Some were brighter than others. He directed himself downwards. As he approached, he saw the three light sources were identical to the living strands reaching out from his body.
Daniel remembered to ask the questions.
Am I conscious?
The answer was yes.
Am I dreaming?
Unless reality had taken a thoroughly bizarre turn, that was another yes.
This was a lucid dream. Sara had been right. In which case, he was supposed to make contact within the dream. Communicate with Gabe or anyone else in the prison. But how, floating through space, surrounded by a phosphorescent spider's web?
He decided to return to his body in the corridor with George. At least there had been familiarity there, a geography that mirrored the real world. Daniel looked for his other body. It had gone. There was no George. No corridors. No prison. Just this dark space.
The darkness wasn't empty. It had boundaries, a thickening of the shadows where he couldn't make any further progress. The space was three dimensional. As he 'looked' around him, using senses he knew couldn't be physical, he detected more and more sources of light coming into being from every direction.
The strands around him were stretching now, searching for others and, as they found them, coiling and knitting together, a dance of light threading its way through the dream space.
Thoughts, images, feelings, memories came through the connections as they formed and dissolved, grasping and releasing, a web of shared dreams with no centre.
If I just stay long enough to make some real money, I can escape for good
It's going to hit me. It's skidding, the back-end is jerking one way, then the other. What do they call it? Jack-knifing. A forty-foot jackknife, a truck hitting my chest, the shop window smashing. The screams. They think I'm dead. I should be dead, but I'm angry. I get up, and the screaming stops for a second. Then it starts again.
He says he loves me, and I know he's lying. Yesterday, I would have believed him. Yesterday, I didn't know he was undercover, didn't know he was police. He smiles, and I grit my teeth. The kitchen drawer opens behind him, and its contents float into the air. A spatula, a potato masher, a rolling pin, a vegetable peeler, a bread knife. I choose the vegetable peeler.
They chase me into the trees and I run I run as fast as I can but there are four of them and they are spreading out and they know there's nothing but the cliffs after the trees. They don't know I won't stop at the cliffs. I'm done. I'll keep running and I won't be scared or sad or ashamed I'll just be dead and that's fine that's fine that's fine. The trees are behind me now and they've stopped running. There's nowhere to go. My legs are tired my arms are tired my head is tired but when the edge comes and I keep running I'm not tired any more I'm free. I close my eyes and fall. Only I don't I don't fall I fly. I fly and I scream and I laugh and I don't look back.
Daniel felt heat on his back, like the sun coming out from behind a cloud while he was lying on a beach.
He turned and saw the brightest light source of all. He felt no fear as he was drawn towards it, saw its strands reaching towards him like a parent reaching for a child. This was a very different dynamic. Before, he had been the one reaching out and making contact. Now, he was no longer dominant. He was opening, receiving. He did so gladly, there was no malice here, but there was purpose, clarity, leadership.
His strands tangled with the brightness which, he now saw, occupied a central position among all the lights. If the web analogy was still good, he was about to meet the spider.
—hi, Daniel—
—Sara?—
—in the flesh. Well, no flesh at all, but you know what I mean—
—what now?—
—I connect with everyone else, and we break out of here—
—when?—
—if I can connect with everyone, or even most of them, then we should go now—
—now?—
—why not, you got a hot date or something?—
—no, but—
—but nothing. Let's go. Last one out buys breakfast—
30
Abos, Shuck and Susan began their search at the Mexican border, flying from the east coast to the west. Since Gorman's newly destroyed headquarters had been based in San Diego, Abos hoped he might not be too far away. Access to a Gulfstream 650 meant he could be anywhere, but America was Gorman's home and it was a big enough country to hide in. Staying within twenty miles of each other to maintain onemind, the three of them swept across the landscape at a speed of one hundred and fifty miles per hour. Any slower, and they would have lost the cover of darkness before reaching San Diego. Any faster, and they risked missing their targets.
As a new day dawned in San Diego, they ate three omelettes each, followed them up with peanut butter-stuffed French toast with banana, shared a stack of twelve pancakes and washed it all down with six litres of orange juice. The waitress collected twenty bucks from the cook when she put the clean plates on the counter. They both watched the strangers walk across the parking lot, sunglasses on, holding their helmets.
"Now just where in the hell are their bikes?"
After checking into the nearest motel, Abos, Shuck and Susan were asleep within minutes.
They allowed themselves eight hours sleep. They could get by with far less, but they had no idea how long the search would take. Fifteen-hundred miles of flying every night, even stuffed with protein and carbs, would take its toll.
They picked another restaurant for their evening feast, attracting a few gawping staff members and customers as they consumed enough food to feed seven or eight hungry people.
When darkness fell, they formed onmind, spread out and flew west. They reached Corpus Christi before dawn, then turned back to find a motel and diner south of San Antonio.
While the others slept, Abos awoke from a dream about Daniel. It was the first time she had ever remembered a dream. She was agitated, disturbed.
