Vision

by N. D. Hansen-Hill

  Ren must have a good reason for this. None of them had spilled tears over Garris’ death, and Merrie recalled Ren remarking how his death coincided nicely with her desire never to see him again. A smile flickered in Merrie's eyes as she also remembered Ren's guilt, after making that comment. Poor Ren! She lived so much in other people's thoughts, that she couldn't help but see the reflection of her comments in their eyes.

  Whatever Ren's reasons for wanting to see Garris’ backup files, she must have felt he owed them enough to oblige. Perhaps he'd had enough fire and brimstone now to do them a favour.

  Still, Merrie knew it wasn't going to be easy. Much harder to summon someone she really had no desire to see.

  There were ways to beat her own resistance. The first thing she did at home was to head for the closet. She pulled down box after box from the top, until she found her “souvenirs". Not souvenirs, really, but memorabilia from years past, when “Symtech” had been “Symbio", and life had been a lot simpler. Before she'd realised how bizarre it was to raise the dead, or have friends who could toss things across the room with their minds.

  We should have known before. Way back when, during the days when they'd driven their parents to rash action—to abandoning their children to the system. If Dr. Drewsome had succeeded in anything, though, it had been in that: despite the furore surrounding each arrival, it had somehow became unimportant once in situ. Brainwashing? Maybe. Merrie preferred to think it owed more to relief—and peace.

  Last year, when Drew Garris had died, Merrie had performed this same ritual. Dug out the box, and laid the newspaper clipping—the obituary—on top. It had been closure, of a sort. Whatever hold Charles Smythe might have over them, it was nothing to Drewsome's. He was the authority figure of their youth, but it wasn't respect he motivated.

  Smythe, despite his skills at manipulation, couldn't even come close. There was only one way to hold a Cluster of aberrant teenagers in line.

  Dr. Drewsome did it with fear.

  * * * *

  “Fuck it!”

  “Something wrong, Dusty?” Gene Davies asked. Ever since Dusty had come back from Mexico, he'd been looking lousy. First, he'd had that infection in his leg, and now, he was having headaches. Bad headaches. Gene wondered whether his immune system was so down that he'd picked up some other bug.

  Doug had told him that Erik had come by to see him. Erik had a really amazing ability to heal. Why the hell hadn't he used it on Dusty?

  “The client wants me to deliver the designs personally,” Dusty was saying. “Give a presentation.”

  “Nothing unusual in that. Gene and I do it all the time,” Doug said pointedly, swivelling his chair. “Methinks you should let one of us take it this time, too. You take sick leave. Screw the client, screw everything. You're gonna end up back in the hospital if you don't watch out.”

  “Fuck you,” Dusty said congenially. “They want me personally.”

  “I, however, don't. So spare me the ‘fuck yous'.” Doug grinned. “I'm heterosexual, even if Gene isn't.”

  “He's right,” Miranda Blair said.

  “About me being homosexual? I know that,” Gene said.

  “No, Fool. That Dusty shouldn't be here.”

  “I'm surprised Erik didn't notice how you were. Maybe you should call him up,” Doug told him. “See if he can help with the headaches.”

  “That's probably why he came,” Gene remarked.

  Dusty was running out of patience. “I—have—a—doctor's—appointment,” he said through gritted teeth.

  “When?” Gene asked practically. “Did you tell him how bad you were feeling? I think you should see someone. Today.”

  Dusty didn't answer. He gathered his designs, and printed off a copy of the email. They'd made a reservation for him through a travel agent.

  Real world stuff. Not to be delayed, defrayed, or interfered with by any damn corporation. One good thing that had come out of the “Mexican expedition": he felt newly confident he could control his retro. There'd been no flashes, flickers, or bouts since his return. Nothing to take him by surprise.

  This would be his second trip alone. The first one hadn't turned out too well, but this was different. Completely unrelated to Symtech. He'd turned in his “resignation", so there wouldn't be anybody tailing him.

  No one to pick up the pieces...

