Rumi's Field (None So Blind Book 2)

by Timothy Scott Bennett

  The front door opened and in walked a young couple. They stopped just inside the door and surveyed the room. But not for a table. For a person. The man was well built, with closely cropped hair and a steady gaze. Military, from the looks of him, though he was dressed in civilian clothing. That might be his connection point. The woman was short and quirky, with black and purple hair, a pierced eyebrow, and a tattoo on her wrist. Her chin jutted slightly forward, giving her a defiant air that Sinclair liked immediately. The woman spotted Sinclair and raised an eyebrow. Sinclair smiled. The woman took the man by the elbow and ushered him back to Sinclair's table. They came to a stop in front of him.

  "Coffee?" asked Sinclair, brandishing his cup.

  "Please," said the man. He stuck out his hand to shake. "Danny Sparks," he said. He gestured toward the woman with his head. "This is the Bastard."

  Sinclair smiled at the name, raising an eyebrow. He gestured toward the chairs. "Please. Sit." He waved down the waitress, held up his cup, and gestured for two more. The waitress went to get the coffees. Sinclair returned his attention to the couple. "So. You know who I am. Tell me how you know that." He smiled slightly.

  Danny nodded. "I'm a security operative with BlackBay, Sir," he said. "The Bastard here does network analysis. Same company. London office. She's got... connections. Enough to get a message through to you." The waitress brought two more coffees and placed them soundlessly on the table.

  Sinclair turned his attention to the young woman. "Network analysis?" he asked.

  "Yes."

  "Multi-band?"

  The woman nodded. "Yes."

  "qputer?"

  "Some," she said. "Sims only."

  Sinclair nodded. "Why 'the Bastard'?" he asked.

  "Gina Devonne Baster," she explained. "Ginny de Bastard. G.D. Bastard. Goddamned Bastard. You get the idea. The name stuck."

  Sinclair smiled politely, then turned his attention to Danny. "Contacts wouldn't get you to me specifically unless you knew I existed. I assume your knowledge of me is one piece of evidence to back up your claim?"

  Danny nodded. "It is, Sir. This is another." He held up his phone, to show a photo of Gabrielle he'd snapped at the hospital.

  Sinclair glanced at the snapshot, then back at Danny. "So where is she now?" he asked.

  "On an airplane, Sir," said Danny. "On her way to meet you.” He glanced down, unsure how the older man would respond to this news.

  Sinclair's eyes widened. "To meet me?" he said. "You mean in Ottawa?"

  Danny shook his head. "Pripyat," he said, taking a risk that their analysis was correct. He looked Sinclair in the eye to gage his reaction. "Urbem Orsus," he added.

  Sinclair's brow furrowed. "But how can she-?"

  "I told them, Sir," said Danny.

  Sinclair shook his head in disbelief. "You know about Urbem Orsus?" he asked.

  Danny nodded. "I do, Sir, yes," he said. "A bit. Just rumors. Enough to put things together." He glanced at the Bastard, reaching out to take her hand. "We do."

  Sinclair exhaled loudly and shook his head. "I told them it was a mistake to give it a name," he muttered. He sighed again, looked at the Bastard. "You give a place a name, all of a sudden people start putting it on the map." He rolled his eyes, then looked at Danny. "So you told her," he said. It wasn't a question. "How did you meet her?"

  "I figured you might be looking for her," said Danny. "And I was there when the President was rescued from Squirrel Island."

  Sinclair did a double take. "I'm sorry, my dear man, but you were what?" he said. His face reddened.

  Danny shrugged. "I figured you knew, Sir," he said. "She and her husband on are their way to meet you as well."

  Sinclair could hardly speak. "Tell me," he managed to say in a choked voice.

  Danny glanced at the Bastard, then back to Sinclair. "Just one thing, Sir," he said.

  Sinclair frowned. "What?"

  "We want in," said Danny.

  "You want in where?" said Sinclair with a frown.

  "We want in on the Giant Leap," said the Bastard. “And the real deal. Not your phony ‘Second Wave.’”

