The Fisherman stepped back into the hallway. "We already did," he said with another wink. He turned left and started walking, heading right back the way they had come, as far as Linda could see.
She shook her head, but decided to not get distracted by what seemed to be William's deliberate attempts to confuse her. "So what do you mean I 'got to the heart of it'?"
The Fisherman stopped. "You got to the deep wisdom of your people," he said, as if it were obvious.
"Really?" said Linda, raising an eyebrow. "And what deep wisdom is that?"
"The wisdom that drives them to annihilate themselves as quickly as is possible, Madam."
Linda frowned. “Are we annihilating ourselves as quickly as is possible?” she asked.
“The aliens certainly thing so,” said William, returning her raised eyebrow with one of his own. With that, the Fisherman turned and started down the hallway once again.
Linda followed, expecting that any moment they'd come upon the entrance to the balcony that they had passed through shortly before. But there was no such entrance. Instead, the hallway began to spiral downward and to the right. The incline gradually increased to the point where Linda wished she had a railing on which to grab. She slowed her pace.
"Oh," said the Fisherman, noticing her hesitancy. "My mistake." He waved his hand and at once both of them were hovering a few inches above the floor. "This next piece is easier without gravity."
"You do love to be in control of things," said Linda.
The Fisherman stopped and turned to stab Linda with a sharp look. "It makes it all so much easier," he said. "I thought you were in a hurry."
Linda sighed. "Yes. I am. You're right."
"You're not the only one feeling urgency right now, you know," said William.
Linda noticed that there was deep sadness in the Fisherman’s eyes. "What is your urgency, William?" she asked, her voice now softer.
The Fisherman turned and started floating down the hallway. "It's not time for that," he said, shaking his head. Linda followed.
The downward spiral got steeper and tighter. In a few moments they neared the end of the corridor. The tunnel appeared to terminate in solid rock, but the Fisherman continued to move forward and disappeared into the wall as if it were made of smoke.
Linda stopped, then shook her head again in wonder and followed, certain that beyond this wall she would find herself on the floor of the conclave hall in which she'd given her speech. Instead, she found herself in a cramped tubular hallway that quickly led her to a very different room, this one wide and circular, with a low ceiling and a smooth, polished walkway or ramp that spiraled down to the center like a funnel. The Fisherman was floating in the room's center, out over the spiral. He flashed his eyebrows good-naturedly. Linda joined him. Directly underneath them was a gaping, round hole that opened to the vacuum of space.
"Is that from some battle or something?" asked Linda. "You said there'd been a great war."
The Fisherman shook his head. "Look at the spiral itself."
Linda did. It appeared to be smooth, blue-gray stone. But as she stared, she began to notice details underneath the surface. She let herself sink down to the spiral walkway, which created a series of concentric "benches." Up close, the stone looked more like crystal or frosted glass. Under the surface, lying head to toe, were what appeared to be frozen human bodies.
"Not human," said the Fisherman, as though he could read her thoughts. "Were you seeing them from the side, you'd find they have greatly elongated skulls. But you can certainly make out other differences from here. Their torsos are unusually long, and their legs correspondingly short. And they have webbing between both fingers and toes. And internally..."
"You've dissected them?" asked Linda, looking up at the Fisherman.
"Of course," he said.
Linda exhaled sharply in frustration. She glanced around the room and back to the Fisherman. "What is this place?"
"It was how the Fortunate buried their dead at sea," he explained. "In their view, this was simply the doorway for a return trip home."
"The Fortunate?" asked Linda.
"It's the name given them by the Life," explained the Fisherman. "In their eyes, these people were the fortunate ones. It is almost impossible to know whether the Gray aliens are being ironic."
Linda considered the body beneath her. "They don't look very fortunate to me," she said.
"There are worse things than death, Madam President."
6.5
Vice President Albert Singer answered his ringing phone. "Singer," he said.
"Confrère," said the voice on the phone.
