Mindscape

by Tal Valante

  “I wish Admiral McKenzie would take it easy on us,” Mark said in one of their precious moments off, as he snuggled against Shane in bed.

  “This war is his baby,” Shane said. “He won’t stop until we win it.”

  “Are we going to win?”

  “Looks like it.”

  Shane carded through Mark’s hair with lazy fingers. It felt heavenly. Mark stretched into the motion and sighed. “You know what I hate most about this war?”

  “Mmm?”

  “It keeps getting in the way of our free time together.”

  Shane chuckled. “I’m sure if we bring that to the admiral’s attention, he’ll stop the war at once.”

  “You go tell him,” Mark mumbled. “I’m sleepy.”

  Shane’s lips pressed against his forehead. “Okay.”

  Shane recovers from the memory and looks down. The soil remains upturned. The bars of the metal cage extend straight down into the ground.

  “Try digging under them,” Alex says.

  Shane does and triggers another memory.

  The medwing in Fort Epsilon One was cramped and smelled of bleach. Not that Mark could tell just then.

  “I’m sorry.” He sniffed and blew his nose. “This is the worst timing ever.”

  “Shhh.” Shane came back from the adjacent bathroom and placed a cloth—a blessedly cold, soothing cloth—on Mark’s forehead. His hand trailed down Mark’s face like frost kisses. “Not your fault.”

  “I know, I know. But still. I hate the thought of you going out there alone.”

  Shane’s lips twitched up. “I was in the Spavy long before you even thought of enlisting. I’ll be fine.”

  “You’d better be.”

  He watched Shane stalk across the room and snag a chair, then drag it back to the bedside.

  “Oooh, the lion returns with his prey.”

  Shane set the chair down and took a seat. “What?”

  Mark grinned. “Don’t mind me. I’m silly with fever.”

  “Rainy.”

  “Hey, that’s my word. You have to—” A bout of coughing cut Mark off. “You have to pay me every time you use it.”

  Shane rummaged in his uniform pockets and came up with a quarter, which he flipped over to Mark. Mark missed it, of course, and it landed on his blankets. He traced its ridged face with a quivering finger. “I was thinking—”

  “Look,” Shane said, “do you want to get married or not?”

  Mark stared at him, then clicked his jaw shut and stared some more. Shane looked serious. He also looked a little panicky, and getting worse by the moment.

  “I thought you’d never ask,” Mark said, and leaned back against his pillows with an almighty grin.

  “It’s not working,” Shane says. “The bars go all the way down.”

  Alex still sounds far away and muffled. “All the way down where?”

  “To his core. I don’t want to dig too deep. Who knows what kind of damage I’m doing to his memory.”

  “All right,” Alex says, ever patient. “Pull back.”

  “There’s got to be something else.”

  “Shane, pull back.”

  Reluctantly, Shane lets go of the Resonance and tumbles back into his own mind. Turns to Alex. “I’m not leaving him there.”

  Alex frowns. “Your lip is bleeding.”

  “It’s nothing.”

  “Your nothing is dripping blood on your shirt. Come on inside, I’ll take care of it. You can think up a new approach while I’m at it.”

  Shane huffs but complies and follows the nurse. He’ll never say it, but it feels good to have someone treating him for a change. A few stinging swabs later, he says, “There’s got to be a way.”

  Alex pulls back an arm-length and looks him in the eye. “We’ll find it. I promise.”

  And Shane loves him a little more for it.

  “. . . your brother is getting married. Married! Can you believe it? To that hot lieutenant commander I’ve told you of in just about every e-voice and e-mail so far—Shane. Oh, and in case you’re wondering, he asked me. We haven’t set a date yet, but who cares? We’re getting married.”

  He hit pause and mulled for a while. What else should go into the e-voice to his brother? Oh, yes. “How’s the little tyke doing? Still hard to wrap my mind around it. Me, an uncle! You’ve got to send me pictures, man. Oh, I’m gonna spoil him rotten.”

  Footsteps echoed in the hallway outside, so Mark quickly hid his data pad under the pillow and pretended to rest. “Come in, Doc,” he called. “I’m feeling much better today.”