  Don't think that way. There won't be any pieces. This was a normal business trip; the kind that Gene and Doug took.

  “Going home?” Doug asked him.

  “Yeah,” Dusty said. “But first I'm going to Dachau.”

  * * * *

  Some of the pictures were a little yellowed now. Merrie curled up against the headboard, her feet tucked under her. There weren't all that many photos, but she'd found one of Drew Garris. From an adult perspective, it wasn't hard to spot the arrogance in his expression. It was as she looked at his face, that gooseflesh danced down her arms. She'd never been able to look at him from such a distance before. Her vision had always been overlain with memories of his cruelty, delivered in the name of science. She'd grown up thinking “science” made everything right.

  Which is why I got as far away from it as I could.

  I must be wrong. She deliberately put the photos aside, and went through some of the other things: schoolwork, and drawings. At the moment, looking at these things she'd drawn at ages what? seven? nine? her eyes filled. No child of mine will ever suffer this way.

  She was never alone, but most of the pictures weren't of Ren or Josh, Jamie, Erik or Dusty. They were pictures of other people who'd shared her childhood: old men, prostitutes, pregnant women, teenagers, children, infants. Perhaps the most poignant of all was the image of her, looking in a mirror. She stood alone, yet the reflection in the glass was full—like a crowd at a party.

  Party animal, even then.

  Hellish nights, even then.

  She sniffed, and wiped her eyes on her sleeve. No childhood's perfect...

  She picked up the photo again; the one which had caught her eye, that first time. Then she picked up another, and another.

  Erik had been his favourite, but there may have been another reason, besides the nature of his “gift". The implication was appalling. It made Dr. Drewsome more of a monster than any of them had suspected.

  Yet, it was so obvious it was a wonder none of them had made the connection before.

  Drew Garris was Erik's father.

  She swallowed hard, and tears filled her eyes and ran, unchecked down her face. The man—the monster—had experimented on his own unborn son.

  * * * *

  Why do I want to know?

  Worse—why this compulsion—this need to know? I'd be better off if I'd never thought of it at all...

  No. She'd panicked and run from Smythe's office. Since then—since she'd come home and bolted her doors—all her anger had been directed at herself, for acting the fool and the coward.

  She was distant enough now from Smythe—from Symtech—from her panic—to take a step back. There was nothing foolish in wanting to know her origins. Foolhardy, maybe, when a company like Symtech was involved. But she had a right—they all had a right—to know. Whether the others availed themselves of the information was their business.

  It had to do with freedom, and Ren knew that Dusty's anger had triggered some of her concerns. It was Symtech's decision, however, to send her and Josh to Mexico, that had done the rest. Why had their status—their involvement with Symtech—never changed? Why did they, as adults, have to answer to Symtech, and rely on the company for support? Why were they Symtech's responsibility? Why had they allowed a corporation to retain so much control over their lives?

  Was it because they were truly “disabled", or because it had always been that way? Too easy to go along with it, and too difficult to fight?

  Erik fought it. It was the example she'd always used when an itch for rebellion made her dissatisfied. But was Erik's freedom all an illusion? Because it suited Symtech to h
ave the positive feedback, and “healing” was an acceptable gift? Because any connection drawn between his abilities and his former benefactor, would only add to Symtech's prestige?

  But when there'd been trouble in Mexico, Erik had been jetted down—by Symtech.

  That meant he wasn't as free as he liked to think. He was still close enough to walk into Smythe's office and make demands. Still close enough to permit demands on his time.

  Not the kind of independence Dusty was talking about.

  There'd been plans in Smythe's head—ideas for “teaching her a lesson". She'd known then it was the part of his overseer duty he really enjoyed—the chance to develop intricate plots to curb his wayward charges. The kind of effort that would use his knowledge of them to humiliate, and cripple.

  There was something else, too: Smythe would never give her Garris’ research. She'd see parts of it, but only after it had been modified.

  Because that was one of the things that had frightened him—Garris’ notes would be enough to take Symtech down. To take them all down.

