by Karen Haber
Alanna protested that she had too much to do. Couldn’t we wait until April or May? I assured her that there was simply too much to be discussed right now.
We met the next afternoon in the small conference room on the ground floor of B.W. headquarters. It was a sunny day in early spring and the sounds of drilling and other noises from construction of a new wing for the museum filtered into the room.
“Well, Julian?” Alanna stared at me pointedly. “What’s so important?”
“It’s really quite simple,” I said. “Betty and I want you out of Better World by tonight. We’d prefer that you go of your own free will, but we are prepared to vote you out, if necessary.”
Alanna gasped. Then, recovering quickly, she glared at me in annoyance. “You’re joking,” she said. “What’s gotten into you, Julian? Are you finished wasting my time or do you have any other funny little things that you’d like to share with me?”
Betty said nothing.
Alanna’s face turned a slightly deeper shade of green. “You’re not serious about this? I don’t believe it. You’ve both lost your minds. Together.”
“I’m sorry,” Betty said.
“I don’t want sympathy,” Alanna shot back. “Sanity, yes. Just give me one good reason why I should leave.”
“Because of your role in the conspiracy, of course,” Betty said.
“Conspiracy? What conspiracy?”
Betty looked pained and confused. She turned to me for succor, but cruelly—out of cowardice, I suppose—I let her deliver the actual blow.
“You know very well,” Betty said. “The plan you hatched to let Rick die so that Better World would have a martyr and you could write Rick’s Way.”
“What?” Alanna stood up. She looked astounded, flabbergasted. “Is that what you think? No. No, it’s not possible. You can’t be that crazy. What is this all about?
“Don’t sound so innocent,” I said.
“You’re really serious,” Alanna said, in wonder. “And, Betty, you’re in on this, too. I can hardly believe it. Do you actually think I wanted Rick dead?”
“Well, yes,” Betty said. “Wasn’t I clear on that point? You ruthlessly forced Rick to his death.”
“My God.” Alanna’s eyes were wide. “I’m almost glad Rick is gone. He absolutely would not believe this either.”
Feeling like an absolute heel, I said, “Spare me the sentiment, Alanna.”
Astonishment flickered across Alanna’s face again. “Why are you both trying to do this to me?”
Betty looked momentarily stunned by Alanna’s outburst and I decided I had better move matters along. “There’s no doubt about it,” I said. “It’s obvious that you were planning this from the start, undermining Rick’s health, encouraging him to push himself without rest, without medical attention—”
“Julian, you know that’s not true.”
I continued as though I had not heard her. “Without medical attention, working long hours, holding mass healings everywhere.”
“This is absurd,” Alanna said. “These are insane lies. Why in the world would you think I would ever do such a thing?”
“To consolidate your power in Better World. And to provide the definitive version of Rick in Rick’s Way.” I stared at her, daring her to prove me wrong. “To control his legacy.”
She laughed mirthlessly. “That’s it, really. This isn’t about my part in some supposed death plot. This is all about Rick’s Way, isn’t it? About control. You can’t possibly think I wanted Rick dead. I loved him, and you know it.”
“You did, once,” I said. “But you also had ambitions of your own that you were forced to abandon for Rick’s dream. You wanted to write, Alanna. And now you have an audience of hundreds of thousands for your work.”
Alanna seemed struck dumb by this. She shook her head in either disagreement or amazement. “Let me get this straight,” she said, after a moment. “I wanted Rick to die so I could take over Better World and resume my aborted literary career by writing Rick’s Way?”
“You wanted to build a god,” I said.
“But Julian,” Betty said, “I don’t understand. Rick is a god already, isn’t he? Yes, of course he is.” She nodded docilely, mindlessly, and I restrained a shudder of out-and-out horror.
“That’s precisely what he is, Betty,” Alanna said. “Never doubt it.” She turned toward me. “No, Julian, I won’t play by your rules. But thanks, anyway.”
Angry words boiled within me, and with them, self-loathing. What role had I taken on here? How could I cavalierly treat friends and family as pawns? I had never intended, never wanted to use people in this way. But the game had gone too far. There was no retreating from my position now without creating a civil war within Better World. Either Alanna had to leave or else knuckle under to my control.
“If you don’t clear out of here I’ll have you removed by force. Reluctantly.”
“You would if you could,” she said, crossing her arms. “But would you really care to pit your security people against my telekinetic skills?”
“Alanna, you can wreck the place if you want to, but in the end I’ll have you removed, even if I have to put you under direct telepathic control and frog-march you to the door myself.”
Her gaze cut right through me. “Oh, I’ll spare you that, Julian. I’m afraid that you would enjoy it too much.”
“Then let’s settle this peacefully, shall we?” I said. I managed a conciliatory smile. “I could see your remaining at Better World in a reduced capacity. I might even agree to additional volumes of Rick’s Way. Of course, all future versions would have to pass by me before they could be published.”
Alanna nodded but I could see the contempt in her eyes. “Oh, you mean if I’m a good girl, then I get to stay?” she said. “And what will you do, issue a report card for me every quarter? Or perhaps you’d rather turn me into a zombie like Betty here. Easier to handle that way.”