  Sinclair opened his mouth and moved his lips like a fish, but no words came out. He looked from the man to the woman and back again. They knew about the Giant Leap? And the Second Wave? And Linda Travis was still alive? And she and Gabrielle were coming to him? None of it made sense. But all of it felt like a massive door swinging wide open. He'd deal with these two first. Sure. Let 'em in. She had qputer training. He'd make a good bodyguard. Why the hell not?

  Then, he'd need a bit of time to think.

  17.17

  Ted took another card and moved his piece forward three spaces, close to the Wibble Wobble Duck Pond. He looked at Carl. "I think I was liking the Scrabble better," he said.

  "So why did you change it?" asked Carl.

  Ted shook his head. "I didn't know I was, at the time. Or that I was changing it to something from my childhood."

  "Well, it did spur some memories that broke things open," said Carl.

  "Yeah," Ted nodded. "But that's done now. So what game do we need next, to get us out of this joint?"

  Carl thought about that or a bit. "Some say that we have to integrate what we learned from our past life here in this in-between place. Others say we make plans for what we want to work on next."

  "Did that, yo," said Ted. He counted off on his fingers. "Don't be an evil prick. Check. Don't torture the President. Check. Don't pick screwed up parents. Check." He looked up at Carl and grinned. "Ain't I the quick learner?"

  Carl smiled in return. "You may need a bit more sincerity than that if you want the Great Pumpkin to visit, Ted," he said.

  Ted scoffed. "Seems like if I was dead and the whole reincarnation thing was true, then I'd also be remembering a bunch of other past lives right now too."

  "So maybe that's not what this is. Or maybe that's not how it works," said Carl.

  Ted opened his mouth to retort, then thought better of it. He sighed. "So you got any ideas?"

  "I'm just thinking about how you picked up the Scrabble game and when you put it back down it was this game," said Carl. "Like, we have some power here, if we can figure out how to use it. Power to create things. Change things."

  Ted raised an eyebrow. "Maybe like we can think ourselves a new door out of here or something?" He turned and looked at the old door that had always been there, but which had never opened. "Or maybe a key for that one?" He turned back to Carl.

  Carl winked. "Maybe."

  Ted swiveled his head and stared at the wall. "Gotta be more fun than this game," he said. He stared for a good long while.

  Chapter Eighteen

  18.1

  Zacharael's people had a natural ability to slide around the edges of the present moment and view short distances into both past and future. It was almost second nature for them, like a strange sort of peripheral vision, and Zacharael paid it great attention as he monitored the situation on his Beloved Earth, and made his moves. These views of past and future were fuzzy, at best, given the natures of time and reality, but they were better than nothing, and often helped him make choices that might otherwise stump him.

  From where he stood now, he saw no advantage in responding to Gabrielle's request. To do so would reveal to her that she could, indeed, contact him at will, and that he could be influenced by her needs and desires. That would change the nature of their relationship in ways Zacharael was uncertain would be wise. It would also take focus away from what he considered was Gabrielle's primary role, which was to make choices in response to the actions of the President Travis. Zacharael saw that the loss, or rescue, of the boy child might significantly influence the President Travis's actions with regard to both the human Families and the current pandemic, but the Primary Rule, and his own inability to foresee the correct choices, made him loath to involve himself in that matter.

  There was a reason the President Travis had been chosen for this role, rather than
Zacharael. Were it up to him, Zacharael would have taken the obvious actions necessary to serve the best interests of the Beloved, the humans be damned. But the history of reality had taught him the folly of such intervention. The evolution of consciousness must be served at all costs. Even the highest cost.

  Zacharael would act with restraint.

  Even if The Sages might not.

  18.2

  The small private jet, flown by a pair of ex-military American pilots Stan had procured, touched down at the Woodbridge Airfield, the recently-closed remnant of the old RAF Woodbridge military airfield, site of the famous UFO encounter in the nearby woods of Rendlesham Forest. The Woodbridge Airfield had been used for Army Air Corps training until the Christmas Crash put it out of commission, after which time it had sat mostly idle, save for the occasional private flight such as this one, where secrecy was at a premium. The US government contributed a small amount for the maintenance of the airstrips.

