Rumi's Field (None So Blind Book 2)

by Timothy Scott Bennett

  "The VLT?" asked the Colonel. He ran his hand across his crew cut as if proud of his ability to grow hair.

  DuPont squinted his eyes to keep them from rolling. "The Virtual Linda Travis, Colonel," he explained. "That's what we've taken to calling her down here."

  "I see," said McAfee. He gazed around the lab, where at least a dozen technicians and programmers worked in cubicles. He looked down on DuPont. "The VLT. Anything to report?" he asked. He shifted his weight from foot to foot, like a man who hoped that the answer would be no.

  DuPont was delighted to disappoint him. "The President just finished a chat with her Senior Advisor, Mary Hayes, Colonel," he said.

  "Really?" said McAfee with uncommon interest. "And who initiated?"

  "I did," said DuPont. He turned back to his screen and brought up the chat. "Ms. Hayes was added to the watch list by the folks in charge," he explained. "I have no idea how she could possibly disrupt us at this point, but with the President's children gone missing, she's likely to react in unexpected ways. I decided to check in with her, see how's she's doing, and see if I could help keep her calm." DuPont’s chin jutted forward slightly as he spoke. He was brilliant. He'd managed to affect just the right mix of deference and self-justification. And his mention of "the folks in charge" was yet another decoy on the pond.

  "You mean the President," said McAfee. "The President checked in with her."

  DuPont's eyebrow lifted in disbelief, but he doubted the Colonel noticed. It was hard to believe this guy was once part of The People, though the Colonel did not know that his Chief Technician knew about that. "Of course," he said. He took a long, deep breath. "The language gets confusing sometimes."

  "Right," said McAfee. The Colonel pulled over a chair and took a seat to peruse DuPont's monitor. "So how'd it go?"

  "Most excellent," said DuPont. "The President is understandably upset that the kids are missing. Add to that the stress of her illness, the indignity of her confinement, and her upcoming Summit speech and you have one tired, frightened, angry woman. I can say almost anything at this point and it won't raise a red flag. Ms. Hayes bought the whole thing."

  "So how's she doing?" asked the Colonel. "Mary, I mean. Not... you know."

  DuPont allowed himself to smile openly at that. This Colonel was as thick as a brick. He gestured toward the screen. "Upset, as you'd expect," he said. "Angry. Mary Hayes is fairly compromised at this point, both physically and mentally." He explained the situation as if he had no reason to expect that McAfee might already be familiar with Mary's fateful encounter with the unpredictable Agent Rice. "She suffered a traumatic brain injury a few years ago and has never been the same. Essentially, she's a glorified nanny, and with the kids gone, she doesn't know what to do. She spent most of the chat just talking about her feelings and telling the President how much she missed her and how worried she is about Linda's health."

  McAfee rubbed his stubbled chin. "Poor kid," he muttered.

  "She requested voice contact but I had Linda claim a sore throat and the need to pamper her voice before her speech," said DuPont. "My tendency is to use that option more and more. It cuts down on requests for phone contact and adds to the impression of a progressing disease. I don't yet fully trust the voicing software."

  "Add a sore throat? Even if it doesn't match-?"

  "Doesn't matter," said DuPont, shaking her head. "They're a long way from understanding the symptomology.

  McAfee sighed and slid back his chair. DuPont knew the Colonel had little interest in reading the actual chat. McAfee hadn't even bothered to put on his glasses. He preferred to have it summed up for him, a task DuPont was glad to perform, as he could then spin things any way he wished. Unlike his supposed boss, he did know what his real work was.

  "So what's your take on the missing kids?" asked McAfee, taking a toothpick from his jacket pocket and sticking it in his mouth.

  DuPont shrugged noncommittally. "Not sure," he said. "Above my pay grade. I was certainly surprised, of course. But I have no idea how this might interfere with Changeling, or whether the folks in charge had anticipated this. If the Life are back...the aliens…" DuPont let his voice trail off. He, in fact, didn't know what the missing kids were all about. That bothered him. He should know. And if the Life are back...

