Vision

by N. D. Hansen-Hill

  “I don't think she was playing any ‘trick',” Merrie argued.

  “No,” James said impatiently. “It's more like leaving yourself open to have a spirit work through you. Saints do that kind of thing all the time.”

  Josh scoffed, “We know you're not speaking from experience...”

  James ignored him. “The thing is, the time of exorcism is a really dangerous one for a medium. That's you, Mer. You'd stand in real danger of—”

  “—having Dr. Drewsome jump you, and bounce your bones,” Josh interrupted. "What?" he said to James, with mock innocence. “Just putting it in terms she can understand.”

  “It means you can't be there, Merrie. He might move into your body instead.” James sighed. “Damned dead guy gets more action than I do.”

  * * * *

  It had been nearly fourteen hours, and Ren knew that if it kept up much longer, she'd go out of her mind.

  Because He'd be in it.

  All of her life she'd been stuck with other people's thoughts. They'd intruded on her own so much that she'd always made blunders, either by excessive familiarity to strangers she'd sensed she already knew, accidental blurting of words or phrases, or anticipating what someone was going to say before they'd said it. She remembered, as a kid, laughing at jokes before they were uttered. Not exactly the thing to guarantee close friendships.

  And then she'd met her Dusty and the others, her closest friends, and it hadn't mattered any more. They were every bit as strange as she was, and she'd sensed each of their heartaches as soon as they'd met. She'd belonged.

  Now, she didn't even feel as though she belonged to her own body.

  She was fighting to keep the barriers up, so Garris couldn't intrude on her thoughts. The only thing forcing Garris and her telepathy apart was her own willpower. But, willpower alone had never done it for her. The only time she'd truly been able to block anything could be counted on one finger: a couple of days ago, when she'd gotten mad. Now, anger might help, but it was, at best, a temporary solution. And the energy expenditure to block Garris was robbing her of any reserve, in order to block out anyone else. Her brain was beginning to feel like a circuit board in danger of being dangerously overloaded with current. If she burned out, Garris would waltz right in.

  The only thing that gave her optimism was her recognition of Drewsome's uncertainty, which meant he had some doubts about retaining control. He was rushing now, as though he knew how much time he'd wasted in tasting, and smelling, and eating again; as though he needed to act upon some plan before it was too late.

  They were going somewhere uptown, and she had no idea where. She questioned whether Garris knew himself, or if he was merely on the run. If so, he was running into an area filled with office buildings, small warehouses, and mini business complexes. Stupid, really. So few people on foot. And no people at all dressed in yesterday's clothes with unbrushed hair.

  She also wondered whether he recognised as clearly from the physical cues (as she did from the metaphysical ones), that he-she-they were being followed.

  * * * *

  “If you think Ren did a ‘Shaman'-type trick, then we should use Shaman rites to undo it,” Josh stated.

  “I agree,” Merrie said. “We'll need pork, or maybe an entire pig, and some wine and fruit. Since I can't be there, I'll supply cymbal and drum music in the background, and the two of you can chant and trance-dance. Shouldn't take more than a few days.”

  Josh stared at her. He'd forgotten Merrie's degrees in philosophy and comparative religions. “Sarcasm does not become you. However, I know where we can find a pig...”

  “You'd better learn to like Angel, Josh,” Merrie warned. “She's Zar's.” She grinned. “That makes her my child by relationship.”

  “By gilt. Get it?” Josh asked.

  They both looked at him blankly.

  “A gilt's a young virgin sow,” he explained.

  “I don't even wanta know how you know that, Josh. Obviously, you're more fond of pigs than any of us thought,” James said. “If you're so smart, Mer, why'd you let me waffle on like that? And why didn't you do the research?”

  “I was too busy bleeding for the latter,” Merrie reminded him. “My theses dealt more with protection and prevention, Jamie. Exorcism's not one of the ‘safe’ topics.” She shook her head. “I can't go there.”

  “Because you'd have to learn both sides—the ‘ins’ and the ‘outs'?”

  She nodded, and gave a small shiver. “The ‘ins’ I know far too much about already.”