  Waiting near the runway as the jet came to a stop was a black stretch limousine, which Linda assumed would contain some representative of Mr. Bluebird's, or Mr. Bluebird himself, come to make sure they made their connection. Their second flight would be made in the significantly larger private jet already sitting on the nearby approach strip. It would be a matter of walking fifty yards or so and they'd be on their way. Unless Mr. Bluebird felt it necessary to speak with them. Linda glanced at her watch. It was going on ten in the morning now, local time. The sun was hot and hazy. What she most wanted was a quick shower and some breakfast, and she hoped this new plane would provide her with both. She needed to scrub the exhaustion and sleep from her face.

  Cole stood and grabbed their backpacks from the overhead. The others rose slowly and stiffly and grabbed their own gear. After her short nap, Annabelle finally looked as beat and bleary-eyed as the rest of them, and Linda gave her a smile, hoping to ease the old woman's suspicion and establish a note of camaraderie. Marionette had to jiggle Doobie awake.

  The pilots, one tall and thin, the other short and dark, crawled out of the cockpit and opened the door and deployed the stairway. Warm, moist air flooded into the cabin from outside as the travelers made their way to the doorway and out into the morning sun. The distant tree line was brown and mostly leafless, as it had been back in Augusta. The grass was dead. The sea, two or three miles to the east, glinted gray and white in the haze.

  Linda started down the stairs, Cole right behind her. The Church folk followed, with Gabrielle in the rear. The President stopped at the bottom, hitched her pack up over her shoulder, and covered her eyes to shade them while she stared at the limo. Nobody got out of the long, black-windowed vehicle, so Linda turned to grab Cole's hand and make her way to the other plane. This jet was of Ukraine origin, if Mr. Bluebird was to be believed, and would be piloted by British pilots. Apparently Stan had access to a network of ex-military secret operatives whom he felt he could trust to keep their secrets. Linda was glad she had Stan on her side.

  But trustworthy or not, these operatives were unable to prevent, or stop, what happened next. As the group of weary travelers were half-way between the two planes, a small, silver disc, a wok like the one she'd ridden just the morning before, appeared out of nowhere in the sky above them and performed three acts. The first was to fire a sharp beam of white-hot light down onto the plane they were headed towards, igniting an explosion that sent a huge fireball into the sky. The second was to shoot another sharp beam at the plane from which they had just departed, exploding that one as well. The third was to shoot a third beam down toward the travelers themselves. This one was wider. It was blue. And it grabbed Gabrielle and pulled her, screaming and kicking, into the air above their heads, up toward the wok, and inside. It was over in a matter of moments. The blue beam retracted back into the wok. The wok flared bright white against the blue sky and was gone so quickly that the human eye could barely detect its motion as it headed east, out over the water.

  18.3

  Mary slid out of bed and checked her watch. It was only three in the morning, but she could not sleep any longer. She stood, checked to make sure there was no dizziness waiting to trip her up, then pulled on her sweat pants and t-shirt and slippers and headed down the hallway to the common area, careful to make as little noise as possible, so as not to wake Ness or the kids. She stepped into the kitchen to leave a note on the pad on the counter, then walked to the docking chamber and pushed the call button, as the Middle Children had taught her. In less than a minute she felt the gentle touch of a wok as it melded with the nullspace dock. A few seconds later the chamber door slid open, revealing the wok's interior and an operator, an older woman with strange slanted eyes, perfect skin, and long, straight red hair. Mary stepped into the wok. "I'd like to go to MaineCentral Hospital, please," she said with a smile. The operator nodded and took her to the hospital.

  Pushing through the double entrance doors, Mary made her way up to the isolation ward and Keeley's room. She'd visited her partner just before bed, finding her awake and eating and feeling much better. She'd brought Keeley up to date, and told her of any current developments. Keeley, though tired, had seemed to be clear-headed, and had asked good questions that got to the heart of the situations.

  Mary was just reaching down for the handle when the door opened inward, revealing a short, female nurse in scrubs. Mary smiled as the nurse stepped out into the hallway, then entered the anteroom. With their new understanding about Greensleeves and how it was triggered from the outside, rather than spread by infection, the containment procedures around Keeley had been greatly relaxed. Mary donned a mask and gloves, but it was more a precaution against the unknown than as a protection against the alien flu. She looked through the glass and smiled. Not only was Keeley awake, but she was watching the television.

