Vision

by N. D. Hansen-Hill

  Valterzar rolled his eyes. “I'll keep that in mind. According to the coordinates, it shouldn't be far.” He looked at Dusty assessingly. “How're you holding up?”

  “Fine. Despite all claims to the contrary,” Dustin said mockingly, “Erik is good for something.”

  “Symtech says we may get interference.”

  “Yeah. They did seem a little overly enthusiastic to get me down here,” Erik commented.

  “Sounds like they acted first, then thought about it later,” Dustin remarked.

  “Sounds like somebody else we know,” Erik said sarcastically. “You should be damn glad they did. Otherwise, I might not have been playing touristo at Tres Hermanos.”

  “What happened to the back-up details we usually can't get rid of?” James asked.

  “This time, we're it. There were complications of some sort,” Zar admitted. “Careless.”

  “D'you think Ren and Josh are in danger?” Dustin asked seriously. He'd been worried their danger would be internal, rather than external.

  “I think there's a chance someone could shoot first, ask questions later.”

  “Which is why Symtech's so hyper,” Erik murmured.

  “Are they still on radio silence?” Dustin asked anxiously.

  Valterzar hesitated. “Hard to tell,” he said. “I'm no expert on these things, but either we're out of range, or someone's jamming the signal. Other than telling the agency the coordinates, there's been no word.” He sounded worried. “We know they're on foot, and the desert can be pretty unforgiving. Keep your eyes open—for anything.”

  * * * *

  A tremendous amount of mini mountain had collapsed onto the downed aircraft. Dustin wondered whether he shouldn't be too fussed about where he did his retrovision—for now. Technically, he supposed he could sit up here above the crash site and watch it all from a bird's eye view. If he was on the far side of the plane, though, he might not see much—and he wouldn't have much of a chance to stop it. “This ‘trip', I have to see what happens. I may have to go back a second time to stop it.” He gulped, dreading what was going to happen.

  “Whatever it takes,” Jamie said solemnly, and re-applied himself to slinging soil.

  Only, there may be no second time. I may only get one shot, Dustin realised. Last time, he'd practically blown out his brain doing this. Was that going to happen again? There was no Erik to bail him out.

  This time, I'm the one trying to bail Erik out. Dustin shovelled harder. One shot, to try to help them all.

  Make it a good one.

  Chapter Seven

  “Zar!” Merrie stared across the distant sands, trying to see past the orangy glow reflecting off the sand. “There's a dead man.”

  Zar looked at her quickly.

  “No,” she told him thankfully. “It's not Josh.”

  “Which way?”

  She pointed toward the line of the setting sun. Zar's arm around her shoulder tightened briefly, then he released her to put both hands on the wheel. This way it was even bumpier than before.

  He wondered who—or what—they were going to find.

  * * * *

  The shadows of the saguaro were getting quite long across the desert when they heard the first metallic clang. Jamie tapped along the heat-warped metal with the shovel, until he found the place where the wing tapered down. Around here somewhere, there would have been a door...

  He and Dustin went at it with a will. There was a sense of urgency in both of them now—some need to be done with it before dark. One day had already fallen on Josh's and Ren's bodies; he couldn't bear the finality of having it close once again—on them and the others—without a resolution.

  I have to know, he thought dismally. How far the darkness spreads...

  Dustin noticed that more sand was flying than either of their shovels could account for. He glanced at Jamie, and saw how he was concentrating. “Josh could use you out in the field,” he said.

  James grinned, pleased to see Dusty was still thinking positively. As long as Josh is alive in his brain... “I'll keep that in mind,” he replied. “Sure beats a toothbrush.”

  * * * *

  They hurried across the sand, looking for some sign of trespass. It was Erik who spotted the traces first: two pairs of footsteps, that seemed to weave all over the place. “Think it's them?” he asked.

  “Looks like they were running,” Jamie suggested.

  Valterzar eyed the prints and nodded. “Let's hope they didn't get caught.”

  “Zar!” Merrie grabbed his arm. She was watching Dustin.

  At first, Zar thought he was tracing the prints back to their source, but then he realised Dustin wasn't looking at the ground. He was limping determinedly up the crusted slope, eyes straight ahead, face set. Zar paralleled him; watching his expression. He was pale—dreading what he was going to see.

