Vision

by N. D. Hansen-Hill

  Smythe saw it. “The cars?”

  “Cars and people. Left them for—” Jekkes burst out laughing.

  “For dead?" Smythe asked, appalled.

  “No—for nude. Dragged one of the ACS men butt first across the paving.”

  “Oh, shit!”

  “Oh, yeah. One of the ISO people kept tabs on Wickham's group until James drove his car into a wall. Then, figuring they were momentarily grounded, she took off, to ‘better her disguise'. During the time she was gone, they disappeared.”

  Smythe looked thoughtful. “Valterzar's party had already landed?”

  Jekkes nodded.

  “Valterzar picked them up. His loyalty to them may be greater than to us right now, but he's still not about to let them toss away everything on a whim. If they're out of sight, it's because they want to track Ren Magnus undisturbed.” His eyes met Jekkes'. “Any ideas, Marc? On where Magnus may be heading?”

  Marc shook his head, his expression serious. “None. The ACS people were following her when Wickham interfered. They actually had no idea Wickham or his group were there.”

  “So it wasn't self-defence?”

  “It may have been—from Wickham's perspective. He may have thought they were after him.”

  “Or Ren. They do tend to protect their own.”

  “Can we trust Valterzar to bring them in?” Jekkes asked.

  “Ren and Dustin may insist on autonomy. It's what he's been bucking for. Now, he'll want it for her, too.”

  “Pretty soon they'll all want it.” Jekkes’ voice was flat.

  “That's the problem, isn't it?”

  “Yes.” Jekkes stared out the window, obviously lost in thought. “It looks like things are finally coming to a head.” He glanced at Smythe. “What you tend to forget is that they're people, Charles. Valterzar was right. They're entitled to certain personal liberties.”

  “Left to handle their own messes?”

  “If necessary. Might not be such mess if they helped each other. Look at Mexico.”

  Smythe looked at him strangely. “What about it? It was a screw-up by anyone's standards.”

  “Not mine.” Jekkes’ eyes were amused. “I guess we all have different definitions of success.” His smile faded as he turned and left the room.

  * * * *

  It was a little crowded in the car, but nobody complained. Dusty was so tense he was grinding his teeth; James was still yawning repeatedly, with little squeaks and crackles that made Josh want to grind his teeth, too; Merrie was enjoying being squished against Zar, who was whispering stuff to her that Erik, on the other side of her, was trying to ignore. Erik, for his part, alternated between relief that everyone seemed okay with his heritage, and concern that he wasn't picking up the negative vibes from them because he wasn't sensitive enough.

  “Josh?” Zar asked quietly.

  Josh was still clinging to the lipstick-coated key. “She's inside now, so I'm just getting some kind of cold room.”

  “Cold room?”

  “Yeah. It has these capsules or pods. I think they must be cryogenic containers.”

  “To preserve specimens?”

  “More like bodies.”

  “How chilling,” Merrie remarked.

  “Shut up, Mer. It's not funny.” Josh went back to focussing on the room. “There're a bunch of freezers, too. Ren looks really stunned.”

  “What's she doing?” Dusty asked.

  “Looking into one of the capsule things. There's all this vapour swirling in the air.”

  “Any other people around?” Zar asked him.

  “Not that I can see—” Josh froze, mouth open.

  “What is it?!” Dusty gripped his arm.

  “A-A body!” Josh squeaked.

  “A what?" Dusty asked harshly.

  Even James was awake now, and he found Josh's shocked silence irritating. “Other times you can't shut up! What is it?"

  “A f-frozen body. In the capsule. It-t's bloody, a-and dead.” Josh sounded stunned.

  “Just don't ask me for help with that one,” Erik muttered.

  Zar's lips twitched. “Are we close, Josh?”

  "There!" Josh pointed, and Zar did a quick, squealing-tyred turn.

  James flopped over onto Josh's lap. “Sorry, Darling,” he said.

  Dusty was out of the car first. He went to the lock, and closed his eyes. He tried to focus, to visualise Ren punching in the numbers, but he was too panicked.

