Rumi's Field (None So Blind Book 2)

by Timothy Scott Bennett

  7.5

  "So, kiddos," said Mihos, "unless you want to stay here all day and bat balls of yarn across the floor, we should talk about destination and means of conveyance, you know what I mean?"

  Emily stepped closer to the settee upon which Mihos lay. "Our destination we have already told you," she said. "We want to find Linda Travis and speak with her."

  "Oh, right," said Mihos, bringing a paw to his face in mock forgetfulness. "The President Monkey. The Great Ones’ designated hitter. And you kids' ersatz mother, if I am not mistaken. I'd forgotten." He winked at Emily. "And you know how to find her?" he asked.

  "Grace tells us it's a matter of focusing on Linda's... on our stepmother's... pattern," said Emily with a defiant flick of her chin, trying to clarify the relationship that Mihos had just tried to disparage. "From what we know, she's been taken to a hospital of some sort on Squirrel Island, where her old cottage was. It's on the Maine-"

  "Uh, uh, uh!" said Mihos, sticking his paw out like a stop sign. "We're not in Maine, girlfriend. Save the Google map for another time." The cat put his paw down and turned to Grace. "So you're the expert here, are you?"

  Grace nodded and knelt beside her dog. "Dennis and I have been here before," she said. "We-"

  "So you know all about getting around here, then."

  "I-"

  "So what'll it be? You guys wanna walk the mock physical? Or should we fly amongst the stars? Take a bus? A train? A spaceship? Or maybe some horses? We could even go underground." Mihos had closed his eyes while he spoke, as if he could barely stay awake, so bored was he.

  "Can't we just 'blink' there?" asked Grace.

  Mihos opened his eyes and raised a brow. "And lose all of that precious travel time together? Are you kidding me? Why, I have stories to tell, and wisecracks to make. You've not even asked of my long and illustrious past!"

  "But we feel like we need to hurry," said Iain, stepping forward to join the conversation.

  Mihos looked crossly at the boy, then brought his paws in front of him and patted the claws together like a patient teacher. "Ah..." he said slowly. "You wish to hurry."

  Emily cleared her throat. "What Iain means is-"

  Mihos raised a paw and Emily stopped. The cat closed his eyes and sighed in exasperation. He took three long breaths, then opened his eyes and looked directly at Iain. "The Murk is still out there, boy. You do understand this, right?"

  Iain nodded his head.

  "The Murk. It has been instructed to imprison you. Probably to kill you. It will not be particularly delighted with my interference, and it no doubt knows exactly where you are headed." He looked from Iain to Emily to Grace and back again, like a commander sizing them up for a mission. "On my own, I could likely get past the Murk to your President Monkey. The Murk is, as I said, rather stupid. But I will not be on my own, will I? I've got to drag you three lost little tourists past his defenses, a lovely little assignment for which I must deeply thank the Great Ones when next we meet. And you guys are so green you still think the physical is the most real." Mihos shook his head from side to side.

  "We will do our best," said Grace with earnest.

  Mihos looked at her. "I've no doubt of that," said the cat. "And that's what worries me. Believe it or not, I've already grown fond of the three of you in our short time together, even if, as I cat, I shall never show it." He smirked. "In the end, it may be your earnest striving that gets the best of you, as it always is with monkeys." He glanced at Iain. "The Murk will be a more difficult challenge than any of you have ever faced." He turned to Emily. "And it will take not only wits, but speed, and courage, and the willingness to take orders, if you wish to defeat him." He turned to stare down at Dennis for a long moment, before coming back to Grace. "And I fear that not all of you shall make it." Mihos jerked his head to the left and began licking his haunch.

  To Emily, it looked like the cat was hiding a tear. But Grace was not watching the cat. Her gaze was on her little dog, who trembled still at her side. For the first time, Emily wished that their dog had not followed them.

  "I've got it!" said Mihos cheerily, looking up at the three of them. "We'll go by flying carpet!"