  Erik saw the way Zar was watching Dustin. He came up swiftly behind him and asked, almost defensively, “What's up?”

  “I don't know.”

  Dustin stopped and forced himself to look down. He was shaking as he stood there, staring at the body. The blood. Dribbling out the man's mouth. It was dried now, and fat blowflies had already been at work. Dusty's eyes moved downward, to the chest, and it was as though a hot poker stabbed through his right side. He gasped, and went to his knees. For a moment he was blinded by the searing pain that exploded behind his eyes.

  “Dusty!”

  It was Erik, and Dusty turned to look at him—at them. Zar's face was impassive, and Dustin knew he was trying to make sense of this—to categorise it. Merrie merely looked distressed, and Jamie anxious. James wanted to move things along; to find Ren and Josh before dark.

  Dustin's eyes were bloodshot; dark circles rimming them. For a moment, Erik wondered if he was having another haemorrhage. Valterzar obviously wondered the same thing. “Retro, Dusty?” he asked quietly.

  “Deja vu,” Dusty replied. He looked past him, past them all, to where the metallic glint of the downed plane showed through its coating of debris. “If we want to see Ren and Josh alive again,” he muttered hoarsely, “we'll have to go there.”

  * * * *

  The plane was a mangled wreck. What Jamie had taken for a wing was actually part of the fuselage. It took some imaginative reconstruction before they could figure out where they were.

  Neither said a thing, but Dustin knew James was as worried as he was about the sniper. If he'd sent word to his bosses, they could be getting company. Dustin had the terrible impression that they were running out of time—that all the retro effort in the world wouldn't change a thing unless it happened soon.

  Half an hour later Jamie looked at him, and gave a nod. “Lucky you don't need any special equipment for this.” His smile was forced.

  In that instant, Dusty wavered. James had lost so much today. Should he tell him? How much this type of transition rattled his brain? That it was his bout of retro, rather than the infection, which had triggered his collapse at the airport?

  No, Dustin thought. What's the point? Dusty wasn't about to let it stop him, and it would just give James one more thing to worry about.

  He'll be watching me instead of watching our backs.

  At the same time, it wasn't fair. James was in on the gamble because the outcome would be worth it, and God knows, things couldn't get any worse. Only, they could, and Dustin knew it. There was a chance James might be stuck here with another dead man on his hands.

  But if he knew, he'd probably call a halt to this insanity. That's how he'd see it—as unacceptable risk. After all, he had only Dusty's determination to go on. No proof. And if he decided to stop things, there was no doubt Jamie could do it, if he put his mind to it.

  Dustin had already reconciled himself to the thought that there might be one victim of the plane crash, no matter what. Maybe it was the price to be paid for dabbling with the Fates. Even if he were able to reverse or realign some of the things that had happened, there was a good chance Dustin
Mallory wouldn't survive it.

  One thing was certain: if he had to go in a second time, he'd probably need Jamie's PK to hold his brains together for the jaunt.

  Dustin decided he'd rather not think about it. As Jamie had said, "Whatever it takes..."

  * * * *

  “I think we should go after them,” Erik argued. "Fuck the plane!" He was angry that they were all being so obtuse. It was obvious Ren and Josh could be in danger, and that's what they'd come for—to save them. Visiting the wreck would only delay the rescue—and Dusty had already delayed it enough. After his collapse at the airport, Valterzar's group had been forced to hole up in a motel until Dusty could travel. The fool had somehow convinced Valterzar he was fit, and it had nearly gotten him killed. More delays.

  At this point, Erik didn't care who did the rescuing—he just wanted Ren and Josh safe. If Dusty hadn't delayed the group, the rescue may well have been a fait accompli by now.

  He shouldn't even be here, Erik thought. Dusty should be back at the hospital. Not in Mexico. “Mallory's not precognitive. In all the testing, he's never been precognitive,” he told Valterzar firmly.

  “I agree with Erik,” Jamie said. “We're here to find Josh and Ren—not to get mixed up in whatever got that guy killed!” It was the most persuasive argument of them all. Stay here, and they might all go the same way.