  Then, James was at his side—a little wobbly, but there. “I've got it, Dusty.” He held up a hand to the lock, and it clicked. “Had to force it a little.”

  “At least you didn't make the gate go sailing off its hinges,” Josh said. “Let's be thankful for small favours.” He pointed to the biggest building. “She's in there.”

  “If I were you, Dusty, I'd hold off on the hello kiss with Dr. Drewsome,” Josh said lightly, to remind him what they were up against.

  “Yeah,” said James. “These May-December relationships never really work out.” He took the key out of his pocket and handed it to Zar, who inserted it in the lock.

  “Ready?” Zar asked. “Josh, if Merrie gets anywhere near that gate, I want you to physically restrain her, if necessary.”

  Josh sighed dramatically, but his lips quirked in a smile. “Restrain her first, if I have to.”

  “Erik?” Erik was looking pretty pasty, and Valterzar recalled it was his first encounter with Garris since he'd discovered who he was. “You up for this?”

  “Have to be,” Erik replied.

  James put a hand on his shoulder. “At least your father was good-looking. Josh's looks a lot like the dinosaurs he digs up, and Dusty's? Let's just say fungus is an improvement.” He whispered, “No matter what they say, all things are not relative.”

  Erik flashed him a humourless smile. “Let's hope so. I'd rather be related to fungus.” He nodded to Zar, then followed them slowly into the building.

  * * * *

  They were coming, and Ren fought to control her panic. If Garris were to guess, from a nervous twitch, or uncontrolled movements of feet that were itching to run, he might take action.

  What? Some type of chemical inducement? To rob them of willpower? Of the ability to argue? So each of them would trot over blithely to a metal coffin and climb right in?

  Unlikely. They were more than ordinarily astute, and even Garris, with his enormous ego, must realise how little they actually trusted him. More than likely, when he'd first planned this, it had been in the guise of something as routine as a medical check, or the premise of running some other cognition tests. Unless he'd personally planned on lugging limp bodies around the premises, he'd have some means of threat or coercion at hand.

  Or help.

  Ren suddenly knew she was right. It was what he'd arranged, nearly a year ago. Only his “help” had foreseen the element of risk, and eliminated it.

  Now, Garris must have decided he could do it on his own, using her muscles. Because he intended to carry out his plan. He went to a drawer and pulled out a gun, then made sure it was loaded. No interference this time. Dr. Drewsome was not in a forgiving mood. If “Help” showed his face this time, he'd get a bullet for his efforts.

  But did Garris really think he could coerce them with a gun? Josh would spot it from the next room, and Jamie could banish it with a thought.

  It wasn't until Garris entered a small storage closet that Ren realised the gun was mostly for show. Her mistake had been in considering only the humane options: chemical inducement, idle threats. Even the gun seemed more bluff than serious force.

  It turned out Dr. Drewsome had something entirely different in mind.

  The storage closet contained a canister, and he was checking the tubing now—making certain that during his sojourn in his makeshift grave, no one had disturbed it. Ren strained her vision to read the label: hydrogen cyanide.

  Oh, my God!

  The tubing vented gas through a wall, into another room. Josh would
never see it, and Jamie would never be able to act on it quickly enough, to forestall the damage. Garris was going to gas them, leaving them no choice: freeze or die.

  No! The time for passivity was over. She couldn't afford to wait for help, because it would never come. It would die on the way to release her.

  Ren began to fight his control, no longer concerned whether she kept the barricades up. He had to know she was going to stop him, any way she could.

  He was forced to walk in fidgety, jerking twitches and spasms, but he didn't let it deter him. His awkward, jiggly gait took him into the next room, where he checked on the two discreet vents that were set high in the wall.

  There was a smaller room attached to this one, which appeared to be an office. The glass partition was part of the trap—the suggestion of peril, performed in full view, to draw in the remainder of her Cluster. It was once he'd moved inside it that she realised it had a dual purpose. After all, this was Drew Garris.

  He wanted to watch.

  He had a gas mask stored in the desk drawer, which he took out and tried on, just to be certain it worked. The last test he did was to push a button, and stare as the metal door to the exterior room slid closed in milliseconds.