  Mary stepped into the main room and waved. "Hi, sweetie," she said, walking quickly to the bedside. There were tears of relief streaking Mary's face before she could get there. "You're looking so much better."

  Keeley returned Mary's smile and used the remote to mute the TV, then reached up to comb her hair back with her fingers. "Hi," she said, her voice still raspy from the effects of the flu. "You're up early. Or late.

  "Couldn't sleep," said Mary, sitting on the bed and reaching to take Keeley's hand. "Thought I'd come sit with you. Didn't realize I'd actually get to talk with you." She sighed deeply. Keeley's illness had terrified her. This was the most normal Keeley had seemed since she first got sick.

  "Me either," said Keeley, sipping some water. "Seems like all I've done for the past week is sleep." She gestured toward the TV with a wave of her hand. "And I wanted to catch up a bit."

  Mary turned to glance at the TV, seeing some talking head yammering, with photos and video of Linda Travis playing in the background. She turned to Keeley. "Probably a constant string of... memorials and retrospectives," she ventured.

  Keeley nodded. "Yep. It's amazing how beloved somebody becomes once they're dead. I've got the nurses recording it all for later. Linda might think it's a hoot." She drank some more. "Any word from our girl?"

  Mary shook her head. "Nothing yet. They should be in London about now. Then it's another three or four hours to Kiev. Assuming it all goes as planned, she'll be getting to Chernobyl by breakfast time here."

  "I'm sure Stan's got comm systems set up with his pilots and contacts. He'll be monitoring the whole thing," said Keeley.

  "Yeah," said Mary.

  "Stan doing okay?"

  Mary cocked her head. "Seems... to be in his element," she said. "He's getting that new doctor set up to analyze the contents of the vial. And he's holding Fort Simpson's hand when the Speaker deals with the press."

  Keeley gestured toward her face, now mostly clear of the rash. "Seems whatever's in that vial works," she said.

  Mary sat and tuned in to Keeley's field for a moment, then nodded. "It's mostly gone now," she said. "Your years of... eating hippie food paid off, my dear. You didn't have much of the virus in
you to begin with."

  Keeley put down her water and took Mary's hand in both of hers. "So how are you doing?" she asked.

  Mary inhaled sharply and closed her eyes. "I don't know," she said, shaking her head from side to side. "I'm just... I've been so worried..." She opened her eyes and looked at Keeley. "About you. And Linda. And the girls. All of it. And... and I..." She sighed again and stopped.

  "And Iain," prompted Keeley. She sighed gently. "Any word on him?"

  Mary shook her head but said nothing. She wiped a tear from her eye with a gloved hand.

  Keeley nodded once. "Nothing yet," she said. "We'll have to give them time."

  Mary looked down at her lap. "Danny's gone," she said. "I hardly had a chance to speak with him and now he's gone." She looked at Keeley. "Stole a wok, the Middle Children said, though how somebody could steal a wok from under their noses I have no idea. And I don't know what it means."

  "You worried he's working against us?" asked Keeley.

  "We just... it was all so confusing. There he was, on Squirrel Island, and we just included him, because he's... my brother. Just let him in. No questions asked. It was all... so hurried and confusing and stressful. But he still works for BlackBay. And his field was full of walls and secrets and... And then he disappears?" Mary exhaled loudly. "Yeah, I'm worried."

  "You think he can hurt us?" asked Keeley. "You think he would?"

  "I don't know, sweetie," said Mary. "I just... we were always so close. Up ‘til the time I left to work with Linda and he stayed with them. Now I don't know if I even know him anymore." Mary glanced over her shoulder at the television, then back to Keeley. "He could tell the world that Linda's still alive."

  Keeley raised a shoulder as if it wouldn't matter. "My guess is that they already know. I mean, there's no teeling who all saw her escape. And they've still got operatives in the Astral, so they can confirm it that way. Maybe it suits their purposes to just let her stay dead, as far as the public is concerned." Keeley stopped, closed her eyes, and shook her head. "I can't keep it all straight, sweetie," she said. "Too many players, and I don't have a program."