  “You're ‘humouring’ him,” Erik told Valterzar disgustedly, as though Dustin wasn't there. “If this is one of those psychiatrist things, you can count me out. Give me a few minutes with him, and I'll put him right.” He turned to Dustin. “Sorry, Dusty, but this is crazy. The only thing I can figure is that you don't know what you're saying. I'll try it again—”

  “No.” Dustin took the first tentative step toward the downed plane, well aware that not one of them was in agreement with him. Why should they be? Despite what Erik believed, Dusty did know how insane this appeared. “At least James,” he said. He looked over at him. “Leave James here.” He wiped sand from his face with a shaking hand.

  “Why?” Valterzar studied him. His inclination was to turn Dusty over to Erik. There was obviously some physical basis for his behaviour, given the way he was looking. Zar couldn't deny his instincts, though, which were telling him Dustin might be basing this on something else as well. Something he'd seen.

  It was Merrie, though, who reached out and laid a gentle hand against Dustin's face. “Horrible to be amidst disbelievers,” she joked softly.

  He smiled at her, realising that what he'd seen was just a fraction of what this woman must have to endure. Merrie's gift tended to capture those last moments; that uncertain time when the soul is leaving the body—and neither body nor soul is quite certain of the separation. He looked at her seriously—easier than facing Valterzar, he thought—and said, “I have to be in the plane.”

  “Why the plane?” James asked impatiently. Geological time wasn't working for him today. He was as keen as any of the others to find Josh and Ren and get out of here. The idea of a bunch of murderers coming to kill him didn't exactly appeal.

  “Because—” Dustin said. He looked at the plane, and staggered slightly.

  Erik reached out to him, concerned, but Valterzar shook his head and put a hand under Dustin's elbow, to steady him. “Tell us why."

  Dusty was staring at the plane now, his eyes distant. “I have to stop him—”

  “Who?”

  Dustin turned to look at the dead man. “Him,” he whispered, his eyes dark with horror. There was only one explanation that would satisfy the anguished visions in his head. He looked at Merrie, and her sudden shocked expression held echoes of his own horror.

  “You have to kill him,” she said.

  * * * *

  He knew it was going to be bad. Merrie had warned them—told them about the bullet wounds in Josh's back, and the bullet hole in Ren's head. What he'd seen since, with Erik and Lawrence and Merrie, had told him the rest. If there was any way he could have avoided this, he would have.

  I should be used to death.

  In his own way, he was as close to death as Merrie. She saw them as shades, spirits, metaphysical wanderers—he saw them as they'd once stood, and walked, and talked—before they were hidden in dust and ash. This latent ability, this chance to interact—was it real? Or was he really as much of a metaphysical wanderer as Merrie's ghosts?

  It didn't matter—because in Dustin's mind, there were no choices. Any selective process had vanished when the killer had raised the gun, pelted Josh, then blasted half Ren's head away. Whether this was a cosmic no-no, or karma to be revisited on him ten times over, he had to do something—even if it was as simple as a warning.

  Maybe it should have been before, he suddenly thought with despair. Waiting till the last minute—trying to arrest the moment of death—what kind of fool's game was that? Especially when dealing with something as unknown, as untried, as his retrocognitive influence.

  Fuck it! He should have thought with logic, rather than desperation. But when he'd begun this, he'd been no more certain of his ability to deal with it than he was now. He'd been thinking defensively (get in there and stop the bullet!) rather than reasonably. How much more sensible to stop a snowball than an avalanche...

  He couldn't go back, again and again, to put it right. After one trek, maybe two, he didn't think there'd be enough left of his brain to recall why and where.

  He took a shuddery breath, and James rested a hand on his shoulder. Most of the time he and James had been digging Dustin had been unconsciously fearing the worst—fearing that he'd find some recognisable part. Even though the plane had been incinerated, he was afraid some charred remnant, like the necklace, may have survived the blast.

  So far, though, the necklace had been the only find. The only clue. To what? Time to find out; to see it happen. Because if I don't, I won't have a clue how to stop it.