  7.6

  Paul DuPont sat straight in his chair, eyes closed, feet flat on the floor, hands on his knees with the palms facing upwards. He inhaled slowly and deeply, and exhaled in the same manner. Even on his busiest days, he found time for his practice.

  Strike that. He didn't find time. He made it. "Finding the time" was something the Sleepers did. Or tried to do. The Sheeple. The Useless Eaters. People so dumbed down, so disempowered, that they couldn't even take control of how their days went. He remembered a snippet from an old science-fiction movie: "They're already dead." Yes. It soothed him, to think of them that way. It made their imminent demise so much easier to think about.

  With a slight wince, Paul brought his focus back to his breathing and managed to hold it there until the chime sounded. With a measured inhale he opened his eyes and reached out to tap his virtual keyboard, bringing his screen back to life. There was the computer-generated Linda Travis, his Linda Travis, still attending to the Summit.

  Khalid bin Whatever-the-Hell was still droning on, that fat bastard. Paul had known he would, which had meant the VLT would have little to do but sit and listen and blink and move her head occasionally, which had meant that the software could handle her, which had meant that Paul could get in some sit-time. The afternoon was shaping up to be just one speech after another, with each nation moving its first pawn and grabbing what ground they could. No matter the lofty verbiage that had issued forth from press rooms all around the globe in the days and hours preceding this Summit, there was no way this spectacle was ever going to be anything but yet another round of bullshit politicking, chatroom deal-making, prime-time grandstanding, and down-and-dirty tit for tat.

  Maybe Reagan had been right. Maybe these bastards might have come together in some useful way to fight off an alien menace. But they weren't fighting the alien menace, were they? Not these yokels. They still regarded those pesky ETs as "out of the picture now," as the real President Travis had once put it, even though the evidence to the contrary shined down on their stupid heads every damned night. No, the enemy here was not the aliens. The enemy here was themselves. All seven billion of them, still burning down and digging up and knocking down and eating up every last thing in sight in an effort to prolong their desperate lives as they circled the drainpipe of history. The enemy here was their acculturated minds, their beliefs, their values, their assumptions, their habits, and their expectations. Pogo had gotten it exactly right, and they all knew it, and still it didn't matter.

  The Families had been correct, to choose as they had all those decades ago. Centuries, even, if the records were accurate. Time to pull down the tents and close up the circus. Fire the clowns. Put the suffering animals out of their misery. Send the rubes home. They'd be grateful, if only they could understand.

  Not long now. Singer had confirmed it. The first trigger had been pulled and the others would follow in perfect order. One of those triggers would spell the end of the President. No need now for the original when the copy was performing so smoothly. And Paul intended to be right there when the plunger was pushed. It made sense, in a hostage-and-captor sort of way. They'd warned him about it ahead of time, this potential sympathetic bond between an abductor and his hostage. It even had a name: Lima Syndrome. In diving so deeply into the mind and heart of Linda Travis, DuPont had grown, in his own way, to respect her. Maybe even love her a bit, as a predator sometimes comes to love its prey. He owed it to her, to be at her side as they put her down. And what a story that might one day make, on whatever distant soil he found himself.

  The sound of silence intruded on his reverie and Paul glanced up at his screens. The fat guy from Bahrain had finished and the various attendees, each hooked in via their latest devices (all good enough, but no match for The Families' HereNow technology), shuffled their papers and
cleared their throats and examined their watches. It was an interesting thing to observe, this virtual Summit. There was no applause when the speakers finished. Maybe it just felt too creepy - disbursed as they were around the globe, each in their own little office or conference room, each with an aide or two nearby - to slap the flesh of their hands together and make a noise that signaled appreciation or agreement. That was an activity for ancient monkey bodies, it seemed, something for families and groups and tribes to do together, and just did not feel right when people were so alone and apart. Perhaps they should add an applause track.