  Josh was frowning. “But what do you do with all the dead guys you bring in? Can't we just handle this the same way, only better?”

  “I don't do it on purpose, Josh,” she said, almost defensively. “It happens, and sometimes even I have trouble telling the difference.”

  She's doing it again. “Difference between what?” James asked, confused.

  “Between the living and the dead,” she said, in a tone that suggested it should have been obvious. “Most of the time they fade out eventually, or wander away, and it may not even be my fault they're there, if you know what I mean.”

  James wasn't sure he did, but he nodded.

  Merrie continued. “They may just be stopping by for a visit. I don't get to be selective, either. It's not like I get to pick and choose who comes.”

  Josh shuddered, but didn't say anything.

  “Then there are the times when I give them more ‘substance', like this one.” She sighed. “Probably because I did pick him, I may have overdone it.”

  “Ya think?” James muttered. He caught Josh's eye.

  “Last time I had a problem, Zar helped. I wish he were here.” Her eyes were troubled.

  She's really afraid we can't handle this, James realised. The thought frightened him—a lot.

  But, Josh was watching her face. “What'd you do before Zar, Mer?” He remembered times, years before, when she'd be crying, for no apparent reason. It didn't go with her ebullient personality, but he'd put it down to moods. Now, he wondered.

  “Lived with it,” she admitted. Her eyes were haunted, and there was no trace of the effervescent scatterbrain in them now. “It's not that bad or that different from the others—except when they're sadists. Sometimes, if I'm lucky, my other ‘visitors’ will help chase them away. But when they can't...” She shrugged, swallowed hard, then whispered, “The last one, that Zar vanquished?” There was a catch in her voice, and she wiped her eyes. “H-He was a rapist.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Garris walked up a driveway, and halted before a big, chain-link gate. The gate, like the rest of the fenced area, was covered with whiteclad galvanised sheets, and topped with barbed wire. There were piles of old leaves, papers, plastic bags, and dirt caught under the edge of the gate, and built up against the wheels.

  It hasn't been opened for a while, Ren realised. Maybe a year.

  Whatever this place was, it certainly gave Dr. Drewsome a thrill. She could hear him panting slightly, and the fingers that punched the keypad lock were shaking.

  5631. Ren memorised the number.

  The gate screeched, and Garris had to struggle to roll it back past the dirt and the trash. He forced it back only enough to slip through; tugging it closed behind him. Then he turned, and moved decisively toward the guard shack. Ren's eyes followed Garris’ movement of her fingers along the wooden frame, just over the guard shack door.

  Searching for a key...

  Inside the guard's room, Garris wiped dust distastefully off the keyboard and monitor, then proceeded to boot up the machine.

  Imagine, a man who farts in public, Ren thought in disgust, yet is fastidious about dust and boogers.

  It surprised her a little that the power was still on. His familiarity with the place suggested a long association with the contents, but it was also obvious the gate had been locked nearly as long as Garris had been dead.

  Garris was pulling up some kind of access code now. Ren suddenly realised it was a �
�key” of another kind—like someone beeping his car's security system. Garris had just unlocked the security grid in one of the buildings.

  Ren saw her lips smiling in the reflection from the monitor. Garris appeared so pleased at the way things were going, that it gave her a terrible feeling of disquiet. It didn't get any better when he walked across the concrete to a door leading into a big, two-storey building. Here, he pulled a door key out from behind a drain pipe and fitted it into the lock.

  Ren had a sudden urge to stop him. For all her previous interest in his research, there was something here that terrified her.

  I don't want to know!

  It must have transmitted itself through Garris’ defences, because the hand with the key suddenly jerked and dodged the keyhole. Garris narrowed his eyes in anger, then used his other hand to force the key into place.

  The door opened with a groan, and an efflux of musty air.

  * * * *

  “I could kill the guy who did that to her,” Josh whispered to James later. His face was set and angry.

  The car was getting hot, and it was a long time since breakfast. Hell, he thought, glancing at his watch, it was even a long time since lunch.

  James nodded. “If he wasn't already dead. Same here. He would have been in ectoplasmic pieces if I'd been there.”