  Dustin sat on the scorched sand, and his eyes met Jamie's. They were both sombre, and Dusty wondered whether Jamie did, in fact, have some idea what this could do to him. James gave his shoulder a quick squeeze. “Don't worry, Dusty,” he said. “I won't stray too far.”

  Dustin nodded, and focussed on the plane's chronological ghost. With the jerky disjointedness of a broken film reel, the world began to spin around him.

  * * * *

  The door to the cabin had been forced open. Valterzar, in his role as leader, went in first, probed around a little, then shrugged. There were a few guns and some explosives, but they weren't the payload. The bulk of the shipment consisted of sack after sack of grain. “Nothing but rice. Must have to do with the mycoherbicide.”

  “Stupid place to try to grow rice,” Erik complained. “Hot as Hades out here.” He had his mini fan going again, and was alternating between fanning himself, and fanning Merrie.

  “I doubt this was their final destination,” Valterzar told him drily.

  “Just a ‘drop-in’ spot on the route,” James remarked.

  “Wonder where Ren and Josh are,” Erik hinted loudly, kicking at some of the footprints gouged in the sand. “Seems a shame to waste such an obvious track,” he told Valterzar.

  “It'll be dark soon,” Dustin said. “Maybe you'd better find them.”

  “First, Dusty,” Erik said firmly, “you and I are heading in the cabin for a little quiet time. You look like shit.”

  “Later,” Dustin told him, a little desperately. “When you get back. James'll stay with me.”

  James didn't look too happy at the suggestion. “Thanks so much for your offer,” he said sarcastically, “but this place looks like a hangout for thugs. James Wickham has no desire to become a victim. He prefers to put any holes in his shirts himself.”

  “He needs you, Jamie,” Merrie told him. “Don't be so difficult.”

  “Then you stay. I'm not the one talking about killing people. I have some standards, and one of them is: you don't murder strangers.”

  “Only people you know?” Erik suggested.

>   “More tempting with some people than others,” James told him. “Put yourself on the ‘some people’ list.”

  Valterzar was frowning at Dustin. “You're certainly anxious for us to go. Why?”

  “You mean, ‘can't I kill my victim as well with you here as without you?’ Shit!" he exclaimed. "I don't know!" Dustin was frustrated by his own uncertainty, and angry that Valterzar was doing that psychiatry thing of picking apart everything he said. “You don't fit in! That's all I can tell you.” He sat down on the sand, and rested his arms on his drawn-up knees. He felt as if he'd already had a bad “trip"—like he'd already taken one of his retrograde jaunts, and come off the worse for it. “Can't you just go?” he said angrily.

  “James?” Valterzar looked at him.

  “Guess I'll stay,” he said resignedly. “Just don't be gone too long, all right?”

  “I'd feel better if the phones worked.”

  “Wouldn't we all?” said Erik. “I'd better stay, too.”

  “No, Erik.” It was Merrie, and she was looking off across the desert. “We'd better go,” she urged, as though she'd suddenly realised haste was important.

  They drove off in the crew cab, leaving the other truck for James and Dusty. James stood there and watched dismally until the reflected light off the truck body blended into the reddish refraction of the late day sun. “She sure seemed amenable to your ‘plan'. Almost eager for you to hop right to it,” he commented sarcastically.

  “No plan, Jamie,” Dusty admitted. “Just a suspicion.”

  “How mysterious,” James said flatly. “Suspicion of what?”

  Dustin sighed. “That if I blow this, none of them will be coming back.”

  * * * *

  "A little blood goes a long way..."

  Something he'd heard once, but never really thought about. By the time the blood filled his vision, Dustin was concentrating hard—trying not to go too far too fast. It was a backwards avalanche of dirt and grit followed by flashes and flickers of black smoke—and then it was blood. Soaked up by the soil, splayed across his hands. Josh dead, then dying, then all the pieces of him rushing back together in some sick parody; Ren, shattered and bloody, being elevated up, onto her feet, as bits of brain and bone flew back into her head. Dustin felt like he was dying himself now, choking on vomit and gasping for breath, as he fought to keep from passing out—fought to find his moment—that all-important instant when he could stop it from happening. Then, for an instant, he thought he had it: through watering eyes he saw a not-so-distant glint. What was it? Binoculars? A gun?