  At the same time, Smythe was confident—because he had a “partner” to deal with things like this. A partner who'd been in on the original research and who'd helped to fund it. The same partner who'd wanted help to cover illegal shipments into Mexican airspace.

  Smythe had been confident this “partner” would now find a use for her. It would distract her, keep her from making any more ludicrous requests, and help balance the books. She'd be “on loan". The responsibility had been shifted.

  If she baulked? She'd met his “partners” in Mexico. They weren't nearly as forgiving as he was.

  * * * *

  Gene looked up in surprise when someone tapped him on the back. He pulled off the headphones. “Hi, Erik,” he said. “Doug said you were here yesterday.”

  Erik's forehead wrinkled. “Where's the ‘Animation King'?” he asked.

  “Damn fool's giving a presentation to a client.”

  Erik looked around. “Another part of the office?”

  “No. Another part of the world.” Gene nodded towards his desk. “Probably shouldn't do this, but go check his Inbox. It came in a couple of hours ago.”

  Erik read through the message. "Fuck it!" he hissed.

  “He said that same thing. Told him he shouldn't go, but he insisted.”

  Erik was about to turn away when he saw the message above—a “Reply to Sender” from C. Smythe. Erik clicked on it, and read the message. He looked at the time. It had arrived half an hour before Dusty's travel arrangements. Plenty of time for Symtech to drum something up. Something to convince Dusty he wasn't as self-sufficient as he thought.

  Only, Symtech didn't know what had happened to him in Mexico. Valterzar hadn't told them. None of them had. They might know Dusty was under the weather, but they wouldn't know how close he'd come to being under the ground.

  Gene was still talking, “...instead of waiting for them to schedule him in.”

  “What?”

  “Dusty should've asked you to fix him yesterday, instead of waiting for some damned appointment.”

  “Appointment? With a doctor?”

  “Yeah. It's there, on the desk. ‘Twenty-fourth of November'. Ridiculous.”

  “Yeah,” Erik agreed. “I'm gonna see if I can catch up with him, Gene.”

  “And this time, do something about him, okay? The damn fool is so set on doing it all himself, he doesn't know when to quit.”

  “Or when not to,” Erik muttered. He waved to Gene and Miranda, then went tearing out the door.

  * * * *

  “Jamie?”

  It was Merrie, and she was sobbing. Jamie excused himself, and took the phone into another room. “What's wrong?”

  “I need you—”

  “Sounds like a job for Zar,” he said delicately.

  “Not this time. He wasn't there when we were.” He guessed she was trying to reassure him when she added, “I'll go see him later.”

  Jamie sighed. “I'm sort of in a faculty meeting right now. Will anything—you included—die if you have to wait an hour?”

  “No,” she said miserably, but he sensed a smile behind her tears. “I'll wait to die until you get here.”

  “Thanks,” he said sarcastically. He hesitated. “I'm not gonna be doing anything that'll make Zar jealous, am I?”

  “No.”

  “Dammit.” He heard her chuckle. Good, he thought. “See you soon, Merrie. Just hold that chuckle till I get there.”

  * * * *

  Valterzar was in his office with a client when the receptionist rang through.

  “Sorry, Dr. Valterzar, but it's Erik Dainler. He says it's an emergency.”

  “Put him through.”

  Erik was yelling into the phone, and Zar guessed he was in heavy traffic somewhere. "Mallory told Symtech to fuck off!" he bellowed. "That he was quitting! Now he's on some business trip, but I think they set it up—just to show him.”

  “Where?”

  “Bavaria. Little town called Dachau.”

  “Dachau,” Valterzar repeated. The name was familiar, but he couldn't think why.

  “Concentration camp. The Holocaust,” Erik said. “Bad news for someone like Dusty.”

