Rumi's Field (None So Blind Book 2)

by Timothy Scott Bennett

  So while she'd relocated her executive branch to Vermont, and then Augusta, Maine, she'd sent the judicial branch to Nebraska and the Senators and Congresspersons back to their respective homes. With her power and popularity at an all-time high, having exposed the secret human-alien cabal to the world and having told the truth about their collective situation, and with her people left stunned and afraid and yet strangely hopeful and open, Linda was able to push these changes through with little overt resistance. "It's time we get our shit together," Linda Travis said, and the people nodded and laughed. "Get down off your elitist high-horses, get your butts back home, and mix it up on the ground with the people you're supposed to be serving," she told the legislators, and the people cheered. "We've got amazing communication technologies now," Linda explained. "We don't all need to be together in the same town anymore. And if that means there will be fewer back-room deals and private, smoke-filled clubs full of rich white men deciding the fate of the world, so much the better for all of us." The people sighed with relief. Linda Travis promised to "dilute the concentrated insanity" that Washington D.C. had become. "We're not alone," she said, pointing up to the sky, "but we're on our own. We've made a mess of this planet. Let's roll up our sleeves and get to work." Many of the people who hadn't fallen in love with Linda Travis before then did so now.

  Mary, feeling anxious and weakened by the morning's exertions, walked down the hall, careful to keep one hand on the railings Linda had had installed for her benefit. She glanced into Keeley's office before heading to her own. Those heady days after the fall of D.C. were no more. And truth be told, things had never been what they had seemed to be. Mary had once been a member of that secret cabal, after all. She knew that, while her President had exposed a deep layer of the conspiracy, there were deeper layers still, both human and alien, and that Linda's attempts to re-design her government would not touch those deeper layers. Mary had said as much in meeting after meeting. Having thrown in with Linda, and having taken on her new role as Senior Advisor in charge of running the President's household and minding the children, she'd told them everything she'd known. But she'd never known much beyond the workings of her own role in "The People."

  And there seemed little to do about those deeper layers in any event. There were regular people to feed and house and keep warm. There were environmental catastrophes to deal with, and a climate that had spun off its axis. There was fighting at home and abroad. There were shortages, interruptions, failures, foreclosures, extinctions, riots, epidemics, and strikes. If there were deeper layers of conspiracy out there that didn't like what Linda was doing, they would have to show themselves. Otherwise, they could just hide in their plush bunkers and count their money. Linda Travis had more pressing matters to attend to.

  Mary opened the door to her office and stepped inside. She had no idea why she'd come here. To cry? To think? To hide? None of those options appealed. She wanted to help but had no idea what to do. The "deeper levels" had finally shown themselves. They'd taken Linda. Perhaps they were behind whatever it was that Cole was now experiencing: his "hops." Somebody had taken the kids away. Or helped them. And then there was the matter of this "alien flu." Mary did not feel big enough, or whole enough, to counter these forces.

  She might find some answers in the Astral. Back in the day she'd been one of Theodore Rice's travelers, after all. One of his "stalkers." But the thought of that terrified her. She hadn't traveled in years. Traveling in the Astral had made her feel more and more crazy, to the point where she'd quit altogether and turned her talents exclusively to communicating in the physical layer with their two “pet aliens,” Spud and Mork. And that dark tendril she'd seen in Emily's field scared the daylights out of her. Mary knew that, should she step into the Astral, she would meet that darkness. She did not feel prepared for such things as that.

  Mary sat at her desk. With a touch, she brought her tablet to life. A soft chime sounded and Mary touched her pad again. There, waiting to chat, was the President.

  4.3

  "Holy shit!" cried Iain, who hovered as a glowing orange orb in the multi-hued "sky."

  "What?" said Grace.

  "I'm a fireball!" He spun on his axis, laughing, then floated toward his youngest sister. "This is great!" he said.

  Grace pulled back a bit at the force of her brother's enthusiasm. "You seem to be getting the hang of it," she said.

