Rumi's Field (None So Blind Book 2)

by Timothy Scott Bennett

  They were back inside the Murk now. Going through seemed to be the only way to get to where they were headed, so they'd formed a new plan with Dennis leading the way, and then plunged back in. And to be fair, which Mihos hated to do, Dennis seemed to be better at leading than he had been. The first time Mihos had saved the kids, they were right inside the Murk's leading edge and the Great Ones had been guiding him. His natural cat abilities allowed him to see just enough that he could make his way back out.

  But that second time, on the flying carpet, well, perhaps he'd been a bit... arrogant. Or if not arrogant, then hopeful, maybe. He did okay at first, but this Murk was far more befuddling than he'd anticipated, and soon he was just as lost and blind as the kids. Whomever had built this damned thing, or summoned it, or whatever the hell you did to put a Murk in place, had built themselves a whopper. The Taj Mahal of Murks, right here in Small Town, USA.

  Dennis must have slowed because Mihos had caught up with Emily. They were well inside the Murk now. Mihos knew that much. But they were not in the black. Dennis had been right. The Murk was full of holes, tiny, meandering tunnels winding their way like blood vessels through the big black beast. As long as they stayed in the holes, they could still see, as weird as seeing was here inside the canine perceptual field. Dennis led the way, his nose to the ground, the black and white, pinched and squeezed, rippling buzzing Maine countryside sliding past as they walked. The faint tendrils of color were scents, and Dennis was following them.

  Mihos fell into line behind Emily, taking the rearguard position in case something bad tried to sneak up from behind. Exactly what he would do should something bad actually appear he was not at all clear about.

  Mihos felt a stab of fear. He hoped that his metaphor was merely words, and that these little tunnels were not actually veins, taking them into the Murk's black heart.

  10.6

  The nurse drew the needle from Keeley's arm and swabbed her skin before applying a bandage. Keeley roused a bit, opened her eyes, yawned. Apparently she was still alive. That surprised her. She'd thought the alien flu would have killed her by now.

  She smiled up at the nurse: a tall, thin man, his head shaven, his eyes fierce and golden. Beside him stood another nurse, a tiny woman with large, strangely-wide dark eyes. They both wore surgical masks and latex gloves. Keeley wanted to reach out and grasp them both and hold them tightly, such love she felt for them. But her arms were so weak, and it felt so grand to simply lie there and bask in her warm love and dozy contentment. She smiled as brightly as she could and hoped that that would convey her deep feelings.

  The tall nurse turned and looked at the tiny nurse for a moment, then they both looked down at Keeley and lifted the corners of their mouths. "We are here for you," the man said, his voice even and gentle and strangely inflected. Keeley sighed and closed her eyes. That was a stupid thing for a nurse to say, she chuckled to herself, before falling back into restful slumber. Of course they were here for her. They were nurses.

  But where was Mary?

  10.7

  Mary sat in a plastic booth in the back corner, drinking her orange soda as slowly as she could, reading her paperback, and watching D'Neal work the counter. He was so beautiful. His face just shone. And he made it a point to speak with every customer he had, laughing and joking and winking. The old ladies loved him. Maybe Mary loved him too. She could never be sure. The word 'love' had never really made any sense to her.

  Daddy would be furious to learn that his daughter was seeing a black boy. But maybe that was the point. Or part of the point. Mostly the point was that D'Neal was kind to her. He thought she was smart. And pretty. And that felt like magic to Mary. When she looked in the mirror all she could see was how blotchy her skin was, and the tiny gap between her front teeth. That was when she didn't have bruises. When she had bruises, she did not go near the mirror at all.

  D'Neal finished with a customer and glanced up to find Mary staring back at him. He winked and grinned. He'd told her he would save some of the throwaways for them. They'd stop by and give one to Danny, then head down to the fairgrounds and hang out for a while. There was a car show today or something. Lots of people. They could get lost in lots of people. Mary could feel safe with lots of people.

