough to scare him nearly out of his wits.

  * * * *

  They found the truck. It was easy enough, in the end. Zar, keeping a cautious eye on Dustin's condition, decided it was no time for playing games. He asked Symtech for help. The GPS led them right to it.

  From there, Zar had expected it to be hit and miss. If the plane had been easy to find on satellite reconnaissance, they wouldn't have needed Josh and Ren. Symtech had even been amenable to his suggestion that they check the satellite photos.

  It was then they had baulked. Not initially, when he'd put in his request—afterwards, when they'd had time to see the photos. Zar could only conclude that something about the scene had changed. Their hesitancy wasn't because they were still confused about the plane's location. They were recalcitrant because they now knew exactly where it was.

  Maybe they could even see the bodies. Zar thought fast. It was obvious they could see something. He ended the call, and sat quietly, his hands on the steering wheel, to work it through.

  “They know where it is,” he told Dusty. “Only they won't say.”

  “Bodies?” Dustin asked in a hushed voice.

  “Maybe. Could be a report from the murderer.”

  “Who's mos’ influechal?”

  Zar heard the slurring, and was out of the seat in a flash. He pulled open the back door and told Dustin, “Let me see your eyes—”

  “Don'!” Dustin tried to push his hands away.

  Zar waved Merrie and James over from the other truck, and punched in a number on his phone. “Most influential?” he repeated calmly to Dustin. “Right now, Erik is.” Zar left Merrie to cradle Dustin's head in her lap, and pulled James aside. Zar told him firmly, “I don't know how you'll do it, but I want you to hold him in stasis, James.”

  “Where and what?”

  “Bleeding in the brain. The pressure's building. He's—” Erik's voice came on the line, interrupting him. Zar spoke into the phone. “We're on the outskirts of Tres Hermanos, Erik. How far away are you?” Zar listened, then said, “Get a helicopter. Be here within the hour. While en route, make a call to Smythe and get the coordinates for the crash site. Tell him if he doesn't, you won't be able to meet us to heal the others.”

  "Zar!"

  Dustin was vomiting now, and Zar said quickly into the phone, “Hold it!” When Merrie nodded to him, he put the phone up to his ear. “I'm back.” He listened to Erik, then retorted, “Of course it doesn't make sense! Lie, for crissake!" He ended the call and turned back to James. “My guess is the bleeding's here.” He tapped the left side of his head. “Can you do it?”

  “What if I cut off the blood flow?” James asked worriedly. “What then?”

  “Then his brain will die. And Josh and Ren won't be the only ones we lose this trip.”

  Chapter Six

  “I don't get it,” Josh complained. “We came all this way, dug through sand and soil and metal, all for that?!” His expression indicated what he thought of the bags of contaminated rice stacked against the fuselage. “How thrilling,” he said flatly.

  “I want to know where the man went. You heard his voice, too—”

  “Did I?” Josh asked. “I don't seem to recall that.”

  “Bastard. I suppose that gunshot was a product of my imagination.”

  “Slut.” He glanced around. “I do kind of wonder where the pilot went.”

  “'Pile it here, pile it there',” she quoted. “I suppose, if these were bags of dinosaur bones, instead of rice grains—”

  “—at least they'd be interesting,” Josh finished. “Amazing!”

  Ren glanced quickly around. “What?”

  “The way you glow in the dark. That shade of puce is really very becoming.”

  “Josh, let's go,” Ren told him impatiently. “I have the weirdest feeling about that voice...”

  “Considering the source, I can't say I'm too impressed...”

  Ren shoved him out the door.

  * * * *

  Eri
k had the helicopter circle around till he spotted Valterzar's arms waving wildly. “Should I ask it to wait?” he yelled, as he disembarked.

  “No!” Zar told him.

  Merrie was practically in tears. She had Dustin's head in her lap, and he lay there, limp and unresponsive. James was squatting next to him, eyes squinted closed in concentration, as he fought to sustain the blood flow evenly, without putting undue pressure on Dustin's bruised brain. He was shaking with the effort, and Erik didn't interrupt him. He suspected that the cessation of Jamie's services, and the sudden influx of leaking blood could kill Dusty outright. It was only through James’ efforts that the man was still alive at all.

  Erik remembered the last time he'd seen Dusty, and the way he'd commended him on going it alone. Maybe he'd been too quick to offer praise, and Dustin may have been too quick to act on his body's returning strength. Whatever had messed him up now had done some major damage.

  “I'll be damned if I'll waste three days watching you, Dusty—only to have you pull a stunt like this!” Erik rested the heel of his hand on Dusty's forehead, and another on his chest. Then, he tuned out everything—the roar of the helicopter, Merrie's tears, Jamie's shaky fingers, and Valterzar's anxious expression. This one wasn't going to be easy, and unless he wanted to leave some scar tissue, he had to concentrate.

  Valterzar guessed as much, and made sure he stayed close. No one had told Erik about Josh or Ren, and that's the way Valterzar intended it to stay, until he was finished with Dusty.

  * * * *

  “I think he's dead,” Josh said seriously. He was appalled by the blood coating the man's shirt. The shocked look on the man's face didn't help either. He tried to lower the man's lids, but the dead man seemed just as determined to have his eyes open. Afterwards, Josh grimaced, gave a shiver, and discreetly tried to wipe his fingers on the man's sleeve.

  “He's dead,” Ren agreed. She couldn't pick up any reading from him at all—no sensations of any kind—and she'd dreaded even trying. “It-It's horrible,” she murmured. The blood and the horrific violence sickened her.