Abos stood by the window. The curtains were closed against the daylight, but she could hear the hum of activity as people went about their daily lives.
In her dream, Daniel had been flying alongside her. She was not supporting him, he was staying aloft under his own power. He looked gaunt, unhealthy. She signalled that they should land, and they did so on top of a hill. She spoke to her son, but no words came from her lips. He answered, but the sound was muted. She reached out, and he responded, but when their hands met, their fingers slid away. They tried again and again to reach one another, but no amount of effort made any impression on the invisible barrier between them.
When Daniel looked over her shoulder, she turned and saw figures approaching. The first to come was a short man who greeted Daniel with a smile before they hugged. Next came a man nearly as big as Daniel, who nodded before standing alongside the first man.
From all sides of the hill, they approached now, men and women, most of them tall, many powerfully built, but all looking haggard and weak. They crowded around Daniel, then turned to Abos. She tried speaking again, but there was only silence. Although the group, thirty or more by now, all looked her way, it was as though none of them saw her. Their eyes sometimes rested on her momentarily before looking elsewhere as if not registering her presence.
A final figure approached. A woman, tall, strikingly beautiful. Abos knew she was Sara. She realised the first man must be Gabe. The others... their size, the look in their eyes... survivors.
They were her children. Her children.
Daniel spoke to Sara, turned her towards Abos, pointed, tried to make Sara see her. Sara looked towards Abos, squinting, frowning, concentrating. She shaded her eyes against the sunlight. Her wrists were so thin, they looked like they belonged to an old woman. The skin was almost translucent, the veins visible.
Her children. When her vision blurred, Abos wiped away the tears. Had she ever cried before? She only remembered one occasion, when she last saw Cressida Lofthouse. Tears were a human response. She was not human.
; Her children. Why were they so weak? Why couldn't they see her?
She felt the dream slip away, her body involuntarily rising, floating away from the hilltop.
Abos tried to reverse her ascent, but she had no agency in this dream state. She was an observer. She focussed on Sara's face, glowing, as every other face darkened around her, then the entire group moved fluidly away from her as if they were one organism.
As she rose from the hill, she twisted in the air and, as the dream ended, she caught sight of white hills. Those hills, perhaps thirty or forty miles away, were lower than the one Daniel and Sara had been standing on. The sun above her was hot, the landscape arid and dry. How could there be snow on the distant hills?
She went back to bed, puzzled. She knew dreams were an area of human consciousness still relatively unmapped. Why, after all these years living as a human, did she have her first vivid dream now? She felt exhaustion wash over her. There had been truth in the dream. Her children, the minority who had lived beyond their teens, were out there somewhere. Had she just seen them?
An hour before darkness fell, Shuck, Susan, and Abos ate again and prepared to make their third sweep of the country, the second from east to west.
Their planned route would take them over White Sands, New Mexico, which, from above, might easily be mistaken for a snowy landscape. Thirty miles further west was a mountainous region. Hidden in that range of hills, was the most high-tech prison ever built. Nearly twelve hours before Abos and his companions reached them, the thirty-two occupants imprisoned there would attempt to break out.
The three of them flew west.
31
Sara's guess about the number of guards was inaccurate. She had failed to factor in Titus Gorman's confidence in his automated systems. Four guards ran the entire prison. Three eight-hour shifts, one guard covering each, the fourth on a four-day break.
Which meant only one guard to deal with. Plus some sophisticated alarm and security systems.
TripleDee had been right about the deafness, but wrong about Gorman's recruiting criteria. He didn't employ deaf guards. He had found suitable candidates and offered them three-year contracts, which paid enough to mean they would never have to work again. There was just one catch. Titus had researched each candidate so well that no one refused to undergo the operation, despite the fact that the procedure was irreversible.
That morning, the guard was Frank Decroix, a former marine with two ex-wives and six estranged children. A recovering alcoholic, this particular Tuesday marked four years, three months, and two days since Frank's last drink. The offer from Titus Gorman meant he could pay off the debts from a couple of bad business decisions, make sure his kids would never starve, and buy himself a nice condo in New Orleans. He loved New Orleans, but hated blues and jazz with a passion, so the deafness was almost a bonus.
He loaded the rationed food into the hub's microwaves, then walked each of the twelve corridors in turn, using the stick provided to flick the trays under the doors. No faces glared out from the gaps anymore. Not since they'd found they wouldn't get any food if they did. The first few days, they screamed at him. He'd seen the spit fly from their lips, the veins standing out in their necks as they mouthed threats he couldn't hear. Not that he blamed them. Solitary confinement was no fun. And he'd once had a cat he fed better than his prisoners.
Still, for this money, he was content to not give a shit.
When he'd flicked the last meal under the thirty-second door, he reloaded the microwaves. When their displays reached zero, he stacked the trolley and opened the door to the first corridor for the second time that morning. The clean plates and trays had been pushed out for him to collect. That was another habit they had learned. If you don't return your plate, tray and cutlery, you go hungry. He picked them up one by one, replacing them with a fresh meal, which he flicked into each cell.
