Ness did not see the faces of the children as the purple light danced and changed above them. She did not see the sky outside of their hospital room window, how the clouds were building up, dark and active. She did not hear the military jet as it roared over Augusta, on its way to who knows where. And she did not see the two nurses, when they looked at each other and did the thing they so rarely did, which was smile. She did not see them duck back out and softly close the door.
And yet the Other-than-Ness saw all of this, for Ness's eyes still worked, even with her soul gone to bliss, and the Other could use them. The Other saw the smiling nurses and the pulsing sphere and the passing fighter. The Other regarded the young bodies lying safely in their gurneys. And the Other was pleased with how well it was all working out.
11.3
"So am I correct in assuming that The Families is composed of actual families?"
The Fisherman nodded. "Indeed you are, Madam," he replied. "The Families' most fundamental motive is to protect and serve the interests of their own bloodlines. And those bloodlines, and that interest in protecting them, go back many, many centuries. As a general rule, The Families have no particular loyalty to any nation, flag, or company. They simply use such things when it suits their purposes. Family members have worked in every level, from government and corporate roles in the public and hidden layers to leadership roles in most of the so-called 'secret societies' I named earlier."
"These are like the old rich we've known about for a long time, right? The Rockefellers and DuPonts and Vanderbilts and Rothschilds and such."
"Certainly," agreed the Fisherman. "Though your examples are skewed to the European and American. The Families come from all over the globe, and some play very far under the radar. Not all members have a famous moniker. One's bloodline and allegiance is not determined solely by the last name on a birth certificate."
"So 'protecting the bloodlines' isn't as strict as the phrase might imply, then," said Linda.
William nodded. "Not as strict," he repeated. "The old interest in bloodlines has lessened as we've figured out who and what it is we're dealing with. But there is inertia in the system. And protecting one's own family is a very ancient bit of genetic programming. While the definition of a Family member has relaxed somewhat, and while The Families' plans now includes some with little or no blood relation, the name still suits us. Family members are still at the center of it."
Linda shifted in her chair. "And The Families became a separate, secret group long ago."
"Indeed," agreed William. "Though there have been analysts who have divined our existence, it's really only the members of The Families who understand what we are up to. And since The Families, like many other secret societies, have a great many different layers, or levels, or degrees, then it's only those in the innermost circles who have the whole picture."
"And... what... ? You guys in the inner circle keep a mummified demon's horn in a glass case in a Swiss vault or something?"
William grinned. "We do indeed," he said. "Next to the Virgin Mary's training bra and Kennedy's still-living brain. We'll show them to you for the right price. For an extra pound we'll reveal the true identity of Jack the Ripper and give you the present whereabouts of both Waldo and Carmen Sandiego."
"Ah," said Linda. "Such a deal."
"Right," said the Fisherman with a smile.
"So that leaves us with this, William," said Linda. "You said that things changed once you figured out who it is you're dealing with. I assume you mean the aliens. And I assume you have much more to say about them. So, exactly whom are we dealing with?"
"Ah..." said William.
11.4
Paul DuPont hit 'play' and sat back in his chair. The Directorate had ordered an expanded Linda Travis presence in the media, both to stir the pot at the summit and to moderate growing fears regarding the Quietus. DuPont had already prepared some appropriate text, so it had taken only a moment to edit her statement and load her performance. It was once again show time for the VLT.
Which was damned disturbing, when DuPont thought about it. The orders could only mean more delays with the Plan. Otherwise, it'd be 'off the bitch!' and 'adios muchachos.' Delays were one thing. The Plan had been in place for decades now, after all, and the Grid had thrown everything off kilter. But there was a Category 6 brewing off to the southeast now, and DuPont would really rather be elsewhere when it hit.