  The Colonel pulled the toothpick from his teeth, examined the wet end, and stuck it back in his mouth. "Ah well..." he said. It was his way of bringing a conversation to an end. Especially when he had no idea what to say. Gotta shut that brain down before it overheats, don't you Colonel?

  As if he could hear DuPont's thoughts, the Colonel stood, straightened his jacket, and headed toward the door. "We're on full alert," he said. His tone implied that DuPont should remain on duty and not pop off to the club for some nachos and beer. "My superiors fear that the kids are on their way here, and that the aliens are, indeed, involved. I don't intend to allow them access." With a brisk nod the Colonel was gone.

  DuPont smirked at McAfee's back. You don't even know who your superiors are, Colonel, he thought. And you think you're going to hitch a ride in the Giant Leap? DuPont dismissed the President's chat from his screen with a wave of his hand and pulled up his unfinished report. He had some questions for his superiors, whom he well knew. He needed to know what was going on with the kids and the Life. After that, who knows? Maybe he would pop out for some nachos and beer.

  4.6

  A smiling Colonel McAfee made his way up one level to the ground floor of the President's former summer cottage. He loved his little talks with Senior Virtual Effects Supervisor Paul DuPont. What a snot-nosed little punk. DuPont clearly thought McAfee a fool, an assessment the Colonel was only too happy to bolster. It was always better to be underestimated. You never knew when other people's misperceptions might come in handy.

  DuPont had no idea that Aidan McAfee had once been Sam Phelps, a high-ranking member of the unit tasked with supervising direct contact with the aliens. He'd worked with Mary Hayes, for Chrissake. He'd reported directly to General Lowell, who had headed The People and then served as Linda Travis' Secretary of Defense. Well, up until he'd gone missing. Aidan McAfee was one connected dude.

  McAfee passed through the retinal scan and into his office, a nice, well-lit space that had not long before served as Linda's bedroom. He picked up his sleeping cat, Nicky, from his office chair, sat down, and placed the cat gently back on his lap. Nicky hardly seemed to notice, and settled right back to sleep. McAfee flicked on his tablet. He had reports to write. He had a full alert to oversee. And maybe it was time to give his old buddy Mary a call and see what was up. Missing kids and rogue woks could throw a wrench into the works, and Aidan McAfee didn't want a wrench in the works. He wanted The Families' Plan to succeed. He wanted a berth on one of the ships.

  And most of all, he wanted the satisfaction of seeing the look on DuPont's face when he learned that McAfee would be joining them on their journey.

  4.7

  "So you just snuck in and whisked this whole thing away, body and pedestal and all," said Linda. She was standing next to the container that held her naked form. She'd already found out that her hands, her astral hands, would pass right through both the container and her body. The experience had been disturbing, and she did not wish to repeat it. Linda glanced over at the Fisherman, who stood on the opposite side of the lobster tank, watching her. The Martian light gave his bright white hair and beard a pinkish tinge.

  "It was a wee bit more complicated than that, Madam, but yes, I whisked you away, as you say."

  "And that's why I'm naked. Because this is how they had me... stored."

  "I regret that I had no time to pop into your home for a change of clothing," said William. "Even if I had, I don't know how I would have managed to dress you." He waved toward Linda's body with a slight shrug, as though his dilemma were obvious.

  Linda regarded her body now, her astral body. "So why am I wearing worn jeans and a Michigan State sweatshirt?" she asked.

&nbs
p; William’s eyes crinkled with pleasure. "Your default astral body is more habit and memory than anything, Madam President. Were we a full step up, fully in the Astral, you would find yourself to be even more fluid, with the ability to morph into what we might call energetic or vibratory states, or a variety of different and seemingly physical configurations. But, were we a full step up, you would also be beyond my ability to contain you here on Mars."

  "And the only way you can think to have this conversation is by being in complete control of me," said Linda, her voice suddenly cold and sharp.

  The Fisherman smiled weakly, closed his eyes for a moment, and took a couple of deep breaths. When he opened his eyes there was sadness in them. "It is my fervent hope that you will one day understand the necessity which compels me," he said.