Singer smiled. "It is good to hear your voice, Julien," he said. The older man's continental manner and Parisian accent reminded him of home.
"Bien sûr," said Julien. "Of course. You have seen?"
Singer nodded, as if his gesture could be transmitted through a telephone. "The new symbol? Yes." He reached out to touch his laptop. "It's up on-"
"Bathurst," said Julien. "Up near Greenland, no?"
"Isn't that...?"
"Oui, Albert," said Julien, his accent molding the Vice President's name into al-bare. "She was there. Three years ago."
The Vice President rubbed his nose. "Thought so," he said. He swiveled in his chair to move away from the glare of the morning sun. "So what does-?"
Julien cut him off. "It does not matter. Let the Angel paint his pretty pictures in the snow. It will help no one. The Directorate is meeting now. They will almost certainly decide to initiate the countdown. They know we must move very soon. Before we become trapped."
"I see," said Singer.
"I am sure you do," said Julien. "And I am sorry."
"For what?"
"I know that you are having fun... playing President," chuckled Julien. "I am sorry that it must so quickly come to an end."
6.6
Stan had awakened Cole as the first brush of coming dawn had washed across the eastern sky. There was already hot water, which Stan had heated on a tiny pocket stove with a single fuel tablet. They'd washed down nutrition bars with tea, secured their backpacks, and stepped out of the abandoned ranch house in which they'd spent the night. Venus had been twinkling still in the pre-dawn sky, hung like an ornament in one of the fading diamonds of the Grid.
As they walked they discussed the matter of Cole's strange hops and the weird light in his hands, and spoke of the kids and Linda's mysterious mole, which the three youngsters were no doubt now investigating. They reminisced about Alice, whom they'd both known from three years ago, and pondered the unknown tactics and goals of her alien father and his people, the Life. Cole shared his hope that, in making it to Squirrel Island, not only would he be able to speak face-to-face with his wife, he would find his children and bring them back home. They noted smoke in the air any number of times as they made their way, though whether it came from the burning service station or something else they could not say. They stuck to the wooded areas, and couldn't see the smoke for the trees.
Now the mid-morning sun glinted through the branches as they made their way along Belfast Avenue, keeping roughly fifty yards from the road itself. Stan had brought along an atlas with a full set of Maine topographical maps, and had plotted their route before they'd left his office. They would travel cross-country, using secondary roads as their guides, making their way first east and then due south. That would give them the best chance of reaching Boothbay Harbor without encountering a patrol. The military presence out here was sparse, but neither of them wanted to take any chances.
The locals might be another matter entirely. Stan knew that while most had fled to the shelters, many had remained in their homes, or had set out on their own journeys to parts unknown. Though summers had grown longer, hotter and dryer, winters had grown correspondingly shorter, colder, and wetter, at least in New England. After the Christmas Crash, there'd been a large population shift to the Southern states, as if, given the choice, people preferred to di
e in the heat rather than the cold. Maine, never highly populated, now probably ranked lowest in density of all fifty states.
But low was not zero. There were still people here. People living post-crash lives outside of what little governmental assistance and control remained. People that had proven themselves capable, in the past eighteen months, of both great compassion and great depravity. Things had settled down a bit this past winter, but with this hot, early spring, and with basic resources growing ever more scarce, there was no telling what trouble was brewing in the land. Both Cole and Stan kept their holstered weapons strapped for quick and easy reach.
Cole stopped and went silent. Stan stopped and turned to face him. "You hear something?" His voice was quiet and wary.
"Up ahead," Cole nodded.
Stan turned to peer through the trees, his eyes following the wooded slope down which they were making their way. He could just make out a house on the distant slope opposite them, one of the many single-family dwellings that dotted this road. He stood and listened for a while, then turned back to Cole. "What did you hear?"
Cole shrugged. "Hard to say, Stan," he replied. "A hammer, maybe. Somebody pounding. Just a couple-three knocks. Not a woodpecker."