  He glanced over the seat at Merrie, to make sure she was still asleep. The painkillers had kicked in with a vengeance, for which James was glad. He had a feeling Merrie would have a hard time staying out of the action when it came.

  “Are we still close?” he asked Josh. It had been stop-start, stop-start for hours. They didn't want to overrun their quarry, nor did they want Garris to suspect how close they were.

  Of course, if he's using Ren's telepathy, he'll know anyway.

  “We've been close for hours, James,” Josh said grumpily. “I'll probably have permanent key dents on my palm.”

  “To make a lavender-rose tattoo. Yeah, yeah, yeah.”

  Josh had wanted to pick up Ren this morning, but James had vetoed the idea. As tempting as it was to tear in there like a hit squad, bag Ren-Drewsome up and haul them away, it wouldn't have been very discreet. And after their discussion with Merrie, James really wanted to wait for Valterzar. If their exorcism got out of hand, Zar might be able to stop it before anybody got hurt.

  What bothered James most was Drewsome's apparent lack of concern. If anyone knew their capabilities—and flaws—it was Drew Garris. Oh, he'd picked up speed, all right, but he wasn't trying to hide. That meant he didn't think he needed to. Cocky bastard.

  Josh was thinking along those same lines. “I wonder where he's going,” he mused. “He's not exactly being evasive, is he?” He considered it for a moment. “It must mean Ren's been able to block him, like we thought. Ol’ Drewsome doesn't even know we're here,” he said confidently. “When do yo—” He stopped mid-word.

  Jamie glanced at him. “Do I sense an ‘uh-oh’ coming on?”

  “Pull over.”

  James didn't question it. He pulled over and parked.

  “That car,” Josh hissed, “and that one.” One was a dark blue sedan, and the other an ugly green station wagon.

  “Very attractive, I'm sure. Is there a point to this?”

  “They have guns—two types. I think one's a dart pistol.”

  James was frowning. “Thieves? A gang?”

  “No.” Josh had his eyes closed. When they popped open again, he looked slightly shocked. “Two people in the blue car have Symtech business cards. The other one belongs to Investigative Security and Operations—the ISO. Then there's a guy with ACS.”

  James had whitened. “The Anomalous Cognition Sector.”

  “Yeah. Same with the green car. Different ratio, same type of ID.” His eyes were frightened. “Ren's been spotted.”

  “Or we have.” James checked the rearview mirror.

  “If we haven't, it's only a matter of time. I think one of the ACS guys may be a telepath.”

  James didn't ask him how he knew. He just nodded. “We need more freedom.”

  Josh looked at him, then slowly smiled. “They're about to have engine trouble.”

  “Oh, yeah,” James said. “Maybe even an engine fire, if I can swing it.” He was getting enthusiastic. “A couple of engine fires.”

  “Damned if you're not dangerous when we let you out of your box,” Josh remarked. “Jimmy Boy,” he added thoughtfully, “do you think, in all the confusion, a couple of ‘em could accidentally lose their IDs?”

  James’ eyes glinted. “Stranger things have happened,” he said.

  * * * *

  Garris flicked the light switches with a practised hand—even though it wasn't his own. The first impression Ren had was of glare—the bright reflection off glass and metal. The entry was delineated from the other rooms by a wall of glass block. They passed through a decorative door, then a heavy fire door, and finally into the rooms beyond.

  More lights. More glass and metal. And the kind of lab that she could only dream of having.

  When Ren had talked “backup research” she'd been thinking a few hard copies, slotted into someone's file cabinet; maybe the odd CD or ten. Nothing like this. Garris had been running backup research all right, but it was on a scale Ren had never suspected. She doubted whether Symtech had, either.

  Everything was still on, and humming—from refrigerators to ultra high-speed refrigerated centrifuges. From what Ren could glimpse, his lab had everything: RAPD, chromatography, confocal microscope, ELISA ... everything. Most scientists didn't have their own scanning electron microscope.

  Garris did.

  He was passing the incubators and refrigerators now—about to check his collection. She heard herself sigh as he glanced at the incubators. Whatever had been growing in there was long gone. She could see the tension in her own hands as he pulled open the fridges. She tried to catch the names on Petri dishes, slants, and stoppered test tubes, on trays of Eppendorf tubes and jars.