  But it wasn’t the doctor after all. A lieutenant in official uniform entered the infirmary.

  “Looking for Doc?” Mark asked.

  The officer zoomed in on him. “Are you Sayre?”

  No. Oh no. Mark began to shake his head, realized how stupid that was, and nodded instead. “I’m— Yes, I’m Sayre.”

  “I have some news about the Cyclopes. I’m afraid it’s not good.”

  Now Mark was shaking all over. “Please,” he said, unsure what he was asking for.

  The lieutenant continued, as merciless as the sweeping hands of a clock. “The ship was damaged badly in battle. Some crew members were killed.”

  No. No no no no no no no no.

  “Lieutenant Commander Cawley was injured,” the officer said.

  Mark felt punched in the guts and relieved, all at once. “Injured? Not killed?”

  The lieutenant’s face softened. “He’ll be fine. They’re re-weaving his leg back on Earth.”

  Mark buried his face in his hands, then dragged his fingers through his hair. “All right. I need to get to Earth.”

  Shane flips onto his back on the sofa and sighs into the phone. “The answer is somewhere in his mindscape. I just need to find it.”

  An agreeable hmmm comes across the line. “No breaking the cage, though,” Alex says.

  “No.” Mr. Furrypants leaps onto Shane’s chest, and he rubs the cat’s ears. “What else can I do?”

  Alex is silent for a long moment. “How about some coffee?”

  Shane blinks. “You want me to . . . what, melt the bars with coffee?”

  “No.” Alex laughs. “I’m suggesting we meet over some coffee.”

  Shane sits up so fast it sends Mr. Furrypants flying with an indignant yowl, but he can’t find any words that would break through the lump in his throat.

  “It’s not a date,” Alex says softly. “I just need to get out for a while. And you could use a break, too.”

  Shane stares at the fish in the aquarium wall, swimming here and there.

  “We could brainstorm ideas for the cage,” Alex wheedles.

  And Shane means to say “I can’t,” he really does, but somehow it comes out sounding like “Okay.”

  They meet at the nearby McAllister’s. Alex asks for an extra-large mochachino, Shane goes for a strong Americano. They split an order of pecan pie. After the waiter leaves, they sit in a silence that rivals Mark’s. At least with Mark, though, Shane never feels awkward.

  The waiter brings their order, and Shane takes a long sip of his over-hot drink. Alex stirs his mochachino. Neither makes a move toward the pie.

  “Look,” Alex says. Shane looks. He sees turmoil in the giant nurse’s eyes, and Alex takes a deep breath and puts down his spoon. “You’ve tried breaking through, it didn’t work. You’ve tried digging under, no luck.”

  And just like that, the awkwardness fades. Shane digs into the pie and says, “I could try going over the cage.”

  “Over, how?”

  “Maybe the bars are weaker on top.”

  “Okay.” Alex sips his mochachino. “How about melting the bars?”

  “With what?”

  “Your stare?” Alex flaps his hand. “I don’t know how these things work. I’ve never entered anyone’s mindscape.”

  “You want me to melt the bars with my stare,” Shane repeats, then snorts. “I’m Mark’s Resonance partner, no
t Superman.”

  “All right, all right.” Twin spots of color spread on Alex’s cheeks, and Shane can almost taste his embarrassment. “What else?”

  “I could try, I don’t know, wishing the cage away.”

  They brainstorm ideas, from the possible through the improbable, and all the way to the ridiculous, until the pecan pie is gone and so is Shane’s Americano. Shane stands up, but a look out the dark window reminds him that it’s evening, and Rigsby is closed to visitors. He sits down again and crushes his impatience in his fists.

  “Tomorrow,” Alex says with a smile, and Shane nods.

  They sit in comfortable silence for a while, and Shane feels that yes, maybe this is okay. It’s good to be somewhere else beside his empty apartment and Rigsby Psychiatric Ward. And it’s nice to have a normal conversation. Alex looks troubled, though. Must be his little sister—she’s getting divorced, Shane knows. He can sense Alex’s anger at her husband, like a slow, deadly bear rearing up. It’s a frightening notion. Yes, he can see the fear in Alex’s eyes.

