Dream Thief

by Stephen Lawhead

  A long, aching cry tore from his throat, full of helplessness and bleak despair. In that cry he heard all the bitter disappointment and hate and injustice he had ever experienced—the sum total of all his deepest fears and failures.

  And he heard the cry lose itself in the darkness, becoming part of it, strengthening it. Spence knew then that the despair and the hate and all the other black nameless fears belonged not to himself—although he had held them and nourished them in his innermost being; they belonged instead to the darkness that covered him now, were part of it, were one with it. Long had they fought within him to extinguish his spark, that portion of light that was his.

  Now they had gone back to strengthen the darkness from which they were sprung. Now it would at last crush him.

  Spence felt his strength to resist slacken, running away like water. That the darkness should prevail over him was the most monstrous insanity he could conceive. To be snuffed out like his poor candle flame seemed to him the final, unanswerable injustice. And for what? For possessing a tiny gleam of light that he had never asked for, nor sought.

  “No!” The shout was defiance. “No, no, no!” He heard his cries die in the darkness.

  Then he heard a sound that pierced him like an ice dagger. It seemed to hollow him out, disemboweling him, slashing at his heart. The sound was laughter, originating from within the cruel mocking heart of darkness.

  He would be annihilated with the insolent laughter still booming in his brain; his last thoughts would be of the utter senseless waste of his life, echoed in each note.

  “God!” Spence cried. “Save me!”

  He felt a shudder run through the darkness as if he had wounded it with a blow. And then a single beam of light, finer than a single hair, struck down through the darkness to stand shimmering before him. Spence reached out and touched his finger to the light and felt it sing within him. It was alive, this tiny laser point of light, in a way that the darkness was never alive. It had power beyond all the power of the darkness, and it awakened in him a corresponding power as it infused his own inner spark with new brilliance.

  In the light he heard a voice speak to him. “Why do you search in darkness for your life?” it asked.

  Spence could not answer it. He could not speak.

  “Come into the light,” said the voice, “and you will find what you are searching for.”

  Spence looked up at the shining thread of light and far above him he heard a tremendous tearing sound as if the sky itself were being torn in two. He clamped his hands over his ears to save them from the deafening sound.

  Far above him he saw a crack in the darkness and light began to spill in. It seemed to him for a moment that he was inside an enormous egg and light from a greater world outside was pouring in through a crack in the shell.

  He heard above the tearing sound the agonizing shriek of the darkness as it was riven apart and burned away by the light. Then he was standing in a pool of light that fell down upon him from above. He raised his face to it and filled his eyes with it.

  With a terrific roar the darkness dissolved and ran away and a brilliant white light, brighter than ten thousand suns, blazed. He felt its power and its vibrant, living energy as it danced over him, tingling every pore, every square centimeter of his skin.

  Now it was inside him, penetrating his flesh and bones and burning into the fibers of his soul. He could feel it like fire—consuming all impurities, devouring any remaining shreds of darkness which clung to his inner self, cleansing the very atoms of his being.

  Spence then knew that he and the light were one; it had done its work in him and he was transformed into a living beam of light. He felt himself expanding and growing without limits, a creature of infinity, without beginning or end, and yet he knew the true living light to be as far above him and brighter as he was himself above and brighter than the darkness it had saved him from.

  He had touched the source of life and it flowed within him and through him and always would. It was eternal and so, now, was he. He knew that he was born to be part of it and to live forever in it.

  The thought was a song inside him; but there were no words, only a melody which soared endlessly up and up, ever higher, ever more pure.

  SPENCE BENT OVER THE sleeping form of Adjani. The forest sounds were hushed; it was an hour yet to daylight, though through the trees above he could see a dull blue showing. Crickets in the tall grass and among the branches of nearby bushes trilled musically, filling the night with their peaceful sound.

  “Adjani, wake up!” He heard the slow, rhythmic breathing of his friend and hated to wake him, but his news would not wait. It had to be told. “Adjani!”