  "So this is where you were before?" asked Emily. She hovered in her human form in the distance above Grace and Iain, like someone afraid to go into the water. She turned slowly to scan the area. The sky in all directions was colored like a rainbow sunset, with strange cauliflower "clouds" glowing from the inside. Below was a complex, blurred, busy landscape, stretching to a glittering horizon in every direction. Overhead, even in this bright sky, was the Grid. It looked roughly the same as it did in the night sky of the physical realm, but the luminous lines were purple now, and at each intersection twinkled a tiny star.

  Grace, a ball of radiant white light, flashed her heart to her sister. "Yep," she said. "I'd forgotten. But now that I'm here again, it all comes back to me."

  Iain flickered to his human form for a moment, then reverted back to a glowing ball. He blinked out and reappeared right in front of Emily. "How do you hold your form?" he asked Emily. "You know, like a human being. I try but I keep going back to being a fireball."

  Emily grinned. "I don't know," she said. "I'm just me. How do you blink out and back in like that?"

  Iain popped back into human form long enough to return his sister's smile. "I don't know either." He blinked out again. "I just do it!" Emily looked up. Iain had reappeared right over her head.

  "You have to think it and feel it," explained Grace. She shifted into her human form and rose to meet her siblings. "I think," she added.

  Emily pointed at Grace's jeans and t-shirt. "Those aren't the clothes you were wearing," she observed.

  Grace looked down at her body, then pointed back at her siblings. "Neither are those," she said, indicating Emily's skirt and blouse and Iain's jeans and hoodie. "Our human form here is just, like, a memory, a way we think of ourselves. We're not just ghosts of our bodies or something."

  Iain curled into a ball and rolled, dipping down as he spoke. "Is that the hospital down there?" he asked. "It's all blurry. Fuzzy. It's hard to make out." He formed an arm and a hand and used it to point in what felt like a downward direction.

  "I think it is," said Grace, following his gesture. "People in our world call this the Astral level. That's one of its names, anyways. How things appear to us here depends on how we focus. The Astral Realm can look and feel like the world we know, with us moving around in it like we're used to doing, but like ghosts. Or it can look like colors and swirls and fuzz and waves and all sorts of stuff, where we can move around anywhere. And we might meet all sorts of strange people."

  Iain formed his human head and other arm, as if he was learning to maintain his bodily form one piece at a time. He turned around to scan the sky. "Speaking of strange people, where did that hand go that pulled us out? I thought we'd be meeting Alice here."

  Grace followed her brother’s gaze. "I don't know," she said.

  "I think we're supposed to be doing this on our own," said Emily. Just as Iain was experimenting with his human form, Emily was playing with her "fireball" form. She held out an arm, willed it into a fuzzy, glowing appendage, then back again. She beamed at Grace with a grin, her eyes wide.

  "What are we supposed to be doing?" asked Iain. He was speaking to Grace. Having been here before, and having been the one to dream of Alice, she was obviously the one with the answers. Or should be.

  Grace shook her head. "I'm not sure," she said. "I was expecting Alice to be here too. But she's not. All I remember is that we're here to find Linda. We know something's off with her because of that moving mole."

  "Perhaps we should explore for a while," said Emily. "Maybe Alice will show up."

  "Explore what?" asked I
ain.

  Emily pointed downward. "Let's go back and check on our bodies," she said. "Make sure everything's all right. And then let's go look more closely at the Grid."

  Grace nodded in agreement. She had no better idea, and didn't know their next step.

  "What's that?" said Iain, pointing toward a small, bright yellow light in the distance. It was approaching quickly.

  Emily and Grace turned to watch it. The tiny spark twinkled and flashed as it neared, giving off a vibration of joy that all three kids could feel. The spark came right at Grace like a meteor, crashing into her and rolling her backward across the sky. Grace began to laugh with delight as the tiny spark resolved itself in her arms and licked her face.

  It was Dennis.

  4.4

  Television commentators were now calling the new disease "Greensleeves." Keeley’s heart pounded at the news. To give it a name meant that it was "a thing," something new to be dealt with, an epidemic with a cause and a vector rather than a few random, unexplainable deaths. It was real. It was growing and spreading. And Keeley, sick in bed, had to wonder whether her own illness was somehow connected.

  "Alas," the woman on the sidewalk had said. Alas and my love and alas again. And the man on the gurney had said the same thing, according to Mary. And other victims had said the same things, if these reporters were to be believed. As if this "alien flu virus," or whatever the hell it was, played that old tune in people's heads as they died. Or as if, as they neared that fabled tunnel to the other side, what they found awaiting them there was love. Or perhaps it was a song of protestation. Alas, my love, you do me wrong, to cast me off discourteously. Greensleeves. Of course. And Keeley had been right there as that woman had died, and was now sick herself. And Mary and Ness and the kids had been in the hospital when that contractor had been brought in. And who knew what this disease was and how it spread? Shit!

  There were cases now in cities all around the planet. Mumbai. Sydney. London. San Francisco. Chicago. Augusta had been the first, as far as anyone could tell. It had begun with the President, they now said. Linda Travis was the index case. Patient zero. Followed by the woman on the sidewalk a week later. But Keeley wasn't sure it all added up. The quick response taken by the military to sequester the President, and the even more telling fact that they'd already created a facility over and around her old summer cottage on Squirrel Island, meant that somebody knew something about this beforehand. Somebody on the inside. Though there was no mention of this in the public discourse, Keeley knew: Linda had not been showing symptoms when she'd been abducted and put into confinement. And so far, Linda was still alive.

  How long between when the virus was contracted and it killed a person? What was the symptomology? Was it contracted through touch? Breath? The exchange of bodily fluids? What was its lethality? Was the President really suffering from the same thing that had killed these others? Or was it something else? If it was the same disease, then how long did Linda have before the situation resolved, one way or the other? Nobody could answer these questions. But the press sure did love to ask them.

  Thankfully, Keeley was actually feeling a bit better. Which meant that this was probably just a matter of coincidence. She'd just happened to catch a bug at an inopportune time. One of those spring things that went around, especially with the seasons so out of whack. Or maybe a touch of food poisoning. She didn't have a rash on her face, after all. And she sure as hell wasn't hearing some old English folk song in her head. Keeley clicked off the television and took three deep breaths. Her stomach was not as sour as it had been this morning, and she had more energy. That was good. She couldn't bear to think of what it would do to Mary, for Keeley to be taken down, and even out, by this Greensleeves.

  Rising from her bed, Keeley grabbed her laptop from her nightstand and sat heavily in the armchair by the window, feeling the afternoon heat pulse through the glass behind her, overpowering the air conditioning. Perhaps a bit of work. She should call Stan for an update. See where they were in their search for the kids. Make sure somebody was in regular contact with people at the Squirrel Island facility. And there were messages from the VP. She knew he'd need more handholding now than ever.

  A knock sounded at the door and Keeley rose to answer it. It was Ness with a tray of food.

  "You feel like eating, sweetie?" asked the older woman. Ness hurried inside, placed the tray on the end of the bed, and reached out for a hug. Keeley returned it gladly, though she wondered if maybe they shouldn't all be more careful now, given the unknown nature of this new illness. She noted how the aroma of Ness's meal made her feel suddenly ravenous, and pushed away thoughts of illness and epidemics. How could she be sick if she was hungry?

  Ness released her at last and the two women stood face-to-face, arms still clasped. Ness smiled up at Keeley, who had a good eight inches on her. "I made you chicken and dumplings," she said with a flash of her eyebrows. "Though I had to use cornmeal for the dumplings."