  “It’s okay to be angry,” Shane tells him. “It doesn’t make you a violent man.”

  Alex looks up with gaping eyes. “How . . .?”

  “You just told me.” Shane pauses. “Didn’t you?”

  Alex shakes his head hesitantly, almost dreamily.

  Shane feels ice water running through his veins. “Yes you did. Your sister’s getting divorced . . .”

  “I was thinking about it,” Alex says. “But I didn’t . . . You didn’t . . . Did you?”

  “I’ve got to go.” Shane stands up with the clatter of a falling chair. “I’ve got to go.”

  He runs outside and tears open the car door, slips into the driver’s seat, slams the door shut. He doesn’t turn the key in the ignition; his hands are shaking too much. Because there’s no mistaking and no forgiving it: he has just Resonated with Alex.

  Getting back to Earth was easier said than done. By the time Mark obtained permission for the journey and managed to catch a ship that was Punching in the right direction, two agonizing weeks had passed. Finally on Earth, he spent an entire day on the phone trying to figure out which hospital Shane was in, only to give up—temporarily—late in the afternoon.

  He caught a flight up to New Wyoming and dragged himself to the apartment he’d gotten with Shane. The place was little used, but it was all theirs, and they looked forward to making it their real home in some post-Spavy future. For now, it was a place to rest his head on a pillow.

  He pressed his palm to the lock and waited for the door to sigh open.

  It didn’t.

  Mark frowned and tried again, pressing harder.

  From inside came the sound of the physical deadbolt being disengaged, and the door opened to reveal Shane Cawley, alive and well, albeit leaning on crutches.

  Mark dropped his duffel bag and hugged Shane until neither could breathe.

  “Hey,” Shane said. “It’s okay. I’m okay.”

  “You idiot!” Mark pushed back from him. “I let you go into one battle without me, and you get the Cyclopes shot? Do you have any idea how worried I was?”

  “I sent you an e-voice,” Shane said.

  Mark looked at him suspiciously. “When?”

  “Two days ago. To the medwing in Fort Epsilon One.”

  “Well, I wasn’t there, was I?”

  He was being irrational, he knew, but fear had that effect on people. Mark took a deep breath and stooped to pick up his bag. “Can I come in now?”

  “Sure.” Shane stepped aside, leaning heavily on his crutches. He was hardly putting weight on his right leg, Mark saw.

  “New leg?” he asked.

  Shane grimaced. “More or less.”

  Mark hesitated, then asked anyway: “How bad was it?”

  “Mostly torn muscles and broken bones,” Shane said, shrugging. “It wasn’t that—”

  “I meant the Cyclopes.”

  “Ah.”

  Mark dropped his bag again in the kitchen and started brewing some coffee. On second thought he put the kettle on for Shane’s tea. Then he grabbed a rag and started cleaning the countertop. And finally he admitted to himself that he simply couldn’t turn back to face Shane, not quite yet.

  “It was bad,” Shane said. His voice sounded congested. “We lost Pauline and Doug on the bridge. We lost Mitchell and Wolfe and Halley.”

  Three of Mark’s pilots. He grabbed the edge of the countertop and fought the urge to bend over.

  “I’m sorry,” Shane said.

  “Ha! You’re sorry? I’m the one who should have been there.”

  “No, hey, no.” The sound of shuffling feet and crutch-clanks, and suddenly Shane was hugging him from behind. “It wasn’t your fault. You were sick.”

  Mark turned in the circle of Shane’s arms and looked up into his face. Tired, gaunt, and unshaved, Shane looked like he’d been to Hell and back, while Mark had been lounging on Fort Epsilon One.

  “I love you,” he said, but his voice caught in his throat and came out in a hoarse whisper.

  Shane’s face softened. “I love you, too.”

  And for a moment, when their lips met, the pain was bearable and everything was fine.

  The next day, for the first time, Shane almost stays away from Rigsby. He doesn’t know how to face Mark. He doesn’t know how to face Alex. He doesn’t even know how to face himself in the mirror, shaving.

