chapter I
Stephen jerked his head back from around the corner of the stable. Inside, a horse snorted uncertainly. "Damn!" he snarled. "They've already got him. I count-holy Moses!-three Psi Cops and a goon squad of maybe ten. All of this for one kid?" "Block!" Matthew hissed. "They're sweeping!" Stephen snapped his guard up, felt his companion's stronger power settle over both of them-not just blocking, but making them transparent to a searching scan-hopefully. He swallowed his resentment and checked the rounds in his clip. After a moment, Matthew relaxed. "Okay," he said. "That was tough." "Well, now what? Two against thirteen, three of them Psi Cops." Matthew sighed. "I guess we can't win them all. Better pull out before they do notice us." Stephen nodded affirmation and stood, slowly. "Still=' he said. "Three Psi Cops. If this kid rates that much attention-" He scratched his head. "What did the report say again?" "We didn't get much of it, and parts of it were garbled. The Corps has a new code, and about twenty percent still comes through scrambled. A boy, age thirteen-Remy Ligeau. The usual stuff-freaked out in church, somebody passed it on." "I'm surprised," Stephen remarked. "I've never seen a more closemouthed community." "Yes, but the reward for turning in a teep can be pretty steep." "I guess. There must be more. This just doesn't smell right. Three Psi Cops in Wherethefrag, Canada, two hundred miles from anyplace with a population higher than a dachshund's IQ? Uh-uh. 195 Head for the woods. I'll meet you in town, at the café, say about ten o'clock or not at all." "What? Stephen, wait-" But he was already gone, sprinting along the edge of the trees. He waited a few moments, to give Matthew a head start, then began firing short, controlled bursts. The tableau seemed frozen for a moment the Psi Cops, two with their hands on the shoulders of a boy; a man and woman, presumably the boy's parents, standing on the porch of a cabin, looking worried; a perimeter of guards, way too relaxed. His first three shots hit the wagon they had come in, and by the third he was sure he had taken out the power system. Then he started in on the guards. By that time it was self-defense, as bullets laced the air around him. He ducked back into the woods, dove behind a downed spruce. He popped back up and fired again, hitting a second man in the shoulder. At about the same time, the man on the porch-the father-was somehow holding a shotgun. It roared and belched a cloud of smoke, and one of the Psi Cops mindscreamed as he sprawled among the chickens pecking around the yard. Then both the father and mother went down as the remaining Psi Cops opened up. Stephen calmly shot another Psi Cop and the nearest guard, as an inch from his head the bole of a spruce tree opened a smoking eye. He ducked again, but not before he noticed the boy running into the woods. The remaining guards and cops seemed not to notice-they had sights only for him, now, and things became very violent around his log. The house sat at the top of a mountainous ridge that ran to his left and right. The road he and Matthew had come up on went right the boy was going left. He started wiggling backward, down the incline, raising his arm high for a shot now and then. When he thought he had enough of an angle, he jumped up and ran, paralleling the ridgetop. As he ran, he counted what he had last seen. One Psi Cop left and four grunts. Still not good odds-but he should have a little time now. Psi Cops weren't usually wilderness types. His original plan had been to take out the car and then pick them off one by one as they headed to town on foot, but this was better, if he could catch up with the boy before they did. Reaction was setting in, and his legs felt a little quivery. What the hell was he doing? Matthew had a way of bringing out the stupid in him, like no one else besides Fiona. But of course, the two were very much corollary. Puffing, he worked his way back to the top of the ridge, tearing through a stand of dense secondary growth, and then back into clearer woods. He did a quick pivot, but no one was following yet. He found the boy's track easily enough, and took off after him. He found the boy huddled against a tree at th e edge of a ravine, watching him approach with wild eyes. Easy, Remy. I'm here to help you. It'll be okay. He glanced behind him again, feeling imaginary crosshaus on his back. Remy Ligeau inched closer to the abyss, whimpering. Stephen walked a few steps closer, hand outstretched. C'mon. We have to hurry. Bad bad. Run hide run hide