  Linda cocked her head to the side. "You might get caught hoping, William," she said, a playful warning that held the subtext don't bet on it.

  The Fisherman bowed slightly and brought his hands together before his chest in Namaste.

  Linda nodded her head in return, then turned back to her contained body and rested her hands on her hips. "You don't think they're going to notice a missing body?" she asked.

  William paused for a moment. He raised a finger. "I believe I have successfully befuddled the situation," he said. He turned quickly away and looked across the plain, staring at the Face mesa for a few moments before returning his eyes to the sky.

  Linda followed his gaze. Directly above were two bright spots that outshone the yellow-pink sky, one moving slowly past the other like a car in the passing lane.

  "Deimos and Phobos," said the Fisherman. He glanced at Linda with a lawyer’s sly expression. "Would you like to see them?"

  Linda turned back to the container and stared a little longer. The body inside looked like her, and yet it didn't. Something essential was missing. It was as though she'd been laid out on a mortuary slab, not Scrooge to the Fisherman's Ghost, but Marley, dead as a doornail. Her spark, her soul, was long gone from it. This was just a shell. It wasn't her. It never had been. Then Linda chuckled softly. Nothing had gone missing. She was her. She, here in the Astral, talking to this man William. She, this conscious she! She was herself. Apart from this body. Apart from the Earth. Apart from the whole realm of physical stuff. She was still here, still her, still alive, still thinking and feeling and wanting and doing. Death, it seemed, and as the spiritual traditions had long insisted, was not an end at all.

  "Linda?"

  Linda looked up at the Fisherman, both her rescuer and her captor. "Yes, William?" she said.

  The Fisherman pointed to the sky. "Would you like to see the fabled moons of Barsoom?" he asked.

  Linda glanced back at the form on the pedestal. This body was not her. It was just something that held her for a time, a container made of flesh and blood and bone. She, Linda Travis, was something more than that container. She could feel that now. She knew it. And that felt like a profound gift, given to her by a man who might, it seemed now, prove to be more than either rescuer or captor. She turned and nodded. "I'd like that," she said.

  She felt strangely free. Even with her body confined on the Martian surface. Even with her soul confined to near-Mars space. Even with her future seemingly bound tightly to the whims and wishes of the wiry old man who stood before her, Linda felt free. She gave William a warm smile and found, despite her fears and suspicions and judgments, that she meant it.

  With a deep bow, William led them up into the sky.

  4.8

  Speaking about it years later, Cole would explain that something finally snapped back into place. The soul wrenching "hops," the abduction of his wife, the disappearance of his kids, the unraveling of the world around him: all of these things and more piled up onto Cole until he could take no more. With an inner shift akin to a prisoner ripping off his manacles, Cole threw away his pain, his grief, and his tears. He disgorged the rotting mass of shame that lay in his guts. He coughed the worry from his lungs. He unbuckled his brittle armor of self-doubt and tossed it to the floor. He rose to his feet and noticed that his back felt strong and straight again. Whatever it was that had snapped had created a space for something new to arise.

  Cole pocketed his phone, pulled on his shoes, and stepped to his door. He knew where he was headed. And may the gods damn those who might try to stop him.

  Cole Thomas had found his anger.

  The mysterious caller had laid out his plan in simple terms. "You must get yourself to Squirrel Island, Mr. Thomas," the disguised voice had said. "You need to be there in person, banging on the gates, raising a stink. Leave the rest to me. We'll create a media circus the likes of which they will not have anticipated."

  "Why should they care?" asked Cole.

  "You're the President's husband," the caller had said, his voice so heavily garbled that Cole had to strain to understand it. "Believe it or not, Linda Travis has banked a great deal of goodwill during her administration, even as things have spun out of her control. Many of her people still love her, Mr. Thomas. They'll be on your side."

