by Thomas Locke
They spent three and a half hours learning how to tie an invisible knot. It was partly a harnessing of that same gut-level force and partly a manipulation of their hands, and because they had two hands and Carver only one, they could not get how the two were supposed to work together.
So Carver grew a second hand.
At least, that was how it seemed, as they watched the forearm and hand slowly emerge from the closed sleeve, remaining long enough to show them how to fashion the knot using the same energy they had used to travel, the force Carver had formed into a new hand. And then disappearing again. Leaving the stump and the empty sleeve.
Dillon asked, “How come you don’t keep the hand around all the time?”
“Both of you go to the transit station and have the other draw you back, and I will tell you.”
“I’ll go first,” Dillon announced. And without hesitation, he went.
“Leave him for a moment,” Carver said, speaking for the first time that day in the musical tongue of Serenese. “Can you understand what I am saying?”
“Yes. Is this your home language?”
“No. It is the universal tongue of all Counselors and senior officers. Serenese is spoken by the world where the records were discovered. We think it may hold a link to the power itself.”
“By joining with others,” Sean guessed.
“Correct. The earlier you learn it, the faster you learn other lessons.”
“Can Dillon come to class tonight?”
“We’ll see.” Carver must have understood the distress, for he added, “It is very rare for a recruit to accept dream-time tutelage at this stage.”
“Is this what we are now, recruits?”
“So long as you continue passing your tests. Bring your brother back.”
Sean pulled on the line that he had been holding, the one that should not have existed. His conscious mind kept trying to draw the physical reality back into the kitchen where they stood. But all Sean needed to do was remind himself of the life that waited across the hedge, in the home next door. He had no problem drawing on the line and pulling his brother back. None at all.
When they had each done it three times, Carver announced himself satisfied and said, “After our next exercise is completed, I want you to practice this another ten times each.”
Dillon asked, “Do we have to stop after ten?”
“You will experience disorientation after a while,” Carver replied. “When that happens, stop and eat something. Wait until it disappears. When you become very weary, stop for the day.”
“So do we stay here in the kitchen, or can we go do this somewhere else?”
Carver cocked his head, like he needed a different angle to observe Sean’s brother. “That is an excellent question.”
Dillon positively glowed.
“The answer is, you must become comfortable with your destination and be able to call it up. Once you have arrived at this point, I will teach you how to form a portal. Then you can travel from anywhere. But only so long as you follow very strict guidelines. You must never, ever attempt to travel to an unknown destination. These rules are in place to protect you and others. All public destinations are known as transit stations. They too follow very rigid guidelines. You must never veer from these rules. This forms a component of your tests.”
“Identify the goal, form the doorway, then take the step forward,” Dillon said. “And never travel outside carefully established boundaries.”
“Correct. This will form the first half of your next test. Traveling to the destination without my assistance in forming the portal.”
Dillon reminded him, “You were going to tell us about the hand.”
“The primary form of trade between planets is technology. I have an implant that permits me to re-form what I lost. Unless I am with recruits, I never show my wounds. I reveal this because you need to understand the risks.”
Sean had not spoken once that entire morning except when Dillon had moved through the wall. It was his way of letting Dillon not feel like he was being left behind. Dillon had responded as Sean hoped he would, forging ahead with the fierce determination that was just one step off the fighting rage Sean knew he felt. That was Dillon’s way of handling anything he didn’t like. By combat. Sean could not have been more different. He wasn’t afraid of fighting. He just didn’t see the point.
They lunched on sandwiches Sean and Dillon made, heavy on the mayo and horseradish. The fridge was crammed with unpacked sacks ordered from a local deli mart that delivered. Dillon piled on rare roast beef while Sean sliced a tomato and washed lettuce. Carver ate the same way he had the previous evening, observing them for an instant, tasting cautiously, then eating everything without comment. Sean found Carver’s habits as interesting as his almost-hidden accent. And the sleeve that wasn’t always empty. Shadows of a life that lay just beyond the unseen portal.
When they were done, Carver opened the kitchen door. “We move outside.”
An awning had been erected, tall enough for Sean to be able to lift his hands over his head and not touch the striped cloth. It covered almost half of the fenced-in yard. Dillon looked at the unkempt shrubs, the patchy grass, and declared, “You need a dog.”
“I won’t be here that long.” Carver motioned them to the center of the awning. “Today we begin your first lesson on combat.”