papa says don't don't just, no not ever (lark angel touch me but still my boy love redeemer please just a little thing didn't mean to papa papa ... Stephen slapped his hands to his ears involuntarily, but of course it didn't help, though his blocks did. He felt disoriented, not so much by the words as by the stream of images and feelings that bellowed from the boy's mind like a bullhorn turned up to the point of distortion. "Good Lord..." A bullet spanged from a nearby rock, and he dove forward, grabbing the boy and yanking him down. Remy thrashed like a wildcat, and for a moment, the two of them hung at the edge of the cliff before falling. Stephen's gut floated empty for an instant, and then they hit a talus slope, rolling, skittering down about thirty feet before he caught hold of a scraggly cedar. A good thing, too, for another ten feet and the slope of loose stone spilled over the final lip of the crevasse. Swearing, he hung on to the boy with one hand and the shallow-rooted cedar with the other. The rifle lay perhaps five feet upslope. "Grab a tree, boy," be snapped Grab a tree! The boy looked at him, uncomprehending. Two, then three figures appeared at the top of the ridge. "Bring us the boy," one shouted down. "Shoot me, and we both fall." Bring us the boy! It had the force of command, and Stephen had to fight the sudden instinct to do exactly what the Psi Cop demanded . But he couldn't anyway. The Psi Cop seemed to dive off the edge, followed by the man next to him. The third turned, raised his rifle, and did a back flip. The first two bodies bumped down the slope and off into space, while the third fetched up against a large boulder. Matthew appeared, staring down at them, and then he, too, fell. The reports of rifles clapped in the chasm, loud, then faint, then loud again ... Grab a tree! Stephen flung again, furiously. Papa says grab a tree! Eyes still clouded, the boy finally did, and Stephen scrambled free. Matthew had fallen at a strange angle, and was out of sight. Stephen got the rifle and crawled upslope on his belly. Stones began dancing around him, and more applause rose from the ravine. Breathing slowly and evenly, he tuned that out as distraction, sighted the head he could just barely make out, focused on its barely discernible thoughts, fired, fired, fired as something hot scored his shoulder- He felt it, a rush of horror, surprise, resignation, nothing. The shooting from the top of the ridge stopped. There was one more out there. Or would they have sent one to get help? Matthew? Matthew, are you there? Nothing. He glanced back at the boy, who seemed to have finally grasped the notion that he would fall if he didn't hold on to something. Five minutes crawled by, and he repeated his call to Matthew, with the same negative results. Ah, well. Good riddance. It would make all sorts of things easier. He was surprised to feel a bit of self-loathing at that thought. But self-loathing was a feeling he had come to terms with. Like every time he sent the director a memo. He began inching toward where he had last seen Matthew. It paid to be sure. He found the other man scarcely a yard from the edge. His shoulder was bleeding and his eyes were closed, but this close Stephen could feel the life still in him. One little push could fix that. A very small push, indeed. He let himself down toward Matthew, cocking his leg back to kick him. The leg was shaking. He didn't know how long he lay like that, but in the end he gave up, grabbed Matthew, and hauled him up the slope to safety. The wound was bad, but shouldn't be fatal; the purpling spot on Matthew's head was a better explanation for his little nap. He lifted the eyelids and found the pupils were the same size, so no concussion. He went back down and helped Remy up. The boy had gone silent--almost catatonic, in fact. When he returned, Matthew was raised up on one elbow. "What happened?" "You saved my life," Stephen told him, brusquely. "Then one winged you from behind. It was pretty funny, really. Like you were all just walking up to the cliff's edge and falling over. Like lemmings, or something." When Matthew didn't laugh, he continued , "I guess you had to be there." "Are they all dead?" "There's one more, I think." "I shot one back at the house," Matthew said. "Oh. No, we're jake then. But we should get out of here. We'll go ba
ck up to the old farmstead, and then I'll go down and get the car." He found them in the barn, Matthew seeming woozy and the kid looking as crazy as ever. "C'mon, Matthew, up and at 'em. I don't know what this kid did-swallow the president's secret resume or what but there's another squad of cops in town, gettin' ready to come up as we speak. They akeady found our car." "Oh, no. " "Oh, yes. I don't know how long we have, but I'd say not too long. I'm going to grab some food and things from the house-do you know how to saddle a horse?" "You're kidding, right?" "I like to saddle Jisabelle." They both turned in astonishment to behold Remy, stroking one of the horses. "You get the food, Matthew. I'll help Remy-I haven't ridden in a while, but I think I can remember the basics." "There's only two horses." "Remy can ride double with one of us." As it turned out, it was Matthew riding up behind Remy, because once on the horse, the boy suddenly seemed to come alive, the voices bubbling out of his head reduced to a sort of rhythm- mantra, wordless. Was he in the horse's head? If he could do that, it certainly would make him valuable to Psi Corps. It felt good to ride again. He had spent considerable time galloping the plateau around Casper when he was a kid. Riding a horse wasn't exactly like riding a bike, but it did come back to you. They found a back way down the mountain, went up a creek for a time, starting the occasional false trail. Sundown found them in an elevated pass, with a good view back toward where they had come from. "They'll bring helicopters soon, with microdoppler and infrared . Tomorrow, maybe, the next day at the latest." Matthew sighed, leaning back against a stone. "Better have a fire now, then, while we still can," Stephen reasoned . He gathered the wood and soon had one going. Remy had at first refused to dismount, but did so when he saw the fire, coming to watch the flames in fascination. Matthew broke out some food-homemade bread and goat cheese. "What was with those folks, anyway?" Stephen asked, after swallowing a bite of his sandwich. "I mean, we liked things kind of old-fashioned back in Wyoming, but Remy's people didn't even have a refrigerator." He hunched closer to the fine. "Not that they need one, I suppose." A deep chill had fallen with the night, reminding him that October in these latitudes could be murderous. "I think they were Pareilists," Matthew said. "Sort of Re the Amish." "Huh. Weird that anyone would choose to live like that." "Weird to me that anyone gets to choose how they live. Have you ever tried to imagine it, Stephen? Being able to pick where you want to live, how you want to live, what you want to do?" "I don't have to imagine it," Stephen remarked. "I didn't get my stuff until I was twenty-two. For a while, the whole world was open to me." "Maybe that's worse, then-to have freedom and then lose it." Stephen laughed a little bitterly. "I was doing a damn good job of narrowing my choices before I went teep. No one has real freedom." "Being able to make your own mistakes is freedom. Freedom isn't about making the right choices, or about everything working out fine. It's about getting to decide for yourself and taking the blame yourself if you blow it." "That last is a right a lot of people don't really want." Matthew chuckled painfully. "Sometimes, Stephen, I wonder what keeps you with us. You don't seem to really believe in what we're doing." Stephen stirred the fire with a stick, and a nebula of sparks lifted toward their stellar cousins. "Believe? I just like a good fight. Have I ever given you cause to doubt my enthusiasm?" "No. I just don't understand you. You're always closed to me." "I'm a private kind of guy." Matthew was silent for a moment. "Do we know where we're headed?" Stephen nodded. "Dena country isn't far. The underground has a cell there." "Dena country? That's more than a hundred miles." "You have a better idea?" "No-Stephen, look at that!" Something funny was happening with the fire. The sparks were forming odd patterns, clumping here and there. As Stephen watched, a small chunk of glowing wood joined its smaller, fiery brethren in a weird cyclonic dance. "Holy Moses," Stephen breathed. Matthew nodded. "A telekinetic." "No wonder Psi Corps sent the A team." Intent on the coal, Remy seemed not to notice them at all. "That means they won't turn loose, either. Not that they would, anyway, after we killed those Psi Cops, but-Jesus. This is the first teek I've ever seen. Are they really all like this-a little soft in the heal? That's what I've heard." "He can hear you, you know, even if he doesn't respond." "Yeah. Sorry, Remy. Man, look at that." He took a swallow of water, still watching the display. "Think of what he could do. Throw switches. Jam guns. Maybe even do things inside a man, like monkey with blood vessels, or whatever." He paused. "I guess they want to breed him, huh?" "Or dissect him. Or both." They paused, as the thought set in. It was Stephen who broke the silence. "Okay, Matthew. You don't understand me-I don't understand you. We keep fighting this fight, but where is it all going? Eventually , even friendly countries are going to say enough is enough. Right now we just shuffle people around, from here to there, but in the end nothing really changes, does it?" Matthew leaned back on his elbow. "Maybe we are the same, in a way. It's not about winning-not right now, at least-it's about the fight. As long as we let them know we won't go quietly, we keep the idea on the table that we are people, that we have fights, that there should be a place for us. I don't know where. Maybe here, maybe in the stars--all I know is, when you give in, when you let them put you in a hole, it can take a long time to claw your way back out. So we stay out, make them take notice of us, keep the idea of freedom alive until we can see a way to fill the hole in." "By which `hole' you mean Psi Corps." "By which I mean all of it. The normals who won't accommodate their lives to fit us in. The senators who only use us as chits in a political game. The corporations who exploit us, the bigots who kill us. And yes, Psi Corps, who would try to forge us into mindless weapons." "We're beatin' ourselves into weapons. We kill, Matthew." "Yes. That's the problem, isn't it? Trying to keep from becoming the thing we hate." Stephen didn't answer. What could he say? The show was over-Remy had somehow dropped off to sleep in a sitting position. "Poor kid. He doesn't know what kind of life he's in for, does he?" "Sometimes," Matthew replied, softly, "not knowing is better than knowing." Stephen snorted. "That's the kind of thing I've come to expect to hear you say. Makes me want to twist your head off, sometimes." The next day the clouds blew in, along with a few snow flumes. It got colder, and they drew the blankets they had taken from Remy's house tight around them. They didn't see any choppers until nearly sundown, when Matthew spotted one near the horizon . By that time they had worked their way down out of the mountains and were in high plateau, a mix of spruce forest and open grassland. It made for better time, but when the choppers expanded their search pattern, hiding would be a lot harder. "Fire?" Remy asked, hopefully, as the dark drew down upon them. "Sorry, Remy," Matthew told him. "The bad guys will see it." As he said it, he listed in his saddle a bit. "We better halt here," Stephen said. "You need the rest." The Moon drizzled milky light into the clouds, but beneath the high trees, darkness lay unchallenged. Remy huddled against Matthew. Everybody loved Matthew. "How did you end up being a priest?" Stephen asked, to distract himself from the marrow-chilling cold. "Monk," Matthew corrected. "You've never asked me that. You've never asked me much of anything, Stephen. Five years we've worked together, and yet we've never become friends." "Yeah? But you keep tryin'. Too hard sometimes. Why?" "Because Fiona loves you." Stephen knew he didn't hide his shock, not all of it. He felt his throat close up. "WhatT' "She cares deeply about you. You're important to her, and I trust that." "That's no good reason to trust somebody." The wind hissed in the trees, and his body began to shiver uncontrollably. "We're all going to have to huddle together or freeze," Matthew said. "Come over here with us." "No, thanks." "Not just for you. Remy and I need you." "Maybe I will in a minute." "You really don't like me, do you?" Matthew said. "What's brought all this up?" "You don't want to answer?" Stephen gnawed his lip for a moment, and then he said "All right, no, I don't like you. You took advantage of Fiona, and you won't let her out of it. You've used her to make yourself a big man-everyone in the resistance loves you, and it's because you're married to her. Hell, the whole underground would fall apart without you guys. Everyone does what they do for you, not because it's right, or best, or sensible--bu
t because they want to be you." "What are you talking about? How did I `take advantage' of Fiona?" "They were brainwashing her. It's an old technique. Cut someone off from everything outside, wait till they start to go crazy in their own heads, then step in with a sweet voice and nice promises. They fixate on you like a baby bird. Only you got to her instead of Psi Corps, didn't you? She would have fallen in love with anyone in that state." "You forget I was in that state, too. When I lost her-when they took her out of the hole-it nearly killed me. I broke. I'll break again without her. Think what you want, Stephen, but if you think all we have is fixation, then you haven't been paying attention for five years." "Shut up." "Or maybe it's something else. Maybe you wish it had been you, there in the hole with her. You jumped like a scared cat when I told you she loved you. Have you ever admitted just how much you love her?" "Shut up." "Why didn't you kill me back there? You could have. You know you wanted to." Blinding, murderous rage pulsed through Stephen, came and went like a flash of lightning. "You scanned me?" "No need. Why didn't you kill me? I think that's a fair question." Stephen stared up at the grey clouds. His voice felt oddly de- tached from his throat, as if it were a bird flown from it, singing on its own now. "I didn't kill you because it wouldn't have changed anything. Believe me, if I thought killing you would get me Fiona, I'd do it so fast-" He broke off, started again. "But it wouldn't, you see? She wouldn't love me any more than she does, and maybe she would hate me for lettin' you get killed. So you're safe with me." Matthew reached over and laid a hand on his shoulder. "I know that, Stephen. I knew it before I asked the question. I'm just not sure you did. Now, please, come over here and keep us from freezing." "Please?" Remy added. He awoke, crouched against them in the grey dawn. Quietly, quietly he untangled himself from Remy's arm, stood and walked off among the trees and mist so they wouldn't see him cry. It had been a long time since he had slept with anyone. Oh, yes, sex he had had. He wasn't worshiped like Fiona and Matthew, but he was a hero of the revolution, and there were always women passing through willing to bed a hero. But he had never slept with them, never stayed the night. Telepaths dream. And when telepaths touch, and dream, they dream together ... Remy. His mind was a kaleidoscope, broken, each thought refracted so many times it made no sense. But he knew he had lost his papa and mama, knew it in his bones, and his loss was no less terrible because he couldn't express it. No, it was more terrible. And Matthew-Matthew dreamed only of Fiona, of her dark red tresses, the sweetness of her lips, of melting against her body, of the worlds within worlds they shared. All of the things Stephen could never have. But those things were nothing-even hair and skin and flesh were just things, things he might possess if he killed Matthew and stole her away, despite what he had said the night before. But he could never have what Matthew felt. Stephen had believed he loved Fiona, but compared with Matthew he was a firefly hovering next to a supernova. What Matthew felt was so big, so powerful, so absolutely real it made him ashamed of his own pale emotion. It's what she felt, too. Thousands of miles apart, in their dreams, they still somehow touched-lighter than a ghost's eyelash, below the level of thought and image. Maybe even they weren't aware of it. But he was, now. And so he wept, there among the spruce, as a new snow began to fall, and it felt as if his heart were contracting, understanding suddenly how empty it was. Collapsing, fading-even his hatred of Matthew was a lie. Even, really, his love for Fiona. And so he had nothing left, did he? Except his mission. He should have kept that knowledge close to him all of the time, kept focused on his mission. The problem was, he didn't know what his mission was anymore. To stay with the underground forever, always the traitor, yet always doing his best for them, too? Would he never be released, taken back into the Corps? Couldn't he just end it now, turn Matthew and the kid in, go back home? It wasn't what the director wanted, but who knew what that crazy old man was up to? A thought more chill than the weather struck him. What if the old man was dead? What if his reports were going into nothingness , and no one even knew who Stephen Walters had been, that he was undercover, any of it? The snow answered none of his questions, so he went back and woke Matthew and Remy. With luck, they could finish the trip by the end of the day. Midday they sighted a mile or so of glittering train on the horizon , watched it vanish in the distance. They rode parallel to the tracks, knowing that would bring them to a town. It did, though not much of one. Matthew, of course, managed to remember the name of the contact. Stephen--the least