  Another customer came in and Mary sent D'Neal back to work with an Imperial flourish of her hand and a giggle. Then she sipped at her drink and went back to her book. It was a tattered old thing she'd found out behind the school, a crazy story about aliens and the President of the United States, but Mary loved that sort of thing. Anything to take her away from the world she lived in.

  Mary read, waiting for D'Neal's shift to end. She failed to notice, across the room, the tiny old man in the hooded robe sitting in the far corner booth. Every now and then he'd glance at Mary. Mostly his attention was on his food: little round hash brown things that he popped into his tiny slit of a mouth with strange, gray fingers.

  10.8

  "You and I first spoke almost three years ago," said the Fisherman. "Do you remember?"

  "Of course." Linda sat leaning to one side, resting her elbow on the chair's padded arm. The winds had stopped and the dust had settled, leaving the Martian morning sky clear and crystalline.

  William looked down and picked at his fingers. "At the time, you no doubt formed an opinion of me, I would venture. One of your enemies, no doubt. A member of the hidden elite, the wealthy, secretive rulers of the world. A 'one-percenter,' as some call us. A member of the Illuminati or some other secret cult. A reptilian overlord or Bilderberger or Satanist, even." He glanced up at Linda. "Am I right?"

  Linda sighed and nodded. "Sure," she said. "I guess. I mean, as soon as I figured out who you were- when I first woke up in that lobster tank - I felt wary of you. Afraid. Angry." She gazed off in the distance for a few moments, then returned her attention to the Fisherman. "I went through an awful time with Agent Rice and the People, William. And I think of you and your 'Family' as the hidden group behind that organization. So it makes sense for me to be suspicious of you."

  William smiled. "Of course," he said. "And your suspicions come not without reason. So let me shine my torch into this matter of 'secret rulers' and see if I can make some sense of it."

  "Okay."

  The Fisherman shifted in his chair and took a deep breath. "We can begin by looking at our modern global society and noting that leadership, governance, and control manifest as a number of layers. There's the public layer, comprised of those whom we have traditionally thought of as being in charge, and who largely operate out in the open. There's a more hidden layer, which operates behind the scenes to pursue more selfish goals of worldly wealth and power. And then there's what I call the secret layer, which is even further removed from the public eye, and which pursues a variety of what we might call more ideological or conspiratorial goals."

  "Okay," said Linda. "And The Families are members of this secret layer?"

  "We'll get to The Families soon, Madam."

  "Got it."

  The Fisherman shifted in his chair. "So, if we grant the existence of these layers, we can then observe that, over time, the hidden and secret layers of leadership and governance have grown in power and control at the expense of the public layer. This might be considered common knowledge these days." He looked pointedly at Linda. "Even you, as a powerful participant in the public layer, would surely agree that the old stories of selfless public servants working toward a better world for all no longer describe the reality of the situation."

  Linda nodded slowly. "I guess I would say that, sure."

  "Of course," said the Fisherman. "The hidden and secret layers of control have increased in size and dominance along an exponential curve, alongside such things as crime, poverty, oppression, war, and environmental destruction, all with roots reaching far back into antiquity, and all reaching a fever pitch in our present time. The hidden layer is focused on competition and winning. The secret layer is focused on breaking away from the mainstrea
m culture and creating something else. Both can be seen as rational responses to increased population pressure and its attendant effects."

  "Right," said Linda. "That makes sense. We used to live in what felt like a lush, roomy, resource-rich world, so we could think in terms of making a better future for everyone. We could do that out in the open. But now, it feels like we're living in a damaged, crowded, resource-scarce world, so we feel like we have to compete to get what we want and need. And that competition gets more and more fierce, more underhanded and illegal, and needs to go on behind the scenes."

  'Yes," said William, nodding.

  "But aren't those layers just two sides of the same group of people, William? I mean, I've known a great many politicians and business leaders in my day, and while they pretend to be selfless public servants operating out in the open when the cameras are pointed at them, they go right back to their greedy, power-grabbing ways when they're out of sight."

  The Fisherman flashed his eyebrows. "I would say that you're spot on, Madam," he said. "A great many people operate in two or even all three of these layers at the same time."