Dillon showed the day’s first smile. “Now you’re talking.”
There were two components to this. First they had to shield themselves. Connecting to the force was coming more easily now, especially after the morning’s repetitive exercise. Going to the transit station was hardly boring. But after the morning’s exercises, it felt almost normal.
Which of course meant they were moving on to a totally new definition of normality.
Shielding required drawing the force completely around them, forming a sort of lumpish globe. Sean wasn’t really sure he was successful until Carver tossed a handful of dirt at Dillon and then at him. In both cases, the grit formed a slowly swirling veil before sliding off and falling to earth. Which Dillon declared was, “Another item on the list of coolest things ever.”
Defense and attack. Carver repeated the words until Sean felt like they were tattooed on his skull. First ensure safety, then apply force suitable to the threat.
The attack sequence was basically forming a fist from the power and punching forward. Carver brought out a weighted bag that he hung from a metal stand in the middle of the shaded space. Their job was to make the bag swing. For once, Dillon was way ahead of the game. His first punch toppled the bag. Carver’s praise brought out the day’s second grin.
Once Sean got the hang of it, he was ready to move on to the next thing. Unlike his brother. Dillon was in heaven. He punched and punched and loved it when Carver added to the challenge by flinging grit at them, ensuring they kept the shield in place as they punched. Carver made them accelerate the punches, then moved them farther from the bag.
When he was satisfied both brothers were handling the challenge, he turned toward the back door, saying, “One hour of practice, then you return to transits.”
Sean went through the motions mostly because his brother was having such a great time. But he was already bored. Another hour of this held about as much excitement as math.
Which was when Dillon hit him with a rock.
“You’re not paying attention.”
The rock struck him on the side of his head and hurt. Sean didn’t think. He just whipped around and slammed the invisible fist right into Dillon.
His brother might as well have been shot from a circus cannon.
Dillon soared through the air and struck the wooden-slat wall dividing Carver’s backyard from the neighbor opposite Sean’s own home. The barrier was mostly decorative and was definitely not meant to take the kind of blow that came from an invisible fist striking a guy wrapped in an invisible shield.
The wooden wall went down like a disappointed lip. Dillon spilled into
the neighbor’s rosebushes.
He wasn’t hurt—his shield held—but he came up steaming just the same.
“I didn’t mean—” Then Sean realized that Dillon wasn’t all that interested in having a conversation.
Sean had just enough time to wrap himself in a shield before he went spinning like a top. Dillon had struck him on the side rather than straight on. Sean whirled about so fast he could actually hear the grass squeak beneath his shield. Which would have been kind of cool, except for how he took out Carver’s brand-new outdoor grill and then slammed into one of three decorative fruit trees. Almost dislodging the roots.
“Stay down,” Dillon growled.
Sean started to offer a couple of comments, questioning his brother’s right to give orders. But he decided the words would be wasted. So he stayed down, but only because he figured he didn’t need to stand up to strike.
This time Dillon’s fall took out the corner posts supporting the canvas awning. The structure flopped down, enveloping him.
Clawing his way out from beneath the striped tent only made Dillon madder still. Now the fist came at Sean straight from above.
The hammer blow punched Sean’s shield into the ground like a human-sized nail. From his position thigh-deep in the earth, Sean sent punch after punch at his brother.
Dillon’s head stayed down and his feet clawed the earth. He kept raining down his own strikes on Sean. Bam-bam-ditty-bam. The blows pounded Sean ever deeper into the hole. Sean could hear the earth grinding around him. He was almost chest deep now, and too mad to care. Dillon had his back against the house’s foundation, with a pair of major cracks opening behind him. He didn’t seem too worried about that either.
Nobody could get Sean anywhere near as mad as Dillon. He was trying to work up a wedge that he could use like a launcher, send Dillon flying into next week, when the rear door opened up and Carver weaved his good hand. Instantly the air emptied of force. The earth spilled in around Sean’s legs, and Dillon fell with a whoof to the ground.
Sean was terrified. Completely and utterly scared, so deep in the fear funk he could not even shape the panic into words.
Dillon looked up, his face compacted with grit, and showed his brother the exact same thought. That they were going down.
But Carver did not seem the least bit put out. Instead, he surveyed the collapsed awning, the cracks to his home’s foundation and rear wall, and the chest-deep hole Sean was struggling to climb from. Then he reached out and rