Vision

by N. D. Hansen-Hill

  Most suicides had a hard time stabbing themselves multiple times in the back, then flopping sideways, still bleeding, into a cryogenic coffin. Ren's brain felt nearly as frozen as Drew Garris’ corpse.

  Her eyes lifted to the other “coffins"—the eight coffin-sized cryogenic storage units. Systematically, Garris checked every one. Empty.

  Who were they for? Ren was suddenly terrified, and she wondered whether she'd let down the barriers enough to read Drewsome's mind.

  He was supposed to come to his freezing intact—to be resurrected in a time when age didn't matter. When his mind or his essence could be given some kind of renewal.

  But he'd planned on being “buried” with his creations: his children by contrivance, if not by blood. Only one of them was truly able to lay claim to kinship—poor Erik, who would rather have been anything but.

  If Garris had had his way, none of them would have survived this long. They would have disappeared when he had—only someone had disappeared Drewsome prematurely.

  Ren was terrified. This operation was being maintained by someone, and the “coffins” were still waiting.

  So was the corpse of Drew Garris. Waiting—for company.

  Ren didn't know what bothered her the most: the man's violent death, the fact that her coffin stood there in frozen glory, or the fact that there were eight.

  There were seven of them in the Cluster: retrocognition, PK, bio-PK, clairvoyance, mediumship, telepathy, and Valterzar, the “control".

  The only thing lacking was precognition. They'd joked about it sometimes: “if I'd known that was gonna happen, I wouldn't have opened my eyes...”

  Precognition would have put an end to a lot of experimentation. Would have ended some of their more hazardous escapades before they'd ever begun. Because if there was one thing they'd always done, it was stick up for each other. So, someone had kept Precognition, much as they had the Control, away from the Cluster.

  * * * *

  “The last time I saw you this excited was when you painted Derovan's car.” Derovan had been Smythe's predecessor.

  James looked at Josh and grinned. “I don't know what you're talking about. That car was outside the compound.”

  “Yeah,” Josh agreed. “Must have been some rotten vandal.”

  “Ready?” James asked. He didn't get opportunities like this very often. He was always watching himself, holding “It” in check. The problem was, his psychokinesis was as much a part of his emotional responses as laughter or tears. He'd never told any of them, but sometimes, when the frustration would build to the point where he needed release, he'd go out to the desert and toss rocks. He'd fling ‘em as far as he could—often two or three at a time. He wondered if that was why his out-of-control episodes tended to take the form of rockfalls. Pent-up frustration seeking release.

  He shot it like one of those rocks now. He was a little shocked himself when the engine on the dark blue sedan exploded in a blast of flame. The people in the car bailed out, and Jamie squinted, then held up a hand. In a moment, keys, business cards, identification, handkerchiefs, and money were sailing through the air.

  Only, things didn't stop there. James, himself, was aghast when the ACS man's jacket was ripped off his back. His pants went next, but they caught, snagged inside-out on his shoes. It didn't stop the pants from travelling, though. In horror, James watched the ACS man get dragged across the street—his bare rear end bumping and scraping on the ground.

  At the same time, Jamie's own vehicle had become an object magnet. It was being pelted by all the purloined pocketry, socks, shoes, ties, combs, and any other rubbish that happened to be lying around on the road.

  "The station wagon!" Josh yelled, trying to divert James’ attention. It seemed the more the bare-butted man howled, the more attention Jamie sent that way.

  We're in the shit now, Josh thought.

  Merrie awoke in the middle of it all, when Josh's yell broke in on her sleep. She thought at first it was a nightmare, and it took her a moment to realise it was just Jamie.

  James, for his part, didn't know what to do. The more tense he became, the worse things got. He tried to focus on the other car—the hood sprung itself, then so did the doors. But before he could stop it, the scene was turning into Mexico all over again. The station wagon was dismantling itself before his eyes: paint peeling, seats popping out and tumbling onto the ground, the glass exploding window by window.