  Lycogala epidendrum, Dictydium cancellatum, Physarum polycephalum, Diachea leucopodia. Slime moulds.

  No! It had only been a bit of lateral thinking. Some similarity based on what? Some thought patterns, that she wasn't supposed to understand? Something she was expected to discount, deny or ignore?

  Her brain was still tallying the other names: Escherichia coli, a common bacteria found in human digestive systems, but which could sometimes cause illness and death; Brucella sp., the infective agent for Brucellosis; Batrochochytrium dendrobatidis, the fungal cause of Chytridiomycos—a skin disease that was killing amphibians around the world; Pleospora papaveracea, a biowarfare answer to opium addiction; Fusarium oxysporum, the fungus being used to take out coca and cannabis crops—and some South Americans with it; and Crinipellis perniciosa, a blight destroying the world's cacao plants. There was also a liquid nitrogen cold storage area, with a tidy list of labels: variants of Plasmodium vivax and falciparum. Malaria. It was like visiting a mixed-up communicable disease lab, except you couldn't figure out who, or what, the victim was supposed to be.

  Why hadn't the lab been dismantled, the cultures disposed of, the place sold? They'd attempted to sell his house—why not this lab? The refrigeration costs alone would have amounted to a tidy sum, over the last year. Ren knew how substandard her lab looked compared to this one; how equipment-poor. It was criminal to have all this stuff sitting around unused. What had been state-of-the-art could rapidly become passé.

  How had Garris known it would all still be here, waiting for him?

  Maybe he'd set up a trust, or some kind of business, to maintain it. It looked as though a lot of his contracts must have been government research, which should have dealt with this stuff immediately after Garris’ death. Leaving these kinds of cultures, and whatever documentation there was to back up his research, was both incriminating and stupid. Did Dr. Drewsome think he was above recrimination?

  Maybe. Death puts you out of the reach of most inquiries. Unless y
ou had friends like Merrie...

  It was that last thought which frightened Ren the most—more than the cultures sitting within their refrigerated test tubes, more than the fact that her body was still acting independent of her mind. It was the horrible suspicion that this was all planned somehow. That Drew Garris, who had tested the limits of the “Cluster's” abilities many times in his Symtech lab, had other plans for those abilities in this one.

  Garris wasn't finished with his tour—yet. They went into another room, where Ren's eyes did a hasty search for labels on a shocking array of refrigerators and cryogenic containers. There was a reminder next to the thermostat: "Maintain tissues at -4 C".

  Plant tissue? Animal tissue?

  Her question was answered in the next moment, as Garris opened up the largest freezer. A billowing of frosty air swirled into the room as Ren peered down at the bagged specimens. She read the label in disbelief: "Ovaries—S. Dainler".

  Oh, shit! Ren panicked. She didn't want to look, but she didn't have a choice. Her vision, like everything else, it seemed, was still under his control. She was forced to watch, as he went from freezers to liquid nitrogen tanks.

  There were ovaries, from each of their mothers. Women who, at one time or another, had been convinced they needed an ovariectomy. Not only ovaries—eggs, and samples of sperm in cryogenic suspension.

  But that wasn't all. There were fertilised eggs, too—embryos. Ren remembered reading that even though human egg suspension was relatively recent (the last quarter century or so), livestock egg and embryo preservation had been going on for years beforehand.

  They were going toward the last of the containment vessels now, and these were much larger. Of a frightening size—almost like coffins.

  Garris was nervous again. The fingers fumbled at the heavy latches; the digits that wiped the cloud from the gauge were fumbling, uncertain.

  If the small vessels had spun vapour into the air, it was as nothing compared to this. A swirl of fog, like bellowed smoke belched forth, into the room's recycled air.

  It was a moment before Ren's vision cleared, and she could see what lay there. Now, in sudden clarity, some vibes she'd picked up, about Drew Garris’ death, came back to haunt her. The unspoken version had said he'd committed suicide, but that didn't seem likely now. Not likely at all.