Rumi's Field (None So Blind Book 2)

by Timothy Scott Bennett

  A soldier opened the door for her as she approached the station. She thanked him and entered the building. It was fairly new, all hard counters and plastic cubicles and overhead fluorescent lighting and, thankfully, air-conditioned. Adjusting her backpack on her shoulder, she took her place in line behind the other travelers, passport in hand. She waited, closing her eyes to rest them. They felt cracked and dry from the early departure and the long ride.

  Just when it was her turn to approach the first checkpoint, the wiry young man from outside stepped around the corner and approached her, his hand outstretched to take her passport. "Please step this way, Miss," he said, his tone even and firm. Gabrielle followed.

  "I told you," said Gabrielle, her eyes steely with defiance, "I'm meeting my father in Augusta." She wriggled a bit in the hard plastic chair they'd pointed her to, but could not get comfortable. She looked down at her hands in her lap. It hadn't occurred to her that she'd be questioned about her plans. It should have, but it hadn't. So she'd had to concoct a cover story in the time it had taken her to walk back to the office in which she now sat.

  "And your father is...?" asked the hawk-faced Customs Officer sitting behind the desk. His tag said "Devons." He had the air of retired military, his graying hair as short and as bristly as his personality.

  "Guy Legrand. He's a respected MP in Ottawa. He's down in-"

  "In Augusta, Maine, right now, waiting for you. Yes. You said. And why is he in Augusta, Miss? There are no scheduled meetings or gatherings there, and certainly he has no business with the President at this time."

  "My father's a relative. And I... I met her once too. The President? She's my cousin or something. And he wanted to stop by and leave a gift for her. Some maple syrup. A gift. On his way back home from a meeting in New York." Gabrielle's heart was pounding. She had no idea if she was even making sense.

  The Customs Officer confirmed that she was not. "So, then, you're traveling by bus from Montreal to Augusta to meet your father, who's on his way back to Montreal? I'm afraid that doesn't make much sense, Miss. This is not a safe world for a young lady to go joyriding in, even for a play date with Daddy."

  Gabrielle opened her mouth to respond, then flashed on the moment again: the moment in the hallway with the President, the moment from the future that had already happened, the moment Zacharael had seared into her consciousness. It didn't matter that her heart was pounding. It didn't matter what she said. That moment would happen, no matter what. She took a breath and spoke. "So why did you pick me out of the line?" she asked.

  Officer Devons, raised an eyebrow. "Excuse me?" he said, his eyes blinking.

  "I was just another passenger on that bus. I'd already been passed through with my documents in Montreal. So why are you picking on me? Is it because I'm young, Officer Devons? Because I'm pretty?" Gabrielle smiled coyly and held his gaze.

  Devons inhaled slowly, one eyebrow raised, as if Gabrielle's suggestion was beyond his comprehension. "It's because, Miss," he said slowly, "when you passed through our exterior scanners, your iDent chip alerted our computers." He leaned forward in his chair to read his laptop screen. "'F 12,' it says." He looked at Gabrielle. "That makes you my business. Do you understand?" Devons' voice had grown hard and cold as he spoke.

  "And what does 'F 12' mean, Officer?" asked Gabrielle.

  "It means we hold you here until we receive further instructions."

  Gabrielle sat back and sighed. The iDent chip. So that was it. Family members who were embedded in the common world had been required to get one. Having a chip was supposed to make it easier for them to fit in and move around without anybody asking questions. Not that they got the same chips the Sleepers got. Those chips, commonly known as iDents, carried not only identification information, but allowed for tracking, surveillance, and even some measure of control. Family members' chips carried identification information only. Unlike the Sleepers, members of The Families were not to be tracked, listened to, or controlled in any way.

  It had never occurred to Gabrielle that she should worry about her chip. But apparently, after their last conversation, and her disappearance from Freemantle, her father had tagged her identity, so the scanners would watch for her. And find her. And catch her. The bastard.