“A zombie? What do you mean?” Betty said. “I resent that comment!”
“Oh, Betty, don’t you see the truth? He’s got you completely hypnotized. You, of all people.”
“You’re just feeling guilty, Alanna,” I said. “Stop trying to point the finger at me. My offer still stands.”
She shook her head. “No, Julian. No on every count. I won’t leave, and I won’t turn Rick’s Way over to you.”
With that she turned and hurried from the room.
By that afternoon Alanna had barricaded herself behind several telekinetic fields and a layer of Better World staffers who were still especially loyal to her.
It quickly became a war of attrition.
Her obstinacy forced me to cut off her food, water, environmental controls, and access to outside media. For a time she circumvented some of these challenges by levitating supplies through a hole she had made in her own fields of protection. But she couldn’t keep up the effort for long, especially once I had put all food within her range under guard. Alanna was a powerful telekinete but she could not teleport objects through solid matter, over great distances, the way Rick once had. She might be able to levitate a choba roll up three stories and in through an open window but she couldn’t budge an entire locked kitchen.
Finally, after two weeks of this, she emerged from her barricades, ragged and pale. Her voice was matter-of-fact, almost meek, but fury burned in her eyes.
“You win,” she said.
“My offer stands open, Alanna. Let’s bury the hatchet and you can remain at Better World.”
“Under your control? Forget it. Nothing could get me to stay now. Nothing.”
“Alanna—”
“Congratulations, Julian. I hope you enjoy yourself. How thoughtful of Rick—and me—to leave you this lovely toy to play with.”
“If that’s your attitude, I expect you to clear your personal effects before the end of the day. And I’m warning you, Alanna. Don’t try to publish anything else in Rick’s name.”
“Remember the Bill
of Rights, Julian? I’m afraid that freedom of speech outstrips even the rules of your little pocket kingdom. Now that I’m no longer a part of Better World, I’ll do what I like. Consider this my resignation, effective immediately.” She turned sharply on her heel.
I had to fight the urge to run after her, to beg her to forgive me, to forget all this, to stay.
Instead, I ordered security to provide an escort for her, and to help her clear her belongings from the premises. In effect, I starved and then drummed her out of Better World. Was I proud of myself? No, not even a little bit.
If only she had given in. Truth be told, once she was gone I almost missed Alanna and our love/hate relationship. For all of her prickly, uncooperative ways, she was still family. And with her no longer there, the only people at Better World who had been close to Rick were Betty and myself. But as the years passed, I grew accustomed to that peculiar loneliness.
Eventually, we hired a bright young man named Donald Torrance to handle public relations. Better World soldiered on, year by year, healing those in pain and experimenting with various healing techniques.
Alanna continued to administer the annual arts competition. There was no way I could have canceled that without enormous public outcry and accompanying media attention.
To my chagrin, Alanna ignored my wishes and went on to publish several more volumes of Rick’s Way, a critique of the philosophy of Better World, and a dramatic trilogy based on Rick’s life. Finally, she had achieved the literary prominence of which she had always dreamed.
I didn’t begrudge her the small comfort her success must have provided. Quite the contrary: the more accolades she received, the better I liked it. It enabled me to assuage my own guilt by telling myself that this was the way things had always been meant to be and, in fact, that I had enabled Alanna to achieve her true destiny. Sometimes I almost believed it.
15
when she left, Alanna took a splinter group of loyalists with her and I assumed that she would form her own miniature version of Better World somewhere in California. But, to my surprise, Alanna devoted all of her efforts to Rick’s Way. Anyone who wished to assist her was welcome but if they were looking for other activities, then they were advised to seek them elsewhere. Most of her supporters eventually came slinking back to Better World with their tails between their legs.
Although she had effectively been banished from Better World headquarters, Alanna figured so prominently in Rick’s legend that I could neither deny her existence nor keep her away completely. On the anniversary of Rick’s death, Alanna always appeared, suddenly, mysteriously, at the Roman theater to lay a white rose upon Rick’s tomb, and she was always cheered lustily by the crowds. But our estrangement was complete.
I hated what she did with Rick’s Way, and still do. But time has a way of encysting old torments until I can carry them along with me and, for the most part, ignore them.
The rhythm of the seasons overtook me, kept the machinery of Better World whirring, the group sharings on schedule, the reconstruction of Better World progressing, and soon Alanna’s absence seemed unremarkable, even normal.
I was caught up in the ebb and flow. When my parents died, my mother first and my father three months later, I had them buried beside Rick, mourned them, and went right back to my work and research.
The casework was especially fascinating: the faithful were so trusting that I could gain immediate access to their minds without spending the weeks—and often months—it had usually taken in standard therapy to win the patient’s trust enough to attempt a mindlink.
I encountered the usual narcissistic disorders, horror tales of abuse and deprivation, incest, alcoholism, and drug addiction. Surprisingly, I saw fewer cases of severe depression at Better World than on the outside: especially if the patient had been a regular attendee of group sharings. As I had suspected, the group sharings had enormous long-term therapeutic potential for nonmutants and I was heartened to see my theory apparently being proven before my eyes. I began to organize my notes for a monograph I hoped to publish on the topic.