  He overcomes his reluctance only for the slimmest chance that Mark would notice his absence.

  Rigsby Psychiatric Ward looks the same as ever, strangely enough, albeit now draped in autumn colors. He passes Nurse Delgado in the nurses’ room. Is the look she gives him more penetrating than usual? He can’t tell.

  The laughing hyena woman has long been released, and no one has replaced the Burping Man in Mark’s room, thank God. Mark sits alone on his bed, staring at the wall. Alex is nowhere to be seen. Shane feels relieved, then guilty. He gently navigates Mark out to the garden and sits knee-to-knee with him on the bench by the willow tree.

  He’s about to slip into Mark’s mind when Alex joins them.

  Shane looks at the big nurse, and something crumples inside his chest. He doesn’t quite know how to apologize. He doesn’t quite know how to answer the million questions Alex must have. He turns his head away, toward Mark, and bites the inside of his cheek.

  “Are you ready to try out some of those ideas?” Alex asks.

  And it’s the one question that Shane does know how to answer. He nods at the nurse, grateful and relieved, and some tension seeps out of him.

  “All right,” Alex says and sits behind Shane. “Let’s do this.”

  Shane carefully aligns his mind with Mark’s, and into the hellish prisoner camp he goes. He’s become quite adept at ignoring the tortured men around him, and he makes straight for the cage. Walks around it several times. The bars look the same from every angle.

  They’ve talked about calling out to Mark.

  “Mark,” he says with his mind. “Mark, can you hear me?”

  An empty moment passes.

  “Mark!” he yells. “It’s me, Shane! Can you hear me?”

  Around him, the tortured men whimper in their cages, and the wind whistles low in the scattered debris. But no sounds come from within the metal cage. Still, Shane is certain to the bone that Mark is in there.

  “He can’t hear me,” Shane says with his mouth. It sounds far away, as always.

  “No?” Alex says. “I’m sorry, man.”

  And he is. Shane can feel it clearly, rolling in slow heavy waves off the big nurse. He resents the knowing, and the feeling goes away. He concentrates on the cage again.

  They’ve talked about breaching the cage from above. Shane takes a mental leap that puts him on top of the dense metal bars, but they meet seamlessly and just as densely as the sides. Shane slips down once again.

  They’ve talked about many things, and Shane tries them all: wishing the cage away, melting the b
ars by rubbing them, tilting the cage. Shane thinks up all his hatred for the blasted metal cage, all his desire to see Mark, and tries to melt the bars with a single searing stare. All in vain. Finally, reluctant and embarrassed, he leans close to the cage and tries kissing the bars away.

  He spends five minutes retching into the bushes, afterwards.

  Nothing helps.

  The Tomahawk had lost air pressure in the bridge, killing most of her officers but leaving her body more or less intact. Mark surveyed it with distaste. It was larger than the Cyclopes, and held two wings of fighters, in addition to heavier weapons. Still . . .

  “Can’t we get the Cyclopes repaired?” he asked.

  Shane, who was going over readiness reports beside him, hummed into his helmet’s mic. Mark took it as no. He sighed and launched himself up toward the ship’s main hatch.

  “You coming?” he called down.

  Shane waved him on.

  “Rainy.” Mark catapulted himself into the airlock feet-first and let the ship’s artificial gravity field capture him with a firm thud. He walked the foreign hallways to the bridge with a grimace. Only when he plunked himself down at his post did he realize Shane was putting off his own boarding. But what to do? Go back to him? Too conspicuous. Maybe it was something Shane had to do alone. Maybe—

  The central alarm went off.

  The blaring startled Mark, but he quickly turned toward his console and brought up a visual of the standby room. It was deserted. All pilots—a mixture of his old team and the survivors of the Tomahawk—were in the dockside facilities. How long would it take them to suit up and take positions in their fighters? Too long, Mark suspected.

  Shane burst into the bridge like a fireball, trailing two officers. One of them manned the gunnery console, the other, navigation. No time for pleasantries.

  “Close the main hatch,” Shane ordered, taking his own post up front.

  Mark glanced up at him. “My pilots—”

  “—Will have to sit this one out. Close the hatch.”