  Merrie was yelping now and ducking as the disassembled parts joined all the other bits that were being flung their way. Both cars’ occupants were almost totally nude now—as stripped as the cars they'd left.

  In the midst of it all, the phone rang in the front seat. Josh grabbed it.

  "Zar!" he howled. "We've got exploding cars and naked people!"

  The three of them ducked as a driveline shot through the front window.

  "And broken glass!”

  In response to Zar's question, Josh shot up his head and sought an address. "22 Monk Street!" He dove onto the floor, and told Jamie, “Zar says to pop some of Merrie's painkillers!”

  Merrie heard it, and shook out three. As Josh ducked a low-flying hubcap that came through the broken windscreen, she shoved the pills into James’ mouth.

  James, for his part, was so desperate he didn't ask questions. He chewed like a madman while Merrie shouted encouraging words to him, rather like a mixed-up cheerleader. Josh, meanwhile, reached between the seats, and grabbed the pill bottle Merrie had dropped. Hands shaking, he shook out two, then, on second thought, when a particularly loud bucket seat hit the top, one more. Jamie tried to argue when Josh stuffed them in his mouth with an ordered "Open up!", but just then, a car door slammed the side of their car, and James gulped the bitter stuff down.

  It was a full seven minutes before the deluge slowed, and another three before it stopped altogether. By this time, James was laughing every time something else panged against the metal. “'s great!” he said happily.

  “Doesn't take much to get him ‘happy', does it?” Josh remarked. “James, don't do that!”

  Jamie was starting up the car—revving the engine with giddy enthusiasm.

  "No!" Josh and Merrie yelled together.

  If they'd said “Go!” it couldn't have been more effective. James jammed on the accelerator, as the wheels spun with a squealing of rubber. He wove back and forth, up and down off the curb, for nearly two blocks, before driving directly into a wall.

  “Is this it?” he asked Josh giddily. Then, still smiling foolishly, he flopped facedown onto the steering wheel.

  * * * *

  It's all going according to plan...

  It suddenly clicked into place. She'd already guessed that this glass and metal enclosure, in its cold concrete edifice, was their mausoleum. Now, she'd figured out the rest of it: this was a trap, and Garris had lured them in, by using her as bait.

  He'd been buried here, but he was taking no chances. They'd drawn him away from whatever hell had housed his spirit in the afterlife; recycled his existence into a duality that would once again deposit him close to his own mangled corpse. Did he really believe this “second chance” would save him? That a momentary respite would save him from his fitting end? From damnation?

  The answer came to Ren in a chill that made her feel as though her thoughts were already cryogenically immobilised.

  Not a mausoleum. A cave, for hibernation. Death wouldn't suit Garris at all. He wanted to remain encased in her body, until his own could be resurrected. So he could find his way back...

  Whatever his original plan—whether to hold them hostage, subject to his own reanimation, or maintain their corpses in cryogenic bondage—it had been altered by his own unexpected demise. So he'd found a way to beat even that. After his brief sojourn in the afterlife, he was probably quite desperate to beat it.

  But he must have made his decision about this storage facility years before. Perhaps, when he'd discovered how overblown their reactions were, and how Symtech reg
arded their care as an obligatory duty for a failed experiment. Garris had never been able to accept failure, and would have seen it as Symtech's blindness, rather than his own. He would have wanted to preserve his experiment, until a time when it could be appreciated—or improved upon. Hence, the eggs and sperm, the embryos and ovaries. At the current rate of technological advancement, and the characterisation of the human genome, it wouldn't have been long. Garris would have been able to select those traits he considered most successful in his originals, and moved on to greater things.

  And, with the way he'd already manipulated their gene pools, he would have considered his own demise the greatest failure of all. So he was using his ace in the death game—Merrie—to overcome this final failure.

  Once, he may have planned to bring them here, to place them in stasis, but someone had interfered, and killed him first. Who?

  Did it matter? Dusty had killed someone, in order to save them. She was able to accept that. Why was this any different?