  The caller sounded confident in his plan, but Cole was not so sure. He'd seen cowardice and corruption enough to last him to the end of his days. He did not trust those in charge to deal openly and fairly with him. And there were vast, hidden forces on the move now. He flinched at the thought of them, circling overhead like vultures, but he knew that he’d have to face them. Cole clenched his fists. The bastards took my wife! They involved my children! He grabbed the handle and yanked the door open. Like it or not, he’d have to trust that the mysterious caller knew what he was talking about. He really had no choice. No other plan. His anger needed an outlet, and this was something he could do. It was better than hiding, helpless and hobbled, in the Presidential Home. And he very much wanted to bang on those bastards’ gates.

  The hallway was empty. Mary must have ducked out during his call. Cole was glad she was not still there, waiting for him. He didn't need her spying on his field right now. She might try to stop him. Cole walked quickly down the hall, out of the Family Suite, through the wing of offices, and into the more public areas of the Presidential Home. He knew, as was standard procedure, that he'd pick up a trio of Secret Service bodyguards on the way out. That was fine for now. All they needed to do was get him to Stan Walsh. After that, with any luck, Stan would know what to do.

  I'm coming, Linda, Cole whispered in his mind, hoping that, somehow, his wife could hear him. He pictured her lying on a cold, stainless steel table in a level-four biocontainment laboratory, surrounded with high-tech machinery and grim scientists in positive pressure suits. How could they build such a thing in her old cottage? He didn’t understand. He only knew what he'd been told though official channels, and that wasn't very goddamn much. No doubt Linda was as furious as he was, and terrified for her health. He trusted she was giving them hell. If the virus she had was this Greensleeves thing the media was talking about... well, Cole didn't even want to think about that. He hoped the doctors there had the sense not to tell her about the people now dying all around the planet. But Cole didn't think these people had much sense.

  Cole's heart pounded with frustration at the thought of Linda having to go through this alone. That was the part that most appalled him, that they'd cut her off from the people she loved right when she most needed them. Did these doctors understand nothing of healing? Or has even the concept of healing been crushed under the hobnailed boot of the "national security state"?

  He laughed at himself. Of course it had. Why did such things still astonish him, after all he'd seen? Cole descended the last staircase and crossed the main lobby. Ahead was the Secret Service checkpoint. Cole imagined ahead, into the future he would attempt to create. He imagined himself pounding on the gates, the strange sparks of light flying from his fists as he did so. He could hear himself shouting, calling, insisting, demanding. He could see himself succeeding. He took a deep breath and stepped up to the checkpoint.

  Cole u
nderstood the likelihood that he’d only be able to see Linda through some plate glass window or something. There was this virus to consider, after all, and he did not know what to think of it. The fact that he and the kids had not also been quarantined gnawed at his mind. As did that mole that Emily had pointed out. Nothing seemed to fit like it should. Something was wrong. Someone was lying. Cole had thought that it was high time somebody figured out what and why and who. He could see, now, that that somebody was him.

  Cole realized that he needed Linda right now as much as she needed him. He put a hand to his stomach to try and ease the pain that clawed at him, the deep terror for his children that threatened to overwhelm his ability to think and act. He needed Linda. He needed his President. He needed her power and authority, her quick mind and her fierce heart. Linda Travis could get the kids back if anyone could.

  Cole acknowledged the stone-faced young woman at the desk before him with a nod. "I need an escort to Secretary Walsh's office," he said, as casually as he could manage. Stan was the first step of the mysterious caller's plan. “Start with Stan,” he’d repeated before hanging up. So Cole would take that first step, knowing that it would put him on the path he had to walk, with many more steps to follow. Some of them might feel impossible. But that's what his anger was for: to empower him in the face of impossible odds.

  One way or the other, Cole was going to get to Linda's side.

  4.9

  "I'm so glad you're feeling better," said Mary, nuzzling Keeley's neck. "I was so worried." Her knees were pulled up against Keeley's side.

  Keeley buried her nose in Mary’s hair and inhaled deeply. "Me too," she said, her voice a dusty whisper. She ran her hand down Mary's back, smoothing her silk shirt, hoping to help calm her.

  Mary rose up on one elbow, pulled her head back, and looked Keeley in the eye. She stared for a moment but did not speak. Keeley's long, dark hair, freed from its ponytail, lay splayed out on the pillow.