  Paul smiled, thinking there would be a useful metaphor in there, if he could find it. But the thought got sidetracked by the Ambassador from the great nation of Nunavut. "I'd like to hear a response from President Travis regarding the accusations just made by Bahrain," said the short, hawk-nosed Inuit woman in Iqaluit, looking directly into her webcam.

  Paul DuPont rolled his shoulders and put fingers to keyboard, crafting the words which would, in mere seconds, issue from the virtual mouth of the virtual President of the United States as she sat in her virtual chair behind her virtual Great Seal and her virtual microphone in a virtual biocontainment facility in Maine.

  It was show time.

  7.7

  Ness pushed the rubbery carrot sticks to the side of her plate, disgusted with the quality of the lunch they had brought for her. Supplies were tight, yes. She understood that. But there'd been no reason to boil her broccoli to mush, had there? And did they truly not know that they could refreshen limp lettuce by soaking and then refrigerating it in a moist cloth bag? She shook her head with a scoffing sigh, wishing she could pop back to the Presidential Home and grab her own food, knowing that she could not. Whatever came, she knew she had to stay right where she was, and damn the inconvenience.

  The kids lay peacefully on their gurneys. The nurses had tried, an hour or so ago, to change out their IVs, but Ness had not allowed it. Not yet. Not until they could assure her that the solutions they were using didn't have any genetically modified corn products in them. Not after what Mary just saw in Keeley's field. "You go find me some organic stuff and then we'll talk," she'd told the head nurse, a younger woman with strangely pointed ears. The head nurse glanced briefly at Ness, barely catching her eye, then turned and left. A tiny smile flickered across Ness's face. She was speaking for the President herself now. Mary had made sure of that, and everybody knew it. Might as well just do as I say, she thought.

  Ness scooted her chair back and stood, stepping over to the window. Outside, the hot spring sun beat down on the cracked and faded parking lot, empty but for a couple of military Jeeps. Beyond the lot and past the fencing lay the Kennebec River, partially hidden by a thin line of leafless trees and looking sick and stagnant in the afternoon haze. In the distance stood the State House and beyond that, she knew, up near the Interstate, was the Presidential Home. Ness replayed the short journey she'd taken with the kids from there to here, just the morning before. The Jeep. The agents and soldiers. The short ride in the warm morning air. The kids had been so anxious to get going. But truth be told, so had she.

  The clock ticked on the wall and Ness scratched at her scalp, mussing her short gray hair. She sat heavily in the armchair by the window and took a deep breath. Truth be told for real, that whole morning was a blur in her mind, and not all of it made sense. She remembered a dream about a strange cat with huge green eyes. She remembered quickly drinking a whole pot of tea. She remembered hurrying to see Mary when she knew damned well that Mary had not been released yet, and likely wouldn't be for hours. And she remembered... she remembered... and she could feel it now, still, in her heart... that there was a part of her that wanted... actually wanted... these poor dear children to do what they did. At some level, unacknowledged at the time by her conscious mind, she had... oh dear... let them.

  Shaking her head as if dispelling cobwebs, Ness reached out and took Grace's hand. The girl's flesh was warm to the touch, pulsing with life, but Grace herself was nowhere to be found inside of it. So different from the hand that had held hers as they'd walked from the Jeep to the hospital doors. Ness squeezed lightly and let go, then rose and smoothed her dress and hair. That little pointy-eared nurse, or some nurse, or a whole gaggle of doctors, residents, nurses, and soldiers, would soon enough be barging back into the room, messing and fussing and ordering and testing, trying to get to the bottom of things, trying to control something that, Ness intuitively knew, was beyond them all.

  None of the medical people knew what needed to be done, really. But Ness knew. And it was time to get started. She would need some supplies, and would not be able to get them herself, like last time. But that wouldn't be a problem. That nice young private down the hallway - Eddie Burns, his name was - would be more than glad to bring her what she needed. She'd brought cookies to his post more than once, after all. He would remember that. And he always smiled and called her "ma'am."