suspicious of the lot, being unwounded and capable of speech-walked into the local general store, a thirty-year-old prefab building crusted in antlers, furs, and old traffic signs. A vid blared loudly as he walked in. The owner was a bored-looking man with a seamed, square face the color of old leather. He wore a baseball cap. Stephen told the man he was looking for Russ Telling, whom the man didn't seem to remember until he bought a pickled egg for twenty-five Northam dollars. He got directions, and by a few hours after sundown, they had followed them to the end of a dirt road, a log cabin, and a yard full of dogs that were suspiciously close to wolves in appearance. "You guys are in a lot of trouble." The man peered down at them from his front porch, a shotgun slung casually under one arm. He was old, with close-cropped silver hair and the nose of an eagle. "You know who we are?" "Murdered a bunch of Psi Cops up in the hills, I hear. Is that you?" Matthew cleared his throat. "Yes. That's us." "Did you kill 'em?" "Yes." "Come on in, then." He gave them hot coffee and roast venison. "I'm called Russ Telling," he said, as they ate. "It ain't my name, but it's something to call me. I don't much care for those guys, the Psi Corps. They got my wife. Tried to get my sons." "Did yo u send your sons away?" "Yes. Into the hills. There's plenty of land here to hide in. The only reason they got my wife is because one of our people went over and helped track her down. We killed him, though, so now they don't have nobody that knows the land. It costs too much to hunt them down." He wagged a finger at them. "You, they will hunt down, whatever it costs. We'll hide you for a while, move you around-but in the end you'll have to go. "In the morning, the brushmen will come for you, keep you safe. You got here just in time, you know. There's a Psi Cop in town, waiting on you. We've been giving him the runaround." "You knew we were coming here?" "The brushmen felt the boy. He's a loud one. He can move things, can't he?" "I move things," Remy confirmed. "We don't want 'em to have you, do we? No, not you." He turned back toward them. "We'll set something up, don't you worry." The "brushmen" turned out to be twins, two young men about twenty years old. They wore heavy coats made of some kind of animal skin and looked like they came out of some ancient book. They ate eggs and hash with the old man, saying little-little out loud, anyway, and Stephen kept a polite distance. No point pissing these people off. "Here you go," one of the brushmen said, dumping a bundle out on the floor. "You guys change into this." Matthew went through the stuff. It consisted of long underwear, jeans, shirts, and heavy coats like the boys wore. "We have our own coats," he pointed out. "Not warm enough, and too much metal in them. You want to hide from helicopters, you'd better listen to us." So they changed, and headed out into the woods. "Why do they call you brushmen"" Matthew asked the boys, as they walked along. "An old legend," one of them said. "The brushmen were sort of supernatural people who went off to live in the wilderness. They didn't live in houses. People were sort of scared of them, but also came to them when they needed favors. That's us. Teeps. When we get word that the Psi Cops are around, we just hit the woods, hunt for a while." He turned to confront Matthew. "You're Matthew Dexter, right?" "Yes." "It's an honor to have you here. We-"The two seemed to confer for a moment. "We admire you a lot." "You're the admirable ones," Matthew said. "Taking in strangers , eluding the Psi Cops." The twins laughed, in tandem. "I'm Mike-this is Jimmy. How many strangers have we taken in? A few. We've helped some get from one coast to another. But you, Mr. Dexter-you and Fiona make it all happen. All of it." Stephen just listened, dully. Even here, among the last of the hunter-gatherers, he couldn't escape. At least he didn't care anymore. Real snow came, and they moved from shelt