  So what would those "further instructions" be? What would Devons do once he received them? And what could Gabrielle do then? Her heart pounded in her chest as she considered the possibility of being taken into custody and remanded to the care of her loving parents. She thought about acting angry and entitled and petulant, like the spoiled daughter of a high-ranking official who was simply not at all used to such horrible treatment at the hands of mere functionaries. She almost demanded that she be released immediately. But again, the image, the moment, came to her mind unbidden, and she calmed back down.

  "Perhaps it's not working," offered Gabrielle, helpfully.

  Devons leaned back in his chair, raising an eyebrow. "Your iDent?" he asked. "Perhaps." He glanced toward the door, then back at Gabrielle. "In any event we'll know soon enough. Your passport checked out, but we've got a call into Peoria. And we're seeing if we can get eyes on your father in Augusta. Until then, I'm afraid you're going to have to-"

  Customs Officer Devons stopped speaking when a soft knock sounded at his door. Another officer entered, stepped around to stand next to Devons, handed him a sheet of paper, and whispered into his ear. Devons read the note, then looked at Gabrielle. His face went pale. He placed the paper on his desk and closed his laptop. "I'm sorry to have kept you waiting, Ma'am," he said, offering his hand to shake hers. "Please. Enjoy the rest of your trip."

  Acting on instinct rather than propriety, Gabrielle ignored Devons' offered hand and instead leaned forward to grab the piece of paper from his desk. She glanced at it quickly, then folded it and shoved it into her jacket pocket. She stood and, without a word, walked out of the office.

  Her heart pounded wildly against her ribs as she picked up her pack at the checkpoint and made her way back to the waiting bus. But it wasn't fear this time. It was glee. Power. Purpose. Resolve. The vision Zacharael had shown her, the moment with the President, was real. It pulled her toward it. Ever forward. And it appeared that it could not be stopped.

  There was only one question in her mind now. It was that piece of paper. It said "Sinclair. Untouchable. AB Dispatched." "Sinclair" she knew. That was her real name. "Untouchable" must have to do with her being a Family member. So whomever they'd contacted in "Peoria" had known who she really was. And it seemed that The Families, or her father, didn't want the bozos at the customs office handling her. Maybe being part of The Families wasn't all bad after all. Gabrielle stepped back onto the bus and took her seat.

  The question that remained was this: what was an "AB"? And what did it mean that it had been "Dispatched"?

  10.2

  William considered Linda closely as the dust twisted and blew around them. The sky had turned to daylight, a pinkish, washed-out white that made the distant mountains difficult to discern. He planted his elbows on his thighs, clasped his hands, and rested his chin on his thumbs. He took a deep breath. "It is difficult to know where to begin," he said at last, sighing heavily.

  Linda nodded. "Maybe if you just start talking, it'll get the ball rolling."

  "Maybe" said the Fisherman. He wrinkled his nose. "Let's see... " He closed his eyes for a moment to think, then looked at Linda. "It seems like I have a number of things to tell you," he continued. "I need to explain who The Families are and what they - we - are up to." He counted off on his fingers. "I need to explain what I can of the aliens and their interests and intentions. And I need to explain the quandary we and they now find ourselves in." He stopped and smiled slightly.

  Leaning forward, Linda matched the Fisherman's pose, elbows on her knees. "It's good to have an outline," she said evenly. "But haven't we already touched upon your so-called 'quandary'?"

  "Madam?" said William.

  "Well, you've said it. The Ea
rth's planetary ecosystem, and the human species, is now circling the drain, right? In part because I failed to save the world, as you've so kindly pointed out."

  William raised a hand as if to interrupt or explain.

  "And you Family guys," continued Linda, "or the aliens, or whomever the hell, have devised a way to quickly wipe out vast swaths of the human population, which you think might be enough to stave off a full-scale planetary extinction event. And your task is to convince me to pull the switch." She sat back in her chair and brushed at her sleeves. "Does that about sum it up, chief?"