  Linda sighed heavily, her forehead deeply furrowed. She closed her eyes to think and breathe. "This hiding... " she said after a few moments, "it feels... I don't know... like contempt." She opened her eyes. "You know what I mean, William?"

  The Fisherman nodded. "Indeed, Madam. By focusing on competition, members of the hidden layer created winners, and therefore losers. By breaking away into exclusive groups, members of the secret layer created insiders, and thus outsiders. And we all know about losers and outsiders, do we not? They're lesser beings in some way, readily identifiable as such, be it by income level, education level, skin color, ethnicity, intelligence, nationality, language, sexual preference, or the like. As population pressure, resource-scarcity, and the game of winning at the expense of others all increased, so did prejudice, contempt, and disgust."

  Linda unfolded her legs and pushed herself to the edge of her chair. "So tell me, William," she said, her eyes wide and hard. "Where do The Families fit into all of this?"

  10.9

  "Looks like they're waiting for us," said Stan, standing next to Cole in the bow of The Pokey Joker. He gestured with his head toward the small pier at the Squirrel Island Ferry Landing. Standing on the dock were two soldiers, clad in black combat gear and carrying large weapons in their hands. In the gravel lot beside the ferry landing sat a military Humvee.

  Cole exhaled loudly, trying to ease the pounding of his heart. "I guess we had to expect that, didn't we?"

  "I did," said Stan, patting his waist. Cole glanced down as Stan pulled his shirt aside enough to reveal a pistol tucked into his belt.

  "We said no guns," said Cole, looking at Stan with eyebrows raised.

  "Yes we did," Stan answered. "And it's a good rule for these guys." He motioned vaguely back toward the rest of the crew. "But for me, I'm keeping my options as open as I can."

  Cole looked again at the soldiers on the dock, then back at Stan. "You're not-"

  Stan shook his head. "I'm not an imbecile, Cole," said Stan with a sly grin. "And I'm not about to start a firefight with guys like this. Like I said, I just want my options open."

  Cole nodded. "Okay," he said. He turned to watch as the boat neared the dock. As if oblivious to the soldiers, young Doobie pulled right up like he owned the place and gunned his loud engine before shutting it off. The soldiers in their fearsome garb and mirrored helmets stepped forward, looking wildly out of place in this picturesque tourist spot. They must be dying in this heat, thought Cole.

  "By order of the commander of this facility," said the shorter of the two, "we ask that you turn your boat around and head back to where you came from." His voice was muffled by his helmet, like Darth Vader's.

  Cole glanced at Stan, who stepped around to the side of the boat to get closer to the soldiers. "Do you recognize me, privates?" he asked, emphasizing their low rank.

  Neither of them replied.

  "My name is Stan Walsh. I serve as Secretary of Homeland Security, at the pleasure of our President, Linda Travis." He gazed at one, then the other. "Perhaps you've heard of me."

  The shorter soldier glanced at his taller partner, then stared back at Stan. "Nevertheless, we are instructed to turn you away. You may not disembark at this facility."

  "I thought Squirrel Island was a tourist destination," called out Ken from the cabin door, his brow tightly clenched. "I have friends here!"

  "I have to pee!" said Marionette with a laugh. Her raucous tone and her eye-patch gave her a piratical air. She plopped down on a pile of netting as if to say that she wasn't going anywhere anytime soon.

  The soldiers slowly scanned the faces of those on the boat, as if they were memorizing them. Cole had little doubt that this entire encounter was being watched and recorded by unseen cameras and mics. He stepped closer to Stan and spoke to the soldiers in a quiet tone. "I would like to see my wife, the President of the United States," he said. His voice quavered with fear, but he'd said it. Steve Waymax, the Portland reporter, scribbled in his notebook as he watched from inside the boat's cabin.

  The shorter soldier regarded Cole for a long moment, then turned to the others. "My instructions are to ask you three times to leave peacefully. This is the third time. If you do not comply, you will all be taken into custody and transported to the Federal Penitentiary in Newton, Georgia, pending trial. Your boat will be confiscated." He stepped to the edge of the dock and brandished his rifle. "Do you understand me?" he asked.