  Because Dusty admitted it. Felt remorse about it.

  Whoever had killed Garris had hacked and slashed at him. Repeatedly. Jabbed and gashed and stabbed him in the back. Then tossed him into a coffin, and let him leak the remainder of his life away.

  A break-in? Someone wanting to steal his equipment, or his research?

  They would have stabbed him once, or twice. Not over and over again.

  Was it one of the Cluster? Could one of them do such a thing, and then go on as normal? She supposed Zar could tell her about conditions like that, where multiple personalities took over. At one time she may have scoffed, but given her present circumstances, multiple personalities seemed a whole lot more rational than they had before.

  It hurt too much to think it could be one of them. She loved them—they were family.

  Could it be one of their family members? Someone who'd discovered how she'd been betrayed by Symtech? By dear Dr. Garris?

  The one she kept avoiding, but that bothered her the most, was Coffin Number Eight. The one she was assuming was an eighth member of the Cluster. The one who'd remained unidentified all these years.

  Someone who might recognise Drew Garris’ plans better than most, and strive to put a stop to them. After all, Dusty had interfered with a past event—why wouldn't Precognition be able to alter a future one?

  Precognition might have as much, or more, reason to hate Drew Garris. To hate him for the past, the present—and the future.

  Ren shivered, and her body gave a reluctant twitch. She wished she could control her eyes.

  She was feeling an almost desperate urge right now to watch her back.

  * * * *

  Marc Jekkes was frowning as he entered Smythe's office. “Wingot, Wickham, and Feiderman have been located. Magnus is still missing.”

  “So they're nearly all accounted for.” Smythe sounded relieved. There was more at stake here than Jekkes knew. The “agency” Symbio—and by extension, Symtech—had formed an alliance with was the ISO—Investigative Security and Operations. They, in turn, were now roughly affiliated with the Anomalous Cognition Sector (ACS).

  ACS was another government agency, that had been exploring psi theory and the use of psychic phenomena in intelligence work for nearly twenty years. Some of their research was a matter of public record, and deliberately dull reading. They'd had some small successes in clairvoyant and telepathic surveillance techniques, and formed some interesting mathematical proofs of psi-machine interactions, but nothing remotely like the display Symtech's protégés had put on in the desert. ACS was now pressuring the ISO to assume “guardianship” of the Cluster Project. Smythe hadn't told Jekkes yet, but as a sign of good faith, and without the blessing of the Board, he'd given the ISO the names and addresses of two other Clusters. Neither showed much promise, but then, none of the other Clusters had the “talent” exhibited by Valterzar's group.

  Smythe considered his action good business. The only way he'd retain any kind of control, and his department retain adequate funding, was if the Project remained on Symtech's books. By sharing information, he'd managed to forge a tighter alliance with the ISO and, by extension, the ACS.

  Coercion would have only gone so far, before Valterzar and his people revolted. Part of the problem lay in their naïveté regarding their arrangement with Symtech. All but Valterzar had been “nurtured” by Symtech, both at school, and later, with protection, from a young age. They had seen Symtech in the role of avuncular guardian until recently. It was part of their lives; had always been part of their lives. Only in the last few months had any doubts arisen about the legitimacy of Symtech's claim on their time, on their movements. Because now, suddenly, Symtech was beginning to demand some favours back.

  The Cluster would have had to perform like a bunch of trained seals in order to prove their value to the Board, and this would have posed some unacceptable risks. Not only was there a degree of hazard in linking Symtech into activity of questionable legality, but Smythe was finally beginning to see what all the other Board members save for Hanover were pointing out: the lack of control, the overblown reactions, the extent of psychic activity could easily overwhelm any safeguards. Public reaction would not be positive. There was too much impropriety in reading someone's thoughts, or viewing someone's possessions through locked doors. Too much fear in raising people from the dead or raining rocks down on their heads. Too much guilt in having someone see your past, or possess insight into, and control over, the activities of the others. Only Erik possessed an “acceptable” talent, and even that had its down side. A healer who could “unheal” or magnify an injury was questionable material to rely on. One error brought to the public eye and the prima donna would be in as bad a fix as any of the others.