He spent the next twenty minutes repeating the same actions in the other corridors before loading the microwaves for a third time. The part of his brain that might have questioned just what in the hell he was doing had fallen silent. He felt a pleasant, low-level buzz as he walked his route again and fed the prisoners for the third time in less than an hour. It was like being drunk. No, not exactly. It was like the best moment on the way to getting drunk, when you feel the alcohol taking effect, the booze-fired optimism kicking in. That magic time, which might last an hour but, more likely was over in ten minutes as the cheap whisky ushered it angrily away. Frank Decroix felt it that morning. Warm, happy, convinced that come what may, things would turn out for the best because, deep down, everyone was a good guy.
After his sixth trip, he ran out of crockery. He'd stacked the industrial dishwasher, but it would be another hour before it was done. Frank stared at it, bemused, then up at the open cupboards where two more portions each were waiting in their individual packets. He guessed they could eat straight out of the packet. Why not? Then—and this idea was such a good one, he laughed out loud when he thought of it—he could open the prisoners' doors, and they could help him wash the dishes. Afterwards, they could all go topside and order more food.
It was 11 am when he approached the first door. He stood outside it, waiting. He didn't know what he was waiting for until it happened. The lights went off. Then the emergency lights flickered into life as the backup generator kicked in. A few seconds later and the emergency lights went out as the second generator shut down. He felt a moment of panic as he became blind as well as deaf. Then he clicked the flashlight on and shone it at the door.
Frank hurried back to the hub and the laptop. Emergency protocol in the event of a power failure meant he had to be ready to respond. The laptop was running on its battery, connected to White Sands via a cellphone-based relay system, which Robertson—Frank's boss—had explained, but Frank hadn't understood. The main thing was, he had to memorise codes and type them in when prompted.
The screen was flashing. Frank typed in an eight-digit number. He had to answer three security questions. The third, which asked the name of his first wife, was the one he was supposed to answer incorrectly. That way, if he had been compromised, and either someone else was entering the information, or he was doing so under duress, he could alert Robertson without giving himself away. He answered the first two questions correctly, then entered Elizabeth as the third. His first wife's name had been Trixie, but he'd always liked Elizabeth.
The screen cleared, then Robertson's message appeared.
What happened?
Power outage, sir.
Backup generator?
Frank didn't hesitate.
Working perfectly, sir.
Good. Sit tight. I'll have a maintenance team come in with Kremmer at two.
Kremmer was the guard for the afternoon shift. Frank checked the time. It was seven forty-five.
All cells secure?
Yes, sir.
Good. Robertson out.
Frank shone the flashlight into the corridor.
The cell doors were masterpieces of engineering. They were uncomplicated, and they were mechanical. Titus Gorman may have made his fortune with software and electronics, but when it came to keeping a solid barrier between him and thirty-two angry superpowered enemies, he had gone old school. The doors could only be opened from the outside, by turning a handle three hundred and sixty degrees. The gears engaged and three solid bars slid out of the stone wall and back into their recesses in the door.
Frank spun the handle. The door swung open.
A beautiful woman was sitting on the bed. He didn't need to be able to lip-read to understand what she said, her voice—man, he loved British accents, but how the hell did he know she was British?—was clear. Like she was speaking inside his head.
"Hi, Frank. You know what to do?"
"Yes Ma'am, I sure do."
"Call me Sara. Let's go get them. Did you bring the torches?"
He had to think about that one.
"Uh, you mean the flashlights?"
&nb
sp; The woman nodded. Brits spoke funny.
"I sure did. Ten of 'em. They're in the hub."
She took his arm. She was unsure, a little unsteady. But when Frank opened the first door, she straightened up and smiled.
Frank expected her to hug the guy inside. Or shake hands since they were Brits. He'd watched the video feed, seen their faces pushed up against their cell doors while they talked for hours. They obviously knew each other.
But the big guy—and he was huge—walked out like he was dreaming, and followed them. The next guy, nearly as big, did the same. In the next corridor, and the next, this was repeated. Most of them—women and men—were big. Not fat, but tall and broad. Some were shorter, skinnier, but they were the exceptions. They were all silent.
None of the prisoners were mad when they saw him, no one attacked him. It seemed a little strange, sure, but it was as if they barely noticed Frank at all. Or Sara, or each other.
By the time he had walked back through the hub, picked up the flashlights, and headed into the wider tunnel past the elevator, Frank was at the head of a ragged line of zombie-like figures, unspeaking, shuffling behind him.
He handed flashlights back down the group, keeping his own. It was still dark.
Occasionally, an individual figure would break away from the group, becoming more active. Whenever this happened, Sara would ask Frank to wait—man, hearing that lovely voice made him feel a little bit regretful about the whole deafness angle—and she would close her eyes. That meant he could look right at her without being caught. She really was beautiful. Somehow, he knew she was a good person too. Kind, funny, great to be around. And he knew she liked him. Didn't know how he knew it, but he knew.
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