Vision

by N. D. Hansen-Hill

  “Smythe's watchdogs must still be on duty.” He looked over at a nearby table and waved. The two men squirmed and tried to ignore him. “See? I told you. They must have someone on Dusty, too.”

  “Maybe,” Zar growled. “It's ‘lesson-teaching’ time, remember? Maybe Smythe figures he's gotta learn, even if it kills him.”

  “Smythe doesn't know how close it came last time. Probably figures Mallory's in for some embarrassment, but that's all. Besides, he knows we're on the case.”

  “Defending him, Dainler?” Zar asked.

  “Don't get all shitty with me, just because you're worried about Merrie.”

  Zar's phone chimed, and he answered it eagerly. “Merrie!” he whispered, relieved. “Hold on—” With a wary eye on the “watchdogs", he left the table to talk outside.

  He was gone for what seemed like a long time. Long enough for one of the men to place a call of his own. The two men watched Valterzar dubiously through the glass.

  When Valterzar came back in, he looked as dumbfounded as Erik had ever seen him. He was obviously trying to organise his thoughts, but they seemed to be all over the place. He opened his mouth twice, as though going to say something, then snapped it shut again, and shook his head.

  "What?!" Erik finally said.

  Valterzar looked at him and sighed loudly. “Merrie called me on Ren's phone—her new phone, because she tossed her other one away.”

  Erik opened his mouth, but Zar held up a hand to stop him. “Ren formed some idea about Drew Garris’ research, so she went to see Smythe,” he whispered. “While she was in his office, she guessed the password to his private files, and accidentally told him so.”

  Erik's eyes widened.

  “It gets better.” Valterzar smiled. “Ren read him. He was scared she'd found out something and so he decided to turn her over to someone else. So,” he said, disbelief in his voice, “Ren burned down her house, had a makeover, and did a runner.”

  “Oh, Jesus!" Erik groaned.

  “On the way, she called Merrie and asked her—in a panic—to contact ‘Dr. Drewsome'. Seems his research is the crux to what's bothering her. Merrie also thinks it might be something to hold over Symbio's—and, by extension, Symtech's—head. Meanwhile,” Zar was actually chuckling now, but there was a hysterical note to it that Erik couldn't miss, “Ren broke into Garris’ house and spent the night in a closet.”

  “In a closet,” Erik repeated, a little blankly. “What's the thing about the research that's so bad?”

  Valterzar's eyes met his and he sobered. “Fungus. Ren thinks they used non-human DNA for the ‘gene therapy'.”

  "I'm part ‘fu-!" he started to yell, but Valterzar shushed him.

  Erik gulped. “Not exactly what I expected,” he whispered.

  “Not what any of us expected,” Zar told him. “Josh and Jamie went with Merrie to the cemetery, and ‘raised’ Drew Garris.”

  Erik closed his eyes. “Tell me that's it—”

  A flicker of amusement was back in Valterzar's eyes. “Then James PK'd some of Ren's ‘burnt belongings'—” Merrie's words, he explained, “—and gave ‘em to Josh—”

  “—who did his clairvoyance thing to track her down.”

  “Right. The three of them spent the night in the car, because they'd eluded their watchers pre-cemetery, and now they figure they're wanted. They turned up at Garris’ house this morning and walked in on Ren, who was having an interlude with Dusty.”

  “An ‘interlude'?”

  “Tuning into his thoughts. Merrie says it's bad. He's being dragged in and can't get out. Ren's not about to let him die, so she says—”

  “Ren?”

  “No—Merrie. She says we have to hurry and save Dusty, so Ren won't feel she has to. Otherwise, they may be wishing you were there, instead of here.”

  “She's afraid Ren's going to kill herself trying to save him.”

  Zar nodded. His phone blipped again. He listened, then said, “We're on our way.”

  Erik looked at him expectantly.

  “Dusty just got hit by a car, Ren thinks. Neither one of them saw it coming. He's on his feet, but just barely.”

  “Ring her back and have Ren make him stay put.”

  “She can't,” Zar told him. “He's in some kind of prisoner march—maybe even a Death March. If he slows them down, or falls out of line, he's going to get shot.”

  * * * *

  Josh rubbed his hands together. “Buried treasure,” he said. “I love this stuff.”

  “Maybe if you're lucky,” James whispered, “his dog will've buried something for you in the yard.” He turned to Ren. “Can you sense any unwanted company?” he asked.

  “Nope. All clear.” Her eyes were red-rimmed from weeping. The sooner they got this done the better. She knew they were trying to divert her focus from Dusty, but that wasn't going to save his life.

  “Just keep watch, okay?” James said.

  “Insensitive brute,” Merrie whispered. She gave Ren's hand a squeeze. “Josh, can you see anything?” Merrie asked.

  Josh was standing there with his eyes closed. “Wood, wood, dirt, dead bird, wood, key.”

  “Where?” James asked tensely.

  “Under the middle bench. In the slot between the boards, directly under the seat.” Josh shook his head. “You're close, but your fingers won't fit.”

  “No problem,” James retorted. He emerged triumphantly with the key. “Now what?”

  Merrie looked pensive. “We try to figure out how to trick Gruesome Drewsome into showing us the lock.”

  * * * *

  “Twenty minutes on the train,” Erik said. “Only twenty minutes.” He was edgy. It was as though his whole world had fallen apart in the space of minutes. At least, the people in it—the ones who mattered most to him—were still intact.

  But for how long? He couldn't sit still. He wandered back and forth between the rail cars, driving his watchdogs crazy. Nor were they the only guards. The ones Erik had waved to remained in the car.

  Watching me, Zar realised.

  It was time for some honest reflection.

  He had an out, yet when trouble had hit he'd reacted every bit as worriedly as Erik was acting now. He'd wanted to blame it on the affection—no, the love—he felt for Merrie, but there was more to it than that. What? A connection? Some link?

  Merrie hadn't even hesitated to tell him about the fungal DNA. Why? Because he was her “Zar"? Or because she'd thought all of them should know? “Them” being the operative word.

  But I lived with my parents! A normal life!

  But then he remembered the time, when some kid, the school bully, had threatened him. Usually, Lawrence could handle it with his words—

  —always a good talker, he thought derisively—

  —but this time, the bully wouldn't listen. It still wouldn't have mattered too much, except bully boy, Dirk Scully by name, had rounded up some of his buddies. They'd caught Lawrence on the way home from junior high, and started in on him, seemingly determined to beat the shit out of him.

  Something had happened inside, and Lawrence had felt that burning—the same strong reaction he'd had when the rapist had threatened Merrie, and when Dusty had lain there, bleeding. He'd known he could stop these idiots with little more than a thought.

  But he'd never had the chance. Because two men had suddenly yanked the kids off him, and tossed them back, onto the ground.

  After that, Lawrence had seen the men again—and again. Not always the same two, either. The pairings would change, and the methods would change, but they were always there. Two men, and later, sometimes, women as well. Two guards, plus Lawrence Valterzar, against the world. He'd accepted it, as much as the others had.

  Because they'd always been there.

  No more denials. Time to face it, accept it, then decide what to do with it. Decide why Smythe had ousted him from a position of control to alienate him from the Cluster.

  Maybe because he knew that, once met, Val
terzar would never truly be “alienated". But Smythe would no longer be in control.

  The moment I argued, and withheld information, I threatened Smythe's position.

  Smythe wanted to be sure he reserved control for himself.

  * * * *

  They were sitting around on Dr. Drewsome's thickly carpeted floor, eating some Chinese food Josh had sneaked out for. “This is where he died, isn't it?” Merrie said, gesturing around the bedroom with her chopsticks. “It'll have to be a seance.” She sighed. “I hate those things.”

  “I should have known,” Josh grumbled. “Count me out.”

  “Ren?” Merrie looked at her expectantly.

  Ren grimaced. “I guess, since it's my fault.” She thought fast. “What if I'm in the middle of it, and Dusty needs me?”

  “What I want to know is how you're going to control Drewsome this time,” James said. “I sure wish Zar was here.”

  “So do I,” Merrie said wistfully. “I miss him.”

  James snorted. “I just want him to be able to stop things, if they get out of hand.”

  “I can handle Drew Garris,” Merrie told him.

  “I wish Erik was here.”

  “I don't think he'll get that nasty, Josh,” Merrie said reassuringly.

  “It's not that. We could always use Erik as a shield. Family feeling, and all that.”

  Ren dropped her chopsticks back in the box. “What're you talking about?”

  “Photos. We were looking at some old pictures of Garris, from when we were kids. They look almost exactly like Erik.”

  Ren looked slightly stunned. “I guess that explains a few things.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like why Erik's mom hated Garris so much. Remember how she hardly ever came around? Except that time when Erik was sick? I got this strong feeling, like she absolutely despised Garris. Emotions like that really stand out. I could never understand why she was so angry. Does Erik know?”

  “Not unless Zar's told him,” Merrie said. “She must have had some idea what Garris was into. I can't believe she'd let him do it to her son.”

  “Maybe he did it without her permission,” Ren suggested. “She hated Garris, but she adored Erik. I think it killed her to have to leave him with his father.” She looked at Merrie. “Didn't Garris have a kid already? With someone else?”

  Merrie frowned. “I don't remember hearing anything.”

  “Must have been on one of your traipses through the poor man's brain. And people think it's bad to pick locks," Josh added sarcastically, looking pointedly at James.

  “But that would give Erik family!” Ren argued.

  “Raised by Garris?” James said derisively. “He's better without.” He frowned, looking pensive. “When did Erik's mom die?”

  “When Erik was eleven or twelve,” Josh said. “I can still remember the way he cried, the first birthday he had without her.”

  “How did she die? Was she sick?”

  Ren was looking at him strangely. “An accident, maybe? What are you thinking, James?”

  “You tell me.” It wasn't very often any of them encouraged Ren to probe their thoughts, but this was one time James didn't feel comfortable voicing them aloud.

  “You think Garris had something to do with it.” She sounded shocked.

  “Erik told me he was leaving the school—that his mom was taking him back, to live with her.” James sighed. “I remember how excited he was. I mean, he was friends with us, but—”

  “But like the rest of us, he wanted to be ‘normal'. I remember that, too,” Josh said. “So you think Garris killed her?”

  “Or had her killed. I just wonder how much of it's in Drewsome's private notes.”

  * * * *

  The S-Bahn was slowing for Dachau station when Erik saw Zar put away his phone once more. He sat down next to him. “Merrie again?” he hissed.

  “No—Smythe. He apologised for Jekkes’ mistake, in sending out that letter. It was supposed to go to someone else.”

  Erik snorted. “Way to cover. Does he really expect you to buy that?”

  “Doubled my pay.”

  Erik looked a little stunned. He might use his abilities for money, but he'd somehow never expected Valterzar to. “What did you tell him?”

  “That nothing's changed.”

  "What does that mean?" In spite of his efforts, he knew he sounded slightly outraged. He tried to temper it with, “I think you've been hanging around with Merrie too long.”

  Zar had an amused glint in his eye. “It means nothing. But maybe it'll buy me enough backup to secure Dusty.”

  “What it means is we could have flown first class after all,” Erik added, but there was still doubt in his eyes.

  Zar saw it and grinned at him. “Think I'm going to throw in my cards with Smythe again? Stake my reputation on a losing team? If Ren says there's a problem, I believe her.” He added, in a voice so low that Erik could barely hear him, “We're dealing with a giant here, Erik—capable of crushing us with an order. I want us all out of the way before Symtech takes a fall.”

  * * * *

  Dusty was having trouble taking it in. They'd come to some kind of gate house, a two-storey whitewashed building with a bright red roof. Cheerful, almost. They walked under an archway and through a heavy iron gate. The gate itself had the words "Arbeit Macht Frei" inscribed at the top.

  There was a massive open area, and long rows of barracks. Walls, gun towers, wire fences, moats. In Dusty's mind, everything had turned a shade of grey. Shock was hitting him hard. He'd dropped from a well-fed twenty-first century existence into a world of striped prison garb, hopeless faces, and exhausted, emaciated, stumbling bodies.

  And he didn't look likely to be leaving it any time soon...

  With a nod, and a quick word of thanks, Dusty shrugged off his helpers’ hands, disgusted with his own weakness. So many of the people around him were debilitated, undernourished, and with nutritional maladies brought on by deficiencies. Their clothing was filthy, and ragged; stinking of human flesh and faeces. Their hair was scruffy and lice-ridden, their teeth yellow and rotting. Yet, they were helping him.

  One of the men fell, and the guard booted him, to urge him back onto his feet. Dustin had never felt a true animal urge before, to tear out a throat, but he did then. He helped the man to his feet, much as the man had helped him an hour before.

  Someone must have been watching—noticing how his fitness, despite some kind of injury, was in such contrast to the rest of the shipment. He would have been a perfect candidate for the labour details.

  But he was also a candidate for something else. He'd barely glimpsed the barracks—the tiered, rough-hewn bunks—when a guard came for him. He said something in German Dusty couldn't understand, then motioned him outside. The other prisoners—the ones who'd marched with him—looked at him with a resignation that knotted his already aching middle.

  He marched, the guard prodding his back, across the open area, to a building on the other side. Some kind of hospital.

  Some tingling of prescience made him baulk—or maybe it was some half-remembered mention of foul experiments, using camp inmates. The guard shoved him into the room.

  There was an old man who was obviously in charge. The guard said something to him obsequiously, which Dusty assumed was “Here he is.” The only word he could really pick out at this point was “Schilling", which he assumed was the old man's name.

  Dusty didn't have a chance to think much more. The guard forced him into a chair, then stood stiffly before the door. Dusty was suddenly terrified. What the hell was the old man going to do?

  Nothing. He was yelling to someone in the next room; giving orders. His assistant came in hurriedly, excitement in his eyes. It made Dusty cringe.

  Until the young man looked up, and Dusty breathed a sigh of relief. Through the agony in his head, and the greyness of his vision, he thought for a moment it was Erik. He thought it all the time the man filled the syringe, and until he
came close enough to inject it. Dusty, confused, saw then the assistant was probably ten years Erik's junior, with blond hair, rather than brown.

  After that he became focussed on the syringe, and realised he'd caused them too much trouble.

  Lethal injection. They were going to stop his heart, then use his body in some weird experiment...

  He never really got much further than the “stop my heart” part. He jumped out of the chair, totally ignoring the machine gun-mad guard. The bullet would have to go through the Erik lookalike before it hit him. That made that risk a whole lot lower than his present one...

  His assailant was angry—Dusty could see it in his eyes. He was even angrier when Dusty twisted the needle, and jabbed him in the forearm.

  The guard was preparing to pound Dusty over the head with his gun butt when the other man stopped him. He yanked the syringe out of his arm with a disdainful gesture, his expression icy. Dusty froze, a sense of deja vu hitting him. It was so familiar...

  I should've pushed the plunger...

  The syringe was still loaded. Bad luck, Dusty. The medical man was directing the guard to pin him against the wall. Guard did, then held him there, like a fly on a stickpin, with the barrel of his gun shoved into Dusty's aching gut.

  Dusty thought he was going to die then, the pain was so bad, but Mr. Medico had the right of it: with that kind of pain Dusty couldn't move. Hell, he could barely breathe. Another second of this...

  And, then, it was over. Whatever had been in the syringe was now in his bloodstream. How could I have ever thought he looked like Erik? Dusty thought, staring anew at those cold eyes.

  The man smiled at him, and it was one of those times when a smile is so much worse than a frown. The gun was pulled out of Dustin's stomach, and he slid down, to sit against the wall.

  Mr. Medico was now chiding the guard, and he held out his hand for the weapon. Then he looked at Dusty, made sure he was watching, and smiled again.

  The “doctor” turned the gun on the guard, and shot off the toes on his right foot. Then he turned to Dusty.

  No bullets this time. There was, after all, the experiment to consider. He came at Dusty with the gun, but he swung it like a club.

  * * * *