  “What is it?” Adjani sat up at once—wary, like a cat. “Has something happened?” He looked around quickly but saw no signs of alarm. A bandit sentry watched them from a distance; his rifle rested on his knees. Clearly, they were in the same predicament as before; nothing had changed.

  “Adjani, I’ve seen him!” Spence’s hands were shaking and his voice trembled.

  “Seen who?” Adjani came fully upright and peered into Spence’s face. He saw a peculiar light in his friend’s eyes.

  “The Creator of all this,” he waved a hand vaguely at the jungle around them, “of you and me, of the universe!”

  “What?”

  “The All-Being—God! He spoke to me!” Spence put an unsteady hand on Adjani’s shoulder. Until he had said the words aloud he had not consciously named his vision. The full meaning of what he said broke in on him, jarring him. He lapsed into a stunned silence.

  “Spence! Are you all right?” Adjani shook his elbow.

  “I’m fine.” Recognition came back into Spence’s eyes. He lowered his head and grinned sheepishly. “It was only a dream.”

  “Tell me about it,” said Adjani. “I have learned to respect your dreams.”

  9

  I AM HERE, ORTU.” Hocking looked at the motionless figure before him. It had been some time since he had been in the palace, and Hocking thought his master appeared even more shrunken and wasted than ever.

  “Why are you here?” Ortu did not raise his head; he spoke to Hocking as one asleep. Hocking knew Ortu never slept.

  “You said you wanted Reston …” Hocking began.

  “Then why is he not here?” The voice was cold, the tone menacing.

  “He is coming, Ortu. He is on his way here now.”

  “How do you know this?” Ortu raised his head slowly. His almost luminous eyes glared out at Hocking with loathing.

  “It was not easy, Ortu. I’ve had to … to make other arrangements.”

  “Silence! Remember who I am! You have failed again to carry out my commands. What do you have to say for yourself?”

  “It was my fault. Reston escaped—he tricked us. But—”

  “Who are the people you have brought with you? Why have you brought them?”

  “They are hostages, Ortu. I thought it best to—”

  “You thought! I am your master! You act according to my will! Or have you forgotten?”

  “No, Ortu. I have not forgotten. But the girl—the girl is Reston’s girlfriend. That’s how I know he will come. With the tanti we can bring him. That’s what you want, isn’t it?”

  Ortu seemed to consider this and then said, “Fazlul’s men are here. Instruct them that the Governor is to intercept Reston on the road and bring him here at once. I will not risk losing him again.” Ortu’s head sank once more; his eyes closed.

  “As you wish, Ortu.”

  “And the others—your hostages. You will eliminate them at once. It was foolish to bring them here. We have no use for them.”

  “Yes, Ortu. I will do as you say.”

  The incense rose in gray billows filling the chamber where Ortu sat like a statue. Hocking, almost choking on the fumes, gazed around the room he knew so well. As always it held a fearful fascination for him. This was the room where his master lived—Ortu had not stirred in forty or fift
y years—and from this room he directed his will.

  Hocking again regarded the wizened body before him and felt the heat of anger leap up in him. Ortu was patient beyond all human patience; he had waited a thousand years for his plans to begin to grow. He would wait a thousand more for them to bear fruit. I cannot wait that long, thought Hocking to himself. We have a chance now; we must not wait!

  Hocking had his own plans for the new world order which Ortu had designed and which would soon commence. It seemed ludicrous that one man, the stubborn Spencer Reston, should single-handedly halt their progress, and so close to the realization of their dreams. What was so important about Reston anyway? He was nothing—a worm to be crushed underfoot.

  Someone had to be eliminated; Hocking saw that clearly. But it would not be Ari and her father; they would be needed until the station was secured. It was Reston who should be eliminated.

  Hocking withdrew silently; his chair floated out on the clouds of incense and away. It was so simple he did not know why he had not thought of it before. Perhaps he had been afraid, but not now.