  "You're a gem," said Keeley, releasing the old woman's arms and stepping over to lift the lid on her food. Along with the chicken, Ness had prepared a salad, the greens no doubt from their private garden. One advantage of summer in March, thought Keeley with a sigh.

  "Any word on the kids?" asked Ness.

  Keeley shook her head. "Nothing so far," she said.

  Ness placed the lid back on the chicken and lifted the tray. She placed it on the little two-seater table opposite the bed and laid it all out before taking the tray away. Ness patted the chair for Keeley to come and sit. Keeley sat, smiling. There was even a sprig of aging lilacs in a tiny vase.

  "I'm worried sick about 'em," said Ness at last.

  Keeley reached out and took Ness's hand. "Me too," she said.

  "And I'm worried about Linda."

  Keeley nodded. “We all are.”

  Ness pulled out the chair opposite Keeley and sat lightly on the edge. "Do you suppose it's like that Pastor Clinton says?" she asked. Her face was dark and tight, as though his name was bitter on her tongue.

  "What's the ol' Pastor saying now?" said Keeley. "I don't pay him much attention."

  "Oh, you know," said Ness, staring down at her lap. "Same old thing." She glanced up at Keeley. "He's batshit crazy, I realize," she said. "But I wonder if there's something to it just the same."

  "What'd he say?" asked Keeley again.

  Ness shook her head and waved her hand in the air, as if trying to rid herself of flies or mosquitos. "He's just... you know. Talking about retribution for our sins and all that. Like he always does. He was on ACN just a while ago. Says that this alien flu is God's retribution for our sinful ways. Says that Linda got it first because of her faithless attempts to try to save the world. Says that the world is in God's hands, and that a sinful humanity is being cast off in this Time of Burning, and that this alien flu is His way of doing that, and that the only thing to do now is get down on our knees and pray for mercy."

  Keeley put down her fork and slid back in her chair. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. "And do you believe that?" she asked. She opened her eyes. There was no judgment in her voice. No anger. No ridicule. She found, as she asked it, that she really wanted to know. Despite her disgust with such as Pastor Clinton, she couldn't deny that there was some strange power in his words. Like Ness, she wondered if there was "something to it."

  "I don't think Linda is sinful," said Ness, her eyes hard. "And I don't think trying to save the planet is evil." She glanced around the room, as if checking to make sure no one else was there to hear her. "But I can't help thinking that our chickens are coming home to roost, Keeley. That we have nobody to blame now but ourselves. And if somebody's... you know... behind this thing, this flu... if somebody's stepping in to cast us off... well, I'm not sure I can blame them, whether it's God or the Devil or the aliens or whomever. You know?" Ness smiled tightly, grimly, apologetically.

  Keeley regarded the older woman with open, loving eyes of understanding. The name "Greensleeves" made
all the more sense now. Casting us off discourteously. Indeed. She picked up her fork, stabbed a chunk of chicken, and put it in her mouth.

  4.5

  Paul DuPont logged off and cleared his screen. He knew that the Colonel would show up in a moment and he had no desire to arouse suspicions at this point. He buttoned his cardigan against the cool, underground temperatures and turned to face the door.

  As if on cue, Colonel McAfee turned the handle and stepped into the lab. He arrived with his usual, arrogant scowl and casual swagger. The message was clear: he considered such meetings an inconvenient interruption to his real work. DuPont had no idea what McAfee considered his real work to be. Drinking at the club, perhaps? Sleeping late? Making jewelry out of sea glass? It didn't matter. The good Colonel was as inconsequential to what happened here as the outlets on the wall. You need Colonels, of course, just like you need outlets. People function best within an organization when there's a clear understanding of hierarchy and control. But it doesn't much matter which outlet you use, and the real power comes from behind the wall. DuPont smiled at his metaphor as the Colonel approached, trusting that his nominal superior would simply assume that his Chief Tech was happy to see him.

  "Everything's in order with the VLT," said DuPont, intending to steer the conversation to a quick conclusion.