  It was actually Ren who had made him realise the inevitability of relinquishing at least partial control. When she'd confronted him in his office, and picked his password out of the air, he'd felt threatened. She hadn't intended it that way, and in the end, he'd been the one who had frightened her into hiding, but he'd finally seen past his long familiarity with the Cluster into viewing them as others might.

  But he still wasn't willing to relinquish total control. There would have to be a certain give-and-take of information, and he'd known at once that Ren Magnus would be a perfect tool for the ISO in terms of information-gathering. Her quick perception and subsequent confusion had shown how vulnerable she remained, despite her scientific training and logical mind. Smythe knew he was just fortunate that the ISO had come into the foreground by the time Ren had disappeared completely from sight. They'd been part of the surveillance teams when the other three—Josh, James, and Meredith—had vanished, too. It suddenly made Charles Smythe more valuable. After all, he'd been in charge of these people for ten years, and the only time they'd dropped out of sight before had been for a brief time in Mexico, when they were right under the noses of the ISO.

  Never on their home turf.

  Drew Garris had monitored the development of this Cluster personally. The psi activity was so superior to any of the other Clusters, that Smythe had often wondered if there wasn't something more to this “experimental model” than Garris had let on. Something in the genetic mix, perhaps, that extended this group far beyond what had become a Cluster “norm". The norm for the other groups was such that Smythe felt no qualms about sharing information. If anything, the psychics in the other group would probably be glad to have some validation. Their “gifts” were inadequate enough to require it.

  Valterzar's group, on the other hand, sometimes needed validation that they were still human.

  Chapter Eighteen

  It seemed to take forever for Zar, Dusty, and Erik to get there.

  Josh hadn't said anything to Merrie, but he was getting a little worried about James. Hell, he wasn't even doing any of that annoying dreaming. Josh began to wonder whether he'd clunked himself a shade too hard on the steering wheel when they'd clobbered the wall.

  "You found us!" Merrie said e
nthusiastically, a few minutes later.

  Josh gave a big “Whew!” of relief, then shimmied out the passenger window.

  Valterzar was gazing, somewhat pointedly, at the trail of wreckage behind them on the street. “Let's just say, it wasn't hard,” he said drily. He gave Merrie a big smile, then reached through the window and took James’ pulse. It was really sluggish. “How many did you give him?” he asked worriedly.

  “Three,” both Josh and Merrie replied.

  Josh looked at Merrie, his shock reflected in her eyes. “Caught up in the excitement of the moment,” he admitted, a little embarrassedly. “It looks like it was three each."

  Erik snorted in disbelief, and Dusty turned away to hide his smile.

  Zar shook his head, but his eyes were amused. “I suggested a way to cure him—not kill him. Erik, it's either you or a stomach pump.”

  Erik nudged Josh aside. “I'm everybody's tool,” he sighed dramatically, but he was grinning. “Nice to be classed with such an attractive piece of equipment.”

  “Next time, we'll know better—” Josh began.

  “Yeah,” Dusty interrupted. “We'll wait until someone needs an enema.”

  * * * *

  Marc Jekkes hadn't come into Charles Smythe's office to make his day. He'd come in to explain that they'd traded missing persons: three for three. “Wingot, Wickham and Feiderman may be accounted for, but now Valterzar, Mallory, and Dainler are missing.”

  “We'll find them,” Smythe said. He was feeling more confident now that the original lost trio had been located.

  All of them sighted except Ren Magnus. But, keep tabs on the Cluster and they'll locate her, soon enough.

  The phone rang and Jekkes picked it up. “This is Jekkes.” He listened for a moment, then said, “I'll put him on.” He pushed the Hold button, and told Smythe, “They've lost them all. Wickham attacked their surveillance teams—stripped them.” His lips twitched.