  Very well, he would give Fazlul’s men their instructions: Reston must never reach Kalitiri.

  Yes, it was nearly ready. Things were falling together nicely. He went away almost humming to himself. His features had assumed that gruesome death’s-head leer.

  PACKER WAS NOT ASLEEP when the intruder entered the darkened cell block. He had been lying on his couch staring up into the inky blankness when he heard the outer door slip open. When the lights remained off he knew something was amiss.

  As quietly as he could he slid out of the couch and onto the floor of the cell; he rolled to the far wall and lay there waiting to see what would happen.

  He waited so long that he began to think that he had only imagined the door opening. He was about to get back in bed when there came a distinct click followed by the slight rustling sound of clothing.

  He froze.

  Every sense was awake tingling with anticipation. The hairs on the back of his neck stood up as he peered into the darkness and tried to see any movement at all.

  He held his breath.

  There came another click and a pencil-thin shaft of blue light jabbed out and seared into the couch. The pulse lasted less than a nanosecond, and was followed by two more in rapid succession. Packer could smell the fumes of the composite fabric and the gel of the cav couch where the laser pulse had incinerated it.

  He feared that whoever blasted his couch would now switch on the lights to view their handiwork. For a long agonizing moment Packer lay with his face to the floor, hoping against hope that the would-be assassin would leave.

  Then he heard the quiet swish of the outer panel opening, and the intruder went away. A trembling Packer lay motionless and waited for someone to come and rescue him, praying that the killer would not return.

  Time seemed to slow. Each minute dragged away painfully. Each second expanded to fill an eternity.

  He waited.

  At last Packer decided that the danger had passed. He stood warily and crept to the couch, fumbling for the light plate near the head. The light winked on and he stared down at the neat charred holes in the couch. Green gel from the support chambers bubbled out onto the orange fabric. The pulses had been calculated to burn through him; no doubt about that: three black rings in the couch—one where his head had been, one at his heart, and one at his midsection—any one of them would have killed him.

  He was still standing over the couch, acrid wisps of smoke stinging his nostrils, when he heard a voice behind him. He whirled around, ready to dive for the floor, then recognized Ramm standing there watching him.

  “You look a little shook up, friend,” said the Chief. “You okay?”

  “Oh, it’s you. Yeah, I’m all right. Someone tried to kill me.”

  “Tried to what?” He punched in the access code and stepped through the door. “Are you joking?”

  “I don’t find this very funny,” said Packer. He pointed down at the damaged couch.

  Ramm let out a low whistle and turned to Packer apologetically. “Man, you’re lucky to be alive. If you’d been asleep they would have drilled you.”

  “I wasn’t asleep, thank God.” He looked down at the three holes oozing gel from the depression of his body still outlined in the couch. He shivered. “I want out of here, Ramm. The game has changed. These guys, whoever they are, want to play rough. Next time I won’t be so lucky, maybe.”

  Ramm raised a hand and stroked his jaw. “I don’t know …”

  “What do you mean you don’t know? Look, this was supposed to be for my protection, remember? That’s what you said. 1 wasn’t protected very much, was I? I want out now!”

  “Where will you go? Back to your quarters? To the lab? They’ll be waiting for you.”

  Packer had not thought of that. He threw his hands out to Ramm and said, “What’s going on here? This is getting crazy.”

  “You don’t know the half of it. Come with me, we’ll talk in my office.”

  Packer followed the security chief out of the cell block and into his private office. Ramm sat down on the edge of the desk and folded his arms across his chest. Packer sat down in one of the visitor’s chairs and ran his hands through his red bush of hair.

  “You want some coffee? Something to eat?”

  “Thanks, maybe later.” He waited for Ramm to begin.