er to shelter. He and Matthew spoke little-it seemed they had exhausted everything they might say to each other. After you admitted to a man that you wouldn't mind killing him, what else could you say? The brushmen, sensitive to his moods, sent him out to hunt, alone. He rarely got anything, but then that wasn't the purpose of his expeditions. His modern rifle notwithstanding, he fell into a Paleolithic rhythm. Alone, in the woods, tracking prey, he found a purpose to keep the emptiness at bay. Until the call came. The first day it was only the merest whisper , but by the second it had gained strength. Clarity came on the third day, when the touch resolved into his name. Walters. I'm alone, unarmed. I need to talk to you. He scanned the valley below, searching for the source. Whoever it was probably had him in line of sight, and he didn't like that. By the river. Morning. The man approached with his hands open, a gesture as ancient as humanity. Stephen did not reciprocate-he kept his gun up. Thirty paces away the stranger stopped, pushed back the hood of his parka. "Fedor?" "Yes, of course. Who else would they send to find you?" "You crazy Siberian. I'm amazed you're still alive." "I love you, too, my friend. How are you?" He regarded the dark-haired man for a moment. "You tell me, Fedor. Have you come to kill me." "The Corps is mother, the Corps is father, Stephen. I've come to bring you back, not kill you. The director sent me." "Did he? What does the director care about me?" "Come, come, moi droog. I know your mission. I know, also, that you must be near-how is it in English?-near the end of your rope. You've been out far too long, too long away from the family. But now it's over at last." "Over? Or do they just want the boy?" "He belongs with us-you know that. Only the Corps can care for him properly. We tried to get word to you before, before the bloodshed-" "Yes, what about that? I've killed my own kind, Fedor. I-it was part of my orders, but-" "It's forgiven. No one will even know." Stephen lowered the rifle. "I can go home?" "Yes. It remains only to get the boy, and this Matthew Dexter. Then-" Fedor understood what was happening even before Stephen did himself. Before he could lift the nose of his rifle, the Russian was reaching behind him. As his hand snapped back over, now holding a pistol, Stephen's own muzzle finally came up, and the explosions rang together. Together, they pitched backward into the snow. Son of a bitch! Stephen sent. He couldn't move his body at all, but there was no pain, either. Fedor's touch was losing strength fast. You love them. Why didn't you tell me, moi droog? 1 wouldn't have- You shot me! Stephen sent, angrily. Se f defense. 1 saw it coming. Your mind- Stephen understood, now. It's true. Fedor, I'm sorry. You can't understand. I understand you have killed me. What else is there to understand . Ah, God! It's so stupid for me to die because you were in love and didn't know it. Stephen tried once more to rise, but couldn't. I'm sorry Fedor, he said again. I wish I had some vodka. And a smoke. 1 wish ... Stephen had the impression of a door swinging open, slamming shut, light, then silence. He lay there, just he and the sky, and for the first time in his life he thought he felt truly at peace. He awoke on a sledge. Matthew was pulling it, the brushmen and Remy walking on either side. "Matthew-" he managed "Shh, Stephen, you've lost a lot of blood." "Not important. I've got to tell you some things." "It can wait." "Maybe not. I-I'm sorry, Matthew. I didn't understand." "Understand what?" Matthew stopped, tumed toward him. "A while ago I said that the resistance only worked because of you and Fiona. I made it sound like an insult. The thing is, you guys-" He clenched his teeth at a hard, deep pain. "The thing is, most teeps turn rogue not for some abstract cause, not for some high ideal, but because life is stacked against them. Their lives are misery-hunted, hurt, never anywhere long enough to make friends. Searching for just a minute of happiness in years of pain. They go on because they hope. If they had no hope, they'd join Psi Corps or take the sleepers. "But hope is so fragile, Matthew. It's the easiest thing to kill. And yet there you two are, in the eye of the strnn, and everyone can see how you feel, feel how you feel. They can see it's not stupid to hope. You love each other, and so they love you. I-I think I've known it for a long time, I just didn't want to see it." "Because I destroyed your hope," Matthew whispered. "No. No. Listen to me, Matthew. I wanted Fiona. She gave me desire, not hope. Only you guys together gave me that. Only the both of you." He licked his cracked lips. "There's something else. I want you to scan me. I want you to know everything." "You aren't strong enough for that." `But if I die-" "You won't die," Matthew said. "We've got our connection. Baraka Industries sent a chopper three hours ago. We're going home." "Where-" He coughed on what felt like a live coal. "Where is home this week?" "You know. Wherever Fiona is."
Babylon 5 10 - Psi Corps 01 - Dark Genesis - Birth Of Psi Corpus (Keyes, Gregory) Page 17