Once again, Paul DuPont had to face the fact that he didn't understand what Project Changeling was even for. Not really. Like, the Plan was to gather everybody in, punch through the Grid, and leave this hellhole behind, but not before cleaning it up a bit for the next renters. So why hadn't they just taken Travis out in an 'accident'? Why make her the hopey-changey poster girl for the Quietus? And why go to the expense and trouble of creating and operating this grand charade, this virtual Linda Travis? Was it just showing off? Was it revenge? Was it all according to some esoteric system, some occult ritual timetable, like the old-timers still followed? DuPont wasn't into the occult stuff, but he understood showing off, and he knew revenge. It was cool as hell, driving the VLT and pulling the wool over the eyes of Sheeple who were too stupid to save themselves. But, really, enough was enough, wasn't it? Sure. They wanted to keep their options open. Fine. Keep the old girl on ice. But c'mon...
DuPont sighed and shook his head. He hated it when he fell into a rant like this. Not that anybody would ever know. It wasn't like he was chipped or something. But because it clouded his clarity and threw him off his game. In the end, he had to just trust the Directorate. As frustrated as he was, they had to be far more so. They would pull this all off as soon as they could. In the meantime, they needed him and his team where they were. For whatever reasons. Fine. They'd all been immunized, and they lived in an underground bunker. They'd be fine. And they'd do their part for the greater good, whether they wanted to or not. That's how it worked. You served the Plan before all else.
The screen flickered to life and Paul reached out to turn up the volume. The chairwoman had granted the U.S. President the floor.
11.5
Cole and Stan and their crew had pushed together a couple of tables on the Thieving Seagull's expansive deck and ordered three pitchers of Macy's home brew. The wind was picking up, bringing a bit of relief from the midday heat. The beer helped soothe their parched throats and ruffled feathers. The power had gone out again, but the home brew was still pretty cold.
"I don't know, Stan," said Cole quietly, shaking his head. "I'm not sure it's time yet for covert ops."
"I know," said Stan with a heavy sigh. "I'm just really pissed."
"You have any luck on the phone?" asked Marionette. She took a long swig of her beer and placed her glass heavily on the table. She looked around the deck. They were the only ones there.
"Bastards just kept me on hold," answered Stan, shaking his head. "I left this number, but I don't expect them to do me the courtesy of returning my call."
"But you're the-"
"They cut me out of the loop when they took the President into custody," interrupted Stan. "Since then, I can't get the goddamned Postmaster to return my calls."
"Custody..." mused Ken. "Right." He looked at Stan. "You're right. It's a sham. She's probably not even-"
"The flu ain't a sham, Ken," said Cole. "You're wife's sister..."
Ken stopped and exhaled and shook his head in wonder. "The whole thing stinks." He gestured southward over his shoulder, in the direction of his house. "You hear about the crop circle that appeared in the field across from my place?" he asked. "Celia saw it yesterday late afternoon when she went to the isolation ward to visit Beth."
Stan glanced at Cole and raised an eyebrow. "You think it's them, screwing around with us again?" he asked. He pointed toward the sky.
Cole raised his shoulders. "Wouldn't surprise me," he said.
"Anybody seen that Steve fella?" asked Simon, looking around the deck. He and Keith were already on their second beers.
Cole pointed toward the doors leading back into the pub. "On the phone," he said. "Filing his story."
Andrew, who ran the Thieving Seagull with his wife Macy, came out onto the deck with a small portable radio in his hands. "You need to hear this," he said, placing the device on the table in front of Cole. Everybody quieted to listen.
"... for two whole days now and I'm beginning to think I'm at a poker game."
"It's the President!" said Marionette.
"Shhhh!!" said Cole sharply.
"I mean, listen to yourselves. 'I'll do this if you do that.' 'I'll give you what you want when you give me what I want.' 'You go first and then we'll follow.' It's maddening. And I'm sitting here in this hospital cell thinking 'really?' Really? Is this the best we've got? Cuz we have people that need food and water, folks. We've got nuclear plants spewing radiation into the atmosphere. We've got diseases moving across the land. We've got rogue militaries and insane leaders battling for land and resources. We've got summer coming. As hot as it is right now, it's going to get hotter. And what I want to know is: what are you going to do to help matters, regardless of what anybody else does?"
There was a break in Linda's speech as she cleared her throat. "The doctor's tell me I may make it through this. Who knows? Maybe I've reached the bottom and am on my way back up. But I gotta say, if I pull through this, I may just renounce my candidacy and let somebody else do this job. Cuz I'm tired of it. I'm tired of feeling like I'm working alone. I'm tired of the politics. And I'm tired of people who just don't seem to want to understand the situation we're in."