  The Fisherman pushed back into his chair and crossed his legs. "You are mistaken in two respects, Madam," he said, shaking his head. "First, this is not about me convincing you to 'pull the switch,' as you say. As I said before, there is a choice to be made in the matter, and that choice has been given to you to make. But one cannot make a real choice unless one has been freed of one's own limiting stories and assumptions. It is the creation of that freedom which I am here to facilitate. Convincing you would take away your freedom, not increase it."

  Linda pulled her feet up underneath her bottom and rubbed at her eyes. "Okay," she said after a moment. "And the second mistake?"

  William flashed his eyebrows. "Is thinking that you can rationally determine which choice will achieve the result you wish to see. The fact is, none of us, neither my colleagues nor the aliens with whom we've aligned, know, or can know, how Earth's future will or should play out. This is why the choice has been given to you, as the representative for your species. We are not qualified to speak for humanity."

  "Surely you must know more than I, William."

  "All we know is that, on its current trajectory, the future holds a high probability for the end of human life on the physical Earth, and the extinction of the vast majority of other living species. We also see an alternative path, one which might avert a significant portion of the devastation, and which could achieve for humanity as a whole the cosmic belonging they have long sought. And we see the possibility that, should you fail to deal with the situation on your own, there may be other interested parties who will take action in your stead. Beyond that, I do not know how you should choose. I know only that the choice is yours, and that the choice requires a freedom of thought and feeling which you do not yet possess."

  With a slight shake of his shoulders, the Fisherman relaxed back into his chair and put his hands on his lap. He stared at her, his gaze fierce and piercing, his chin slightly lifted. It felt to Linda like William harbored some measure of guilt or defensiveness about what he'd been tasked to achieve with her, and was pleading his case. She realized that she bore some of the responsibility for that, and made a mental note to drop the chiding tone. The fact was, she still knew too little, to judge fairly whether the Fisherman's actions were warranted or not. She could, for now, give him the benefit of the doubt, and leave her anger and judgment for some future time. Perhaps that would even speed things up.

  A wave of openness passed through her. She could feel her whole being soften. She allowed a warm smile to bloom on her face and nodded gently. There was nothing to do, it seemed, but to proceed.

  "So tell me about The Families," she said.

  10.3

  From the water, Squirrel Island looked at first glance like a peaceful vacation spot, though that notion was soon challenged. The island rose up from rocky beaches and ledges, and was covered with browning pines and hardwoods still mostly leafless in the scorching spring heat. There were a few huge vacation homes dotting the shoreline, one of which had been burned to the ground, with only the brick chimney still standing. There was an old chapel, its steeple standing proudly in the morning sun, defying the forces of change that threatened to render it meaningless. And there was the Presidential compound, now sprawling across the island's southern end, surrounded by high prison fencing and dotted with squat block buildings, new roads, watch towers, radio towers, armored vehicles, and communications dishes.

  Cole and his crew headed due east out of Cape Harbor on a fairly new fishing boat called The Pokey Joker. It was owned and skippered by a young man called Doobie who looked, to Cole, far too young to be operating a boat of this size. Accompanying Cole were Stan and four members of the Church of the Stranger: the local businessman Ken Swathers, the eager young helpers Simon and Keith, and the scarred and eye-patched young mandolin player, Marionette. Sitting in the stern, sick to his stomach, was a heavyset man named Steve Waymax, another church member and a reporter for the Portland Rough Times, who'd come up to chronicle the day's events.

  There was little conversation as they sped eastward, keeping Squirrel Island on their port side as they pushed through the water. They steered northward when they reached Fisherman Island, hugging the shoreline in hopes of cutting down their profile. The synchronicity was not lost on Cole, who wondered if that mysterious phone caller from three years ago was still around, and what he might be up to. Reaching the north end of Fisherman Island, they crossed some choppy open water to the southern tip of a finger of mainland and a quiet spot called Card Cove. Crossing the mouth of another bay brought them to Spruce Point, and then into Boothbay Harbor, with the town of Boothbay Harbor visible on the north end.