  For now, she'd work with what she had. There was tubing in that cabinet drawer. A stethoscope. And she'd seen wire hangers in the closet. Ness couldn't be sure, because this was something beyond thinking and understanding, but it felt like even those rubbery carrot sticks on her plate might come in handy. The way they lay there in a pile, the way they formed a crooked triangle, filled her with a sense of déjà vu. Like last time, she thought again, having no idea what the heck she meant by that. There had been no last time. Not that she knew about. Unless maybe it had something to do with her life back in Tacoma, with a man named Dave whose face she could not recall.

  Ness grabbed the carrots and bent to place them in her purse, then went to the door to yoo-hoo Eddie Burns.

  7.8

  "So it's still a no-go, then," said the man with the bushy silver eyebrows, looking from screen to screen. "Does that sum it up?"

  The others assembled in this virtual conference space nodded or grumbled their reluctant agreement. "The qputers would not lie to us," said the bald man with the red glasses. "Until Modeling ups our estimates of success, we'd be fools to fully implement."

  The first man raised a bushy silver eyebrow. "Haven't we already established that?" he asked, with only a hint of self-mockery. "We were so sure our systems were ready..."

  A couple of the Directors laughed nervously.

  Jay Sinclair, known to the world as Canadian MP Guy Legrand, did not laugh or nod or raise an eyebrow. He did not want to be noticed, as if to give himself away would ruin everything. Though the others didn't know it, he'd just been granted a reprieve, some extra time in which to convince his beloved Gabrielle to join him and her mother for their next great step. He was giddy with relief.

  "We can expect a successful test-firing soon, though, yes?" said the man with the blue bow tie. "The Quietus. Your scientists said..." he glanced nervously from screen to screen. "My wife's family..."

  The man with the bushy silver eyebrows raised a hand to calm the other man. "We gather in The City as we agreed, Damon. Starting immediately. Most of our people should be there already, and most have either been vaccinated or are genetically immune. But there's no need to risk exposure, and certainly no need for any of us to watch. The schedule of triggers will proceed as planned."

  The man with the blue bow tie nodded grimly, his mouth scrunched tight, as if to keep himself from confessing without his lawyer present.

  "Still no word from the Insider?" asked the woman with the very long fingernails.

  The bald man with the red glasses shook his head. "He indicated that communication would likely become impossible," he said. "That was back before the Grid went up. We'll continue to trust that he's still in position."

  "We put a great deal of faith in somebody we've never met face-to-face," muttered the man with a missing finger.

  "We believe our faith to be well-placed," said the bald man with the red glasses.

  "And the American problem?" asked the man with the bushy silver eyebrows, his eyes glancing up to a screen near the top.<
br />
  The wiry, white-haired man dressed in a Hawaiian shirt covered with palm fronds and tropical birds glanced into his camera for a moment before looking away. "She's quite handled," he said, the corners of his mouth rising almost imperceptibly.

  7.9

  Linda found William standing next to the container that held her naked form. He smiled warmly when she appeared. "You see the similarity?" he asked, nodding toward her body.

  "You mean with the...?" responded Linda, gesturing vaguely toward the sky, and the Fortunate she'd just left behind. She started to say more, but the Fisherman raised a hand and, in another instant, the two of them blinked to a point in space above Rumi's Field. Below, staring up at them, was the famous "face" that Linda had seen before. The lighting was such that it appeared almost exactly as it had in the iconic photos most people knew best.

  The President glanced at William with an eyebrow raised. "You will, of course, be explaining to me how this face was constructed by ancient aliens."

  "Half right, Madam President,” he replied. “While this mesa was clearly shaped and utilized by non-terrestrial intelligences in our deep past, the fact that it looks like a human face in certain lighting conditions seems more a matter of chance than anything, since this facility was highly damaged in the Gods’ War." William raised a shoulder. "That, at least, is the general consensus. But it's entirely possible that these ruins were designed to appear as they do, and to do just what they did, which was draw further attention to the many other so-called anomalies to be found here. The Life were never particularly clear on the matter, and the original builders have long-since moved on."