The radio fell silent for a moment, then a reporter broke in to say that the American President had stopped speaking and had slumped in her chair, apparently feeling dizzy from her exertion. Cole listened intently as the announcer described how two nurses had come into her room and were helping her to her bed. The live feed from Squirrel Island was terminated. All they could do now was speculate.
Cole clicked off the radio and gazed out across the harbor, peering at the island in the distance. Something rose to prominence in his heart, a blob of relief and anger and fear. Linda was doing better? That news allowed him to feel just how much raw emotion he'd been holding inside. A few tears welled up in his eyes and he wiped them away, then turned and looked at the others gathered there together: his crew. "So," he said gravely, "what do we try next?"
11.6
On the third floor of MaineCentral Hospital was the isolation ward. At the end of the central hallway of the isolation ward was a negative-pressure room. Around the room pulsed a nullspace field.
Inside the room was a hospital bed. In the bed, with an IV in her left arm, lay a sleeping Keeley Benedict, President Travis's Chief-of-Staff. Through Keeley's veins and tissues moved the disease known as the "alien flu" or "Greensleeves."
Hanging from the ceiling of Keeley's room was a television, its sound turned down low. Standing in the room's corner near the door were two nurses, watching Keeley in silence. One nurse was the tall, thin man with a shaved head and fierce, golden eyes. The other nurse was the tiny woman with dark, wide eyes. Neither nurse wore any sort of protective gear.
"... still no word on the American President's condition at this time. Summit Chairman Ban Mogul-Stoward expresses his hopes and prayers for the President's quick recovery and vows that Summit attendees will continue their deliberations in her absence..." said the television, gravely.
"THE DISEASE VECTOR CANNOT HARM US," said the golden-eyed man. He made no sound. His mind spoke to hers.
"IT WAS CREATED FOR HUMANS,” answered the wide-eyed woman.
"... are beginning to worry that it's the alien flu talking and not their President..." said the television, incredulously.
"WE WERE CAUGHT BY SURPRISE," explained the wide-eyed woman.
"THE TRUTH WAS KEPT FROM US BY BOTH OF OUR PARENTS," said the golden-eyed man.
"... Coming up next: the earliest Atlantic hurricane ever? Stay tuned for details about the storm now brewing off the Mid-Atlantic coast..." said the television, worriedly.
"AS WE HAVE WITHHELD OUR TRUTH FROM THEM," said the wide-eyed woman.
“AND AS WE HAVE KEPT THE TRUTH FROM MS HAYES,” agreed the golden-eyed man. He raised an eyebrow.
“… you’ll love the new MexiCali Pop-Ums,” said the television, confidently.
“THE RUSE WAS NOT OUR IDEA,” said the wide-eyed woman.
“YET THE GOAL IS ONE WITH WHICH WE ALIGN,” said the golden-eyed man.
“… Sandbox brand cat litter: now with blue spice crystals…” said the television, slightly embarrassed.
“NOW WE WAIT,” said the golden-eyed man.
"UNTIL WE ARE FULLY IN POSITION," agreed the wide-eyed woman.
"... Side-effects can include nausea, fatigue, and headaches. So ask your doctor about..." said the television, assertively.
"THE SUBSTITUTION HAS PROCEEDED WITHOUT NOTICE," asked the wide-eyed woman.
"BY NIGHTFALL WE SHALL HAVE THE CITY," said the golden-eyed man.
"... Tonight on ACN's Manic Monday, the season finale of None So Blind..." said the television, excitedly.
The nurses stood and watched and contemplated their new situation. Keeley moaned and fluttered her eyelids for a moment. "My love," she whispered, her words so soft that even the nurses had to strain to hear them. She slipped into a deeper sleep and went still. Her face softened into a slight smile. The nurses looked at each other and then exited the nullified room.
"... We go now to P.J. Numan in Atlantic Beach, North Carolina... P.J.?..." said the television.
As always, the television had the last word.