  All the while, Cole stood on the port side, both hands on the railing, scanning the jellyfish-laden waters and keeping a stern, watchful eye on Squirrel Island. For all he knew, there were eyes on him as well, binoculars and cameras and even satellites. Cole did not flinch from their gaze. The garbled voice on his phone replayed over and over in his mind. The whole point here was exposure. Cole wanted them to know he was coming.

  But it was deeper than that. Cole felt deeply protective of Linda, who had become much more important to him than he'd ever expected. He did not want to lose her. And he was not going to be held hostage by his own fears. If he did not do whatever he could to protect his wife, life would not be worth living. They were going to have to put a bullet between his eyes to stop him. And that would not play well on the evening news.

  Cole shook his head. He knew what he was up against. He knew that, whatever happened, "they" could make it look however they wanted it to look. And he knew that he and his ragtag band of do-gooders were going up against the powers of the secret state. Who was he kidding?

  And yet he'd caught a bullet in mid-air. And there was fire in his hands. And there was help from unexpected quarters. Stan. Ken. These Church members. Even a young lady with an eyepatch. Cole inhaled deeply and exhaled loudly, trying to calm his anxious soul. They had Linda. That was the thing to focus on. They had Linda. He wanted her back. It felt crazy to his rational mind, what he was doing, but it also felt right and true.

  The Pokey Joker pulled into a small marina in Boothbay Harbor just long enough to get more fuel, then put back out into the bay, this time heading south, straight for Squirrel Island. Cole moved around to the bow and faced into the breeze. Stan came and stood next to him. Together, they watched as the boat sped toward their destination.

  10.4

  The Colonel picked up the phone. "You got this?" It was the General. McAfee hadn't heard from him since he'd gone to ground, but he knew that voice anywhere.

  "We've got eyes all over him," replied McAfee. "They'll turn him away at the pier. Should be a no-brainer, Sir."

  "No-brainer is an appropriate euphemism for soldiers, Colonel. Make sure you're instructions are clear and complete." The General had never been one to mince words or make small talk.

  "Yes, Sir," said McAfee. "Can I ask where-"

  "You may not ask, Colonel. You may hang up now and discharge your duties."

  "No need to worry, Sir," said McAfee.

  "I'm not the one who needs to worry here, Colonel." The General fell silent but did not hang up.

  McAfee waited, then cleared his throat and spoke. "Will it be soon, Sir?" he asked.

  "Everything will be soon, Colonel," said the General. "And if I may... a piece of advice."

  "Yessir?" said McAfee.r />
  "Get your rain gear out," said the General. He hung up.

  McAfee clicked off his phone and placed it on the counter. He'd have to speak with Osterman right away. Nicky jumped up and sniffed at the phone, then looked at his human. McAfee reached out and scratched the cat under the chin. "The General says we might have some rain, Nicky my boy," he said in a mock-serious tone, his face an overdrawn frown. "Do you have your galoshes?"

  Nicky, embarrassed for the Colonel, closed his eyes and just enjoyed the scratching.

  10.5

  Mihos sat still, eyes closed, overwhelmed with sensation. Emily called back to him to keep up. The cat opened his eyes and did his best to follow. This wasn't like before. In fact, this wasn't like any place Mihos had ever visited. He'd seen some crazy shit in his nine lives, but he'd never been anywhere like this. Is this what dogs experience all the time? That would explain why they were so nuts. This level was insane.

  Visually, it was a mess. No color to speak of, save for a faint, pastel tendril now and then. Otherwise, black and white and gray all over. But it was the corners and edges that really got to him. All pinched and squeezed. And everything was covered with patterns: shapes and squiggles and lines and grids, all just... buzzing. And the thing was, Mihos couldn't exert any control over it. In other layers and modes, he could switch things around at will: what he perceived, how he perceived it, things like that. Here, once they'd all followed Dennis into Doggyworld, they were stuck. It was like the tribe of Wolf had its own little amusement park here in the Astral, and once you bought a ticket, you were on the ride until it came to a full and complete stop. Please keep your paws inside the car at all times.