"Hmm," said Stan. His hand was resting naturally on the handle of his gun. "Could be anything." He listened for another moment, then raised an eyebrow. "Firing range, maybe? Back in town?"
Cole shook his head and gestured toward the distant house. "I'm pretty sure it came from that way."
Stan relaxed his hand. "Okay, then. Probably nothing to worry about, even if there're people there. Most reports have the majority of indies just keeping to themselves. We'll skirt wide in any case."
Cole shook his head in disbelief. "I never thought I'd be this afraid of my fellow Americans," he said.
Stan smiled. "I understand, Cole. Lots of unknowns out here. Lots of scary stories. But like I said before, the indies, though unpredictable, are not our biggest problem."
Cole reached up to reposition his shoulder strap and check his weapon. "If you say so, my friend," he said. "Ready?"
Stan patted his own holster. "Ready as I'll ever be," he said.
The two men continued their hike down the ridge.
6.7
Iain didn't understand how pitch-blackness could get smaller and tighter, but it did. As time had gone by, and Iain would not swear that time was going anywhere, the sense of nothingness had gradually shifted. Slowly, he'd begun to imagine that he had a body again, though it was more a mental impression than something he could move or feel. But with the return of an awareness of body came a cramped sensation; he felt like he had to hunch over more and more as he moved on. It was as if that strange cat was leading them down a hallway that was getting ever smaller, like the one Alice had encountered in Wonderland. The fact that it was another Alice who had started them on this journey did not escape Iain's notice.
Which made that cat more than a little Cheshire, when he thought about it. But it wasn't a grin, this time. It was those eyes, those faint, greenish, almond-shaped cat’s-eyes that stood out like beacons in this lost, dark place. Those eyes were the only things to hold onto, and Iain clung to them as tightly as he could. His sisters, somewhere "behind him," if it made any sense at all to even use that term, were depending on him right now. He was the big brother, after all. It was his job to protect them, if he could.
"You guys doing okay?" asked Iain into the blackness.
"Right here," said Emily.
"Me too," said Grace.
Dennis barked once.
Iain sighed, though he had no lungs with which to exhale air, and no air to exhale. He had his mind, and somehow they could speak to one another, and there were those eyes. Beyond that, there was nothing; the whole of the universe had simply ceased to be.
And then it shifted. A door opened and the universe flooded back into awareness and there were Emily and Grace and Dennis standing beside him in a row, four weary, wary travelers on a grand adventure. Before them, seated on a red velvet cushion on a small, golden throne, sat a cat... the cat... their cat... licking its left paw. Surrounding them were golden walls hung with thick, colorful tapestries depicting scenes of battle. Against each wall was an ornate settee. In every corner stood a solid gold pole six feet tall with a large, burning taper in a crystal holder at the top of each.
The cat, sleek and black save for a single white star on its chest, looked up from its licking and languidly blinked its eyes. "Oh," it said in a bored voice, "the dog is just an old, stuffed toy." The cat went back to its licking.
"Excuse me, but this ‘old toy’ has fought beside foxes and polar bears," said Grace, stepping forward. Her tone was protective and indignant.
The cat waved her away with a flick of his paw. "I did not say it was useless," said the cat, glancing apathetically at Dennis before returning its attention to Grace. "I am merely stating that its presence here is far less impressive than its noisome barking in the Murk had suggested."
Emily stepped up to join her sister and put her hands on her hips. "Well… that’s what you think," she said, her voice flustered and shaky, “you... you… cat.”
The cat stared at Emily for a long moment, slowly blinking. "Having a moment, are we?" it said at last. "Feeling better?"
Emily opened her mouth to respond but then thought better of it.
Iain decided it was time to step in and get whatever information he could. "We thank you for your help," he said, trying on a formal, diplomatic voice. "Can you tell us what that blackness was that you found us in?"
The cat shifted its weight and began to lick its right paw. "Going to forego the social niceties altogether, I see," it muttered. It kept on licking.
Grace knelt down, picked up her dog, and held him to her chest as she rose. "My name's Grace," she said, as cheerfully as she could. "This is Dennis. What's your name?"