11.7
Mihos looked up at the sound of Grace calling out "whoopsy!" to see the girl disappear before his eyes. It looked like she'd been sucked into a vacuum cleaner hose, a phenomenon the cat was familiar with in his other life. One second, she was reaching out toward what might have been a tree branch, the next second she was gone.
"Grace!" yelled Iain, stepping into the spot she'd just occupied.
Dennis turned and barked. "No!" he said. Iain stepped back.
"What happened?" asked Emily in a panic.
Dennis shook his head. "Make chain," he said sharply.
Iain and Emily exchanged glances. Iain shook his head in confusion. "I don't know-"
"Chain," said Dennis. "Cat. Me. You. Emily." He pointed his muzzle toward each of them in turn.
Mihos, comprehending the dog's plan, stepped forward. "Got it," he said to Dennis. He looked at the others. "Grace must've touched the edge of the Murk and gotten drawn in," he explained. "If we hurry, we may be able to pull her back out." He stepped in front of Dennis. The dog grabbed Mihos' tail firmly but gently with his teeth. "Iain, you hold onto Dennis's tail. Emily, take Iain's hand. Then hold your ground. Underdog and I are going in." Without waiting for a response, Mihos turned and stepped into the space where Grace had last been seen.
There. Behind that branch. That was what the edge of the Murk looked like here when one got close: a shifting patch of brightness not unlike the static one might see on a television screen. Mihos reached up with his nose to touch the bright patch. He was immediately pulled into the blackness.
"Grace?" said Mihos. "Dennis?"
"Here," said Dennis. From somewhere. There was no in front of here. No behind. And certainly no sensation of the dog's teeth on Mihos' tail.
"I'm here," came the sound of Grace's voice. It was fainter than the dog's voice. Did that mean she was further away? It must.
Mihos opened his eyes wide and willed them to be as bright as was possible. "Grace? Can you see my eyes?"
"Yes!" said Grace, in this place where no mouth said anything, where no breath made a sound.
"Do you remember how you followed my eyes before?" asked Mihos.
"No," answered Grace. "I don't know how-"
"But you did it, Grace," said Mihos.
"Did it," repeated Dennis.
"So just do it ag
ain," said the cat.
"Okay," said Grace. Was her voice louder now? Maybe. Mihos couldn't tell.
"Do you know how to get us back out of here, Dennis?" asked Mihos.
"Wag tail," said Dennis.
"What?" said Mihos. "How can I wag my tail? I can't even feel my tail!"
"Me," said Dennis.
"Am I closer?" said Grace.
"You sound closer," answered Mihos. "Dennis? You can feel your tail here?"
"No," said Dennis. "Can wag though."
"Your eyes are close now," said Grace. Her voice was stronger.
"Can you reach out and grab my paw?" asked Mihos.
"I don't have any hands!" said Grace.
"Understood, girl. And I don't have a paw. But if Dennis can wag a tail he doesn't have, surely you can reach out a hand you don't have and grab a paw that I don't have, right?"
Grace was silent for a long moment. Then she spoke, her voice closer than ever. "Okay," she said. "I got it."
"You got it?" asked Mihos. "I don't feel-"
"I thought we were imagining," said Grace. Her voice sounded afraid.
"Right," said Mihos. "I forgot. Okay. I got your hand." Mihos inhaled sharply. "Okay. Dennis? You ready?"
"Ready," said Dennis.
"Start wagging!" said Mihos.
"Wagging," said Dennis.
The three of them waited together in silence for a moment, then slammed their eyes shut against the brightness that assaulted them as they popped back into Doggyworld. There were the five of them, all in a row, connected together with hands and feet and paws and jaws and tails. "It worked!" exclaimed Iain. "We pulled 'em out!" He started laughing. Emily called out with surprise and gladness. Dennis gently released Mihos' tail from his teeth and stepped forward to lick Grace's face.
Mihos sat on his haunches and started licking his tail. "Dog spit," he muttered. "Criminy."
11.8
"Cotton candy?" said Mary, one eyebrow raised. "Why you spending money on that?"
Rumi's Field (None So Blind Book 2) Page 35