  Stan turned and motioned to Doobie, who immediately started the boat's diesel engines. The Secretary of Homeland Security turned and scowled at the soldiers. "You will be hearing from me," he said, his voice as hard and cold as carbon steel. The boat began to back away from the dock.

  Cole, fingers clenched on the handrail, seethed with frustration as the boat pulled away. Before they got too far away, he called out, loud enough for the soldiers to hear him. "I want to see my wife!"

  10.10

  Paul DuPont stared at his monitor as the boat pulled away. "Bye-bye, First Gentleman," he muttered, smirking. "Better get your asses to shelter, you bunch of nut-balls." DuPont had just received a secret communiqué from higher up, informing him that a storm had been ordered. He could not have been happier

  He glanced at the screen with the Summit feed, glad that it was yet another day of political pontificating, with no major responses expected from the VLT. Satisfied, he clicked a tab and scanned the global radar. A couple of hundred miles out from the mid-Atlantic coast he could see a series of nested curved lines, regularly spaced. This was the trace left behind from a major pulse. Already he could see the beginnings of the hurricane. It looked like it might become a big one.

  DuPont sighed his relief. Finally. A couple of days to build the storm and steer it here. Maybe three. And then, whammo! No more President. No more whining husband. No more crazies. And no more of this godforsaken island. DuPont could return to The City, which is where he should have been all along, as far as he was concerned. Hopefully, the Directors would be ready to punch out of here. That would be all the better. DuPont was so sick of this planet he could scream.

  He opened another screen and typed in a message to the central hangar facility at Urbem Orsus, requisitioning an AB to be delivered as soon as was possible. He knew how crazy things could get once the go-ahead was given. And he'd learned long ago to trust nobody but himself. After all, Uncle William had made an appearance this very morning, apparently, and hadn't even checked in with him. Not that he was really an uncle, but still. DuPont had known the old man since he was a kid. At this important time, it seems he could have stopped by to confirm that all was well.

  But DuPont knew better than to think like that. He would watch out for himself, as he always had. That meant having an AB, a wok, coded to his pattern and sitting ready on the flight line. Hopefully one of those new twenty-fives with the integrated control that felt almost
as alive as the ones the Life had given them.

  Paul DuPont would not be left behind.

  10.11

  "So you guys have never heard of Mihos, then, I take it," said Mihos, making conversation as they wound their way through the Murk's holes and the doggy Maine countryside. "I mean, you never asked." The cat cleared his throat.

  Emily turned and raised an eyebrow. "You mean that stuff you said back in your house?" she asked. "Like, something about a being the 'lord of war' and stuff?"

  Mihos stiffened and slowed to a stop. "'Prince of War,' thank you very much. 'Son of Bast' and 'Protector of the Innocent.'"

  Emily stopped to speak with Mihos. "Okay. Yeah. You told us all of that back at your place, but we've been rather busy since then."

  "Ooh, nice attempted save, chickie-baby," said Mihos. "But we had all that time together on the flying carpet."

  Emily raised an eyebrow. "I, for one, was focused on not falling off."

  Mihos sighed. "Fair enough. But we have time now." He started walking again and Emily stepped in line behind him. Grace and Iain were a dozen yards ahead, keeping up with Dennis. "And you're the smart one, right? I'd rather just talk to you anyways."

  "Well... I don't know about that..." said Emily.

  "Yes you do, Ems. Don't play humble. It doesn't look good on you."

  Emily blushed. "So, what does that mean? 'Son of Bast' and all that? Who's Bast?"

  Mihos held his nose up and stepped along, rather jauntily. "Bast? Only an Egyptian war god. Mihos is usually depicted as a lion-headed man, and his cult was centered in Leontopolis. He carried a knife and was often referred to as the 'Lord of the Massacre.' He-"

  "I'm confused," broke in Emily. "You're an Egyptian war god with the head of a lion? And why are you talking about yourself in the third person?"