  Effectively making it a gas chamber. “At approximately one hundred eighty milligrams per cubic metre,” she heard her own voice intone, “there will be eighteen minutes from exposure to death.” Long enough to reach the cryogenic chambers before losing consciousness. Because, without Erik, there wouldn't be any hope for a cure.

  Erik had never been able to heal himself. And after exposure to the gas he'd be much too ill to heal anyone else...

  Ren dropped the last of the barriers, and let Drew Garris have it. He'd never had to endure the almost intolerable sensory barrage of other people's thoughts—their voices, penetrating his skull, interrupting his concentration—yelling, screaming, laughing, crying. Babies’ wails, that were almost impossible for the human brain to tune out; the harsh bellows of complaint and swearing voices that had sometimes made Ren jump, even in an empty room.

  Garris may have thought he was disciplined, but his self-control had nothing on hers—nor had his endurance. He couldn't think, couldn't move. He'd never been assaulted like this, and he didn't know how to block any of it out.

  Ren, on the other hand, was very much in control. Enough so that when she concentrated, her own eyes narrowed with the effort. And the hand, that reached to support the drooping gun, wavered only a little. There was another way to handle this—one which Dr. Drewsome had never anticipated, but that would eliminate his influence once and for all. Ren gripped the gun, and turned it toward herself.

  * * * *

  Ren was in trouble, and it was enough for him. He tore through the rooms in a desperate search.

  We should have left James with Merrie, he thought. Josh could have shown us the way.

  He didn't know whether Ren would be sensitive enough at this point, with Garris in control, to know he was close, but if she did, she might give it away. No good at subterfuge, was his Kitten. It would be much better if they could take Garris by surprise.

  He turned impatiently at the sound of Josh's voice. “A gun!” Josh panted. “She's got a gun!” Dusty didn't wait for any more.

  “Glad he doesn't let a little thing like that deter him,” James grumbled, as he and Zar raced along in Dusty's wake.

  “Better get back to Mer,” Erik reminded Josh. He'd already started after Dusty and the others when he heard Josh yelp again.

  "Dammit!" Josh was obviously distressed.

  Erik ran back. "What?!" He glanced around but couldn't see anything.

  "Merrie!" Josh grimaced. "They've got her! Probably used their damned psychic!”

  “Maybe she's safer that way,” Erik told him quickly. “We can get her back later—” It was Ren he wanted to get to right now.

  “Ren's only danger is to herself!” Josh dismissed it. “These are those ACS people. If they get Mer inside some place, we'll never get her out!”

  Erik wanted to argue, but he knew Josh was right. He ran with Josh to the door and halted, just inside. “Josh, what's the date?” His voice sounded oddly strained.

  “Who the hell cares?”

  “We do.” There was a note beneath the light switch, with big bold letters and smudged fingerprints, all in the same ink.

  "'Dear Erik,

  If you and Josh are reading this, then it is September the twenty-first, and it is very nearly too late. This building will self-destruct in eighteen minutes. Retrieve Merrie from the ACS, but leave the means up to her.

  Then find the rest of the Cluster and get them out, but leave the fallen behind. It is for the best.

  Tell Ren the information she needs is all here, in these files, and on the disks. I'm sorry I can't bequeath her the lab, but I just can't take the chance that Symtech could claim it for their own.

  Thank you for saving Dusty, and thank you all for Mexico. After that, I knew it could work, and that I could finally have some peace.

  The letter on the top of the folder is for Zar. He's had more experience with autonomy than any of you—even you, Erik. Don't hesitate to go to him or one of the others for help. The Cluster was designed to interact. Believe me when I say, being on the outside is enough to drive a man mad.’”

  “Do you think it's serious?” Josh asked, stunned. He looked at the stack of folders and CDs beneath the note.

  There was no signature. Erik was staring now, at the ink. After the “mad", there was a slightly bigger blotch, and the scattered fingerprints were a dead giveaway. “Dead” being the operative word.

  He recognised the writing material, if not the writer. He'd healed too many people, and seen too much of it. He had no doubt that Zar would have the same reaction.