  Zar didn't have to think twice. He could have argued that this was no longer any of his business, but he would have been lying. Dusty had made it his business to save them, no matter the cost—and he wouldn't have been this bad if he hadn't nearly killed himself with the effort. Dusty wanted to go alone, to be self-sufficient, but this wasn't the time. His weakness, the continued headaches, the dependency would undermine his efforts, and another bout of retro could kill him. He was crazy if he expected his friends to stand by and let it happen.

  “When did he leave?”

  “Almost three hours ago.”

  Shit! Zar glanced at his watch. “I'll meet you at the airport,” he said.

  Chapter Twelve

  It was the combination of things that finally got to her. Her suspicions, the way Smythe was paid for callously dictating their lives, even the guards whom she always sensed in the background.

  Guards who were also paid for keeping track of her foolish mistakes; for breaking her free of her paralysis and dragging her off to recover. Guards who were nameless and faceless—who didn't want to know her.

  So damn degrading.

  She'd never been so angry in her life.

  The realisation that she'd been at least partly right, about Symbio's experiments, had initially horrified her—now, it merely added to her anger. For Erik's pseudo-freedom, she could feel only pity, because she had no doubt that he was watched every bit as zealously as she was. That made his “freedom” a farce. Dusty was struggling with it now, but if he achieved any independence, it would probably be a farce, too. It hurt her in a way she couldn't describe to see his pride diminished that way.

  Her anger seldom went beyond annoyance. Even in Mexico, when Josh had driven her to distraction, she hadn't been truly furious.

  Not like now. Not with a coldly dispassionate ire that cleared her head and eliminated her fear.

  At the moment, she didn't fear Symtech, or its “partner".

  And she wondered if that wasn't just a little foolish.

  Something in her had changed, and the anger had triggered it. Ren had to admit it shocked her a little, but whatever it was, it kept her from thinking too deeply about the consequences. She had to act before Smythe's “friends” could get here, to take her in charge.

  Ren changed into running shoes, and filled her rucksack with a few of the items she treasured most: some photos, a figurine Dusty had given her, some of her research notes. The photos almost took her down, but she fought it; grasping that chilling dispassion and hanging on.

  She didn't let herself think as she went into the kitchen and poured oil into a frying pan. Nor did she consider any consequences but one when she turned the burner up to “high". Instead, she went back to the bedroom and waited, poised,
at the window.

  When the smoke alarm screamed, and kept on screaming, there was a giant crash as someone kicked in her barricaded front door. Another explosion of glass as someone else came in through a window.

  Alarms down. Any burglar alarms would have already been triggered. Ren hesitated only a second, to place them all. Someone was yelling, "Is it out?!"

  She touched her foot to the damp grass outside, then slid the rest of the way out the window.

  Freedom.

  Is the fire out? No?

  But I am.

  * * * *

  Jamie's meeting took half an hour longer than he'd thought, but his driving helped make up for it. When he got to her house, Merrie brought him a beer, but then wouldn't let him drink it.

  “Merrie,” he complained. “I'm not gonna get drunk on one brew.”

  “I need your mind clear.” She stood there waiting.

  “What now?”

  “Is it clear?” she asked impatiently.

  “What?” he squawked.

  “Honestly, Jamie! Sometimes you can be so thick! Is your mind clear?”

  He shut his eyes, gritted his teeth, then said darkly, “Yes!”

  “Look at this picture, and tell me who it reminds you of.”

  “It's—” Jamie stared at it, and his eyes widened.

  Merrie saw gooseflesh lift on his arms. Good, she thought. He's getting it.

  “—Erik,” he whispered. “Does he know?”

  Merrie stood up, and crossed her arms across her front. Her eyes had filled again, and James didn't even try to coax her out of it. Truth was, he felt like crying himself.

  “It would kill him. All the time he was growing up, there was only his mom. He used to talk about her, remember?”

  Jamie's eyes were wet. “Damn the bastard! How could he do it, to his own kid?”

  “Maybe she was going to lose him. Maybe he thought he was doing the right thing—”

  “He couldn't have been certain she'd miscarry! None of our parents were. Somebody talked them into it! Told them it was the only way to go.”