The cat looked up and scrunched its nose. "Well, aren't you the quick learner?" it said.
"I am," said Grace. "And you're right. You helped us and now we're guests in your home. I'd like to hear your story."
The cat stopped licking, put his paws together on the cushion, and stretched his neck to his full sitting height, looking for all the world like an old Egyptian statue. "My story?" he asked. "You do not need my story, child. You need only my name. Once you hear my name, you will know my story."
"Okay," said Grace. "Tell us your name."
The cat raised its nose slightly higher. "I am Mihos," it said, a touch of drama in its voice.
The kids looked at each with quizzical faces. Iain shook his head. Emily frowned. "I'm sorry," said Grace. "But we don't-"
"Son of Bast?" said Mihos. "Maahes? Prince of war? Protector of the innocent?"
The three kids just stood and stared.
"Damn," spat Mihos.
6.8
Ness stormed down the hallway and slammed her fist on the nurse's station countertop. "You will not separate them!" she demanded, her voice cold and her eyes on fire.
The nurse, a tiny woman of Oriental descent, looked up at Ness with a practiced smile. "Ma'am?" she said.
"The President's children," said Ness, shaking her head no, no, no. "They must be kept together. You cannot put them in separate rooms."
"But Doctor Gho-"
"The doctors do not understand!" said Ness angrily, pushing the sign-in clipboard toward the nurse. It landed on the nurse's keyboard, knocked over an empty coffee cup, and clattered to the floor.
The nurse stood and reached down to thumb an intercom button. "I need security at Station 6," she said evenly, as if this happened all the time. She bent to pick up the clipboard, set it gently back on the counter, then looked up at Ness. "Ma'am," she said again with another smile, this one obviously insincere. "I must ask you to back away and wait for the soldiers."
Ness raised an eyebrow. "Soldiers?" she spat. "You think soldiers are going to understand what is happening here?" She reached out to slap the cli
pboard again but was stopped by a hand on her elbow. Ness whirled to find Mary standing behind her.
"Ness?" said Mary gently, rubbing the sleep from her tired, red eyes. She'd been napping in the visitor lounge, having been awake most of the night.
"I just got here," explained Ness, her eyes darting back and forth as if for a moment she'd forgotten where she was and how she'd gotten there. She gestured down the hallway toward where the kids had been moved. "Did you approve this?"
Mary shook her head in confusion. "Approve what, Ness dear?"
Ness motioned angrily down the hallway. "The kids. You've got them in separate rooms.
At that moment two soldiers arrived, their hands on their weapons. "Ma'am?" the shorter one asked the nurse.
Mary held up a hand to stop them. "Hold on a sec," she said. She turned back to Ness. "Is there a problem, Ness?" she asked.
"They must be kept together," said Ness, gesturing angrily at the nurse with a nod of her head. "These bozos don't understand what's going on."
Mary breathed slowly and deeply, her face a warm smile. "And what is going on, my friend?" she said, her expression was open and gentle.
Ness matched Mary's deep breathing and closed her eyes to think. After a moment her head began to shake slowly back and forth. "I don't know, Mary," she said, her voice now calmer. "I just... they have to be together." She opened her eyes. "All three of them. I have to sit with them. I have to pro-" Ness stopped, as if the word she'd almost spoken had come as a surprise to her.
Mary nodded. "You have to protect them," she said, finishing Ness's sentence. "From the alien flu. And from the people who took their mother."
Ness sighed deeply and nodded sadly.
"Even though the staff has isolated the kids’ rooms from the rest of the hospital. And even though there are guards stationed at each of their doorways."
Ness glanced at the soldiers, then back to Mary. "Yes," she said. "They need to be together. So I can... protect them."
Mary reached out and put a hand to Ness's cheek, then turned to the nurse. "I'll need to see Dr. Gholson immediately," she said.
Rumi's Field (None So Blind Book 2) Page 19