  “I found out a few things this afternoon that strike me as extremely odd. I think Kalnikov has disappeared—I can’t seem to locate him anywhere. Williams is saying that due to Kalnikov’s condition he was shipped out on the shuttle for medical assistance Earthside. I don’t buy it. There’s been one shuttle down in the past two days and no injured personnel aboard it according to the records.”

  “Then where is he? What’s happened to him?”

  “I don’t know. I think he’s still aboard here somewhere. They could have stashed him anywhere.”

  Packer got a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. He seemed to be riding a swift elevator down.

  “Trouble is, it would take me a couple hundred man-hours to find him, and then the search would alert whoever it is that has him to move him somewhere else.”

  “What about the guy who tried to kill me a few minutes ago?”

  “It’s between shifts. My second-shift crew hasn’t signed on yet. No one saw anything, I’m afraid.”

  “What kind of place do you run here?” Packer was quickly losing his temper. He had been cooped up in his cell for a day and a night and no one was on duty when the assassins struck.

  Ramm dismissed his anger with a swipe of his hand. “I don’t blame you for getting steamed. But you have to remember, we’re not a police force—I mean, in a way we are, but this isn’t a high-crime area. It isn’t like a real city. Mostly we just make sure that people stay out of construction areas and watch the locks on the restaurant pantries after hours, that sort of thing.

  “We weren’t expecting a strike. You’ve got to consider that a place like Gotham isn’t exactly equipped to handle an armed insurrection. It isn’t in the blueprints. Nobody planned on that ever happening.”

  “Well,” grumbled Packer, “maybe it’s time that somebody started planning for it—if it isn’t already too late.”

  10

  THE CAMP OF THE bandits looked less like a camp and more like a gypsy village than anything Spence had ever seen. Tents of scrap cloth and tarp sewn together, draped over branches or supported with poles scavenged in the jungle, gave the place a wild, fanciful appearance. Small children scampered half-naked to see the odd-looking visitors. Old men sat around the ashes of the previous night’s fire nodding and pointing and clacking toothless gums as the raiding party returned with the booty. Women came running to see what their men had brought home for them. Over all an air of whimsical gaiety prevailed.

  It was hard for Spence to imagine that these peaceful, happy people made their living killing the unlucky and robbing the unwary. H
e had expected the outlaw’s hideaway to be a snake pit, dark and hateful, full of desperate men whose way of life made them vicious and unruly.

  That these thieves had families that ran laughing to meet them amused him.

  “Quite a picture,” Spence whispered to Adjani as they moved down a wide avenue between tents and shelters made from empty cargo crates. Children ran along beside them giggling and pointing in the manner of excited children everywhere.

  “Don’t let it fool you. Spencer.” Adjani spoke softly and peered with narrowed eyes at the leader of the bandits walking just ahead of them. “The cheerful highwayman is the more dangerous. Believe me, these men will not hesitate to disembowel us in front of their wives and children if it pleases them.”

  Spence thought Adjani was being melodramatic about their situation. But Gita, whose tongue had not stirred the whole of the trek into the jungle, rolled his eyes and quivered, saying, “Adjani knows of what he speaks, Spence Reston. Listen to him. These men are cutthroats for all their easy ways.”

  “But you can’t think they’d harm us now. We have nothing of value.”

  “Don’t you see? They have lived too long above the law; they have become secure, fearing nothing. Such men do not shrink from the worst deeds imaginable.”

  Gita nodded his agreement readily, so Spence said no more about it. Still, he found himself smiling at the children and gawking around the camp as if he were a tourist on holiday.

  They had marched all night and rested only a few hours before striking off again. Now the sun stood high in the sky, filtering down through the leafy green canopy above. The prisoners were paraded through the camp and brought to the biggest tent and made to sit down under a large patchwork awning between two guards while the bandits proceeded to divide up the night’s harvest of merchandise piled in the center of the settlement.

  The shouting of the men and shrieking of the women was still in full chorus when the leader disengaged himself from the swarm around the goods and came to stand before them. The guards prodded the prisoners to their feet with their rifle muzzles.