  “Oh, I'm inclined to take it seriously, all right,” Erik replied. “It's written in blood.”

  Josh gasped.

  “More than likely by whoever put that body in the box.”

  Josh gulped, then looked at his watch. “Then, Erik?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Sixteen minutes.”

  They pushed open the door, and raced across the enclosure, towards the gate.

  * * * *

  Valterzar shot a glance at Dusty. If Ren had a gun, there was no hazard—but since it was Garris who appeared to be in charge, of both Ren and the gun, there was a very real hazard indeed. “Dusty—” he began.

  It was too late. Dusty had seen her, through a glass partition. He'd have her back—somehow. He'd force Garris out—make Erik heal the bastard out—go back before it happened.

  Whatever it takes.

  She was in some struggle, to wrest control from her inner demon. Dusty saw her turn the gun inward, toward herself. "Ren!" he yelled.

  She glanced at him then, and he saw the torment in her eyes.

  Good! He'd distracted her. This was no imposter staring back at him—

  But as her eyes fixed on him, in a kind of mute appeal, her left hand went walking across the desktop, finding its way by feel. Ren wasn't sure what made her turn—maybe it was Zar's and James’ arrival in the gas chamber that broke through her focus. She twisted, and slammed down the butt of the gun on her own hand, with a groan of agony.

  "Bitch!"

  He'd kill her now, if he could. She was wrecking it all...

  He screamed shrill invective to the air that echoed through the room and reverberated in her head.

  He's distracting me.

  The crushed hand was still fighting—moving to the switch.

  No! You can't...

  James was grasping for the gun now. Ren could feel his invisible touch grappling with her right hand.

  No—it's the other hand! Ren forced herself back, away from the switch—fighting with Jamie for the gun, and with Garris for control.

  Dusty wasn't willing to wait. He charged, shoulder first, against the locked door. It was metal, though, and wouldn't give. Zar was at his back, but his
attention was distracted by the look of this room. Metal walls. Sealed metal doors.

  Isolation chamber, to trap prisoners.

  His eyes spotted the vents on the wall. Not isolation chamber.

  A gas chamber. He didn't know how he'd made the connection, but this was Goeritz, who'd worked in Dachau. At Dachau, they'd sent their victims out for disposal, rather like another person might send his laundry. But the gas chambers had been built at the camp; installed for future use...

  Like here ... like now...

  Zar grabbed Dusty's arm, and gave James a shove. “Get out!” The words were barely out before the metal door slid into place.

  The gun went off in the other room. Ren clenched her side and sat back abruptly on the edge of the desk. Blood was gushing from her, but it wasn't her eyes looking at Dusty now.

  It was a look Dusty remembered well. Hate, bitterness, loathing. Garris had hated him for what he was, and then hated him because what he was would never be enough. Garris was a man who'd liked control and order in his life. He'd detested the lack of control in his creations.

  And in that moment, he knew Garris recognised him. It was as though it wasn't until now that he'd realised the source of his inspiration stood before him, in the flesh. It was Dusty, looking as he did now, whom he'd stolen blood from so many years before. "Arbeit Macht Frei," the lips quoted, but there was blood leaking between them now. Garris nodded his head in mock salute, then pointed the gun at Dusty's head.

  Zar yanked him down. "Use it!” he said harshly, “Before Garris blows it off!”

  “We've got to get Erik!” Dusty told him. “She's going to die!”

  Zar gripped his arm. “We're all going to die! Get on the floor and cover your face!”

  He was listening for a hiss—some signal that deadly gas was issuing from the vents. The experiment was over, and Garris was taking them with him. If he'd wanted to put them to sleep, there were a lot of easier ways. “Break down the door, James!” Zar told him. “Or jam those ven—”

  He never got to finish. He'd caught a glimpse of Garris’ face, and it was suddenly Ren's once more. She was looking in horror at the corner of her own tiny room, where a wisp of vapour was spilling. As Zar watched, Ren splayed her bloody fingers on the glass in panic. They could see her lips screaming at them to get her out.