I saw a variety of mutant patients as well, and although they exhibited much the same positive reactions to the sharings as did the nonmutants, there was a more pronounced physiological effect that I had not anticipated. Cholesterol levels were down, as were blood pressure readings—always a sign of lowered stress. For those mutants who participated regularly in our mixed sharings I found clear signs of a slowing of the aging process. I confess that I had no explanation for it then or now.
Simply put, the mixed group sharings seemed to extend the short mutant life span in a way that the segregated mutant sharings had not.
I wanted to study this more closely but my attention was diverted by a sudden series of alarming delusional cases that began to flood our clinic.
People were claiming to have seen Rick walking the streets of Better City. He occasionally responded to their greetings with a bemused wave. But they could not hear him, even when it was obvious he was trying to talk to them.
At first I ascribed this to too many joysticks on top of wishful thinking.
“Of course you would like to see Rick,” I told the afflicted. “We would all like to see him.”
“No, Dr. Akimura, really. I did see him standing in the middle of the street. I walked right over to him but when I tried to touch him he disappeared.”
I made a quick telepathic probe and saw that, clearly, this man believed that he had seen Rick. He had unshakable faith. And the specter certainly resembled my brother. But how could I trust the memory of an unsettled mind?
The sightings continued and word started to spread of Rick risen from the dead. I began to grow alarmed. What was happening here? Why were so many people hallucinating the same thing? I knew my brother was dead and I didn’t believe in an afterlife. What were these people seeing?
Each mind I probed firmly believed that Rick had returned. Each image I saw looked remarkably like my brother. But that was not possible. I refused to believe it.
Even Betty had an encounter I couldn’t explain. She awakened me early one morning and I saw that she looked transformed, almost beatific, glowing with excitement.
“Julian, he really is here! I’ve seen him. Oh, Julian, the stories are true, all true.”
“Nonsense, Betty. Get a hold of yourself.”
“No, please, Julian, you have to come and see for yourself.”
“It’s two in the morning. You ought to be in bed.”
“Julian, don’t you believe me?”
I didn’t want to be cruel but I didn’t appreciate losing a night’s sleep over this foolishness.
“No. I’m sorry but I don’t believe you, Betty. My brother is dead and has been for years. I’m sorry but I think there’s some kind of group hysteria spreading here. I’ll address it at the next group sharing, which is tomorrow at ten A.M. Until then, I don’t want to be disturbed.” And I shut down the screen in annoyance, turned over, and went back to sleep.
The group sharing the next day was well attended as usual. I was halfway through the process of establishing the mental circuit when I saw something out of the corner of my eye: a strange, dark movement in the middle of the air.
Rick.
My brother. Incorporeal, transparent, but Rick nonetheless.
I was surprised into speechlessness. Was I losing my mind? Falling prey to this group psychosis? Was the group sharing spreading this delusion even to me?
Others in the room saw him, too. Whispers became gasps of awe and wonder. “He’s come back!” people began to murmur. “Rick has returned to us.”
And then, just as the sharing threatened to dissolve into complete pandemonium, Rick winked out.
Calm yourselves, I told the crowd. We have seen a miracle, a splendid vision of Rick. There is no cause for alarm.
But even my mindspeech, coupled with a coercive wave, could not keep the group calm and in their seats. They were breaking from the mental circuit, jumping up and
running down the aisles toward the stage. In another few moments I would be swamped.
Gathering all the strength I had, I pressed a mind command upon them to halt, to return to their seats. At first they didn’t respond. But as I tapped into first one and then another of the mutant minds in the group, my power increased and bit by bit I turned the crowd back.
We all love Rick and miss him. I can’t tell you what has just occurred but I can share my feelings with you. Come. Join with me now.
We resumed the circle, sharing our amazement and joy. I tried not to question what had happened but merely to accept it as a manifestation of faith on the part of so many minds.
But then I saw Rick again, not very long afterward.
I was alone in my bedroom, sleepless and pondering some old screentapes.
There was a dark movement in the corner, a shifting of shadows. At first I told myself that my eyes were tired. It was nothing. I looked again. My brother stood there, gaping at me.
“Rick!”
Wordlessly, we stared at each other.
But it was not the same man I had seen at the group sharing. He looked younger, much as I remembered him from the days when he rode his jetcycle through the tawny hills of northern California, when his mutant powers were first erupting.
But how was this possible? Why was I seeing different visions of my brother?
I nearly fell out of my seat as the word “vision” occurred to me. Of course. Of course. That was it.
Rick wasn’t making visits from beyond the grave. Rather, he was making visits to us from the past, from his life.
What we were seeing were manifestations of Rick when he was making his first time leaps and seeing his first prophetic visions years ago. I shook my head in wonder. So he actually had moved through time as he had claimed. Some of his visions had come true—had, in fact, been real flights into the actual future. What’s more, Rick had said that in the visions he could not communicate, could not connect with anyone he saw. Obviously, that had been true as well. But he had been wrong in thinking that he could not be observed or detected. At least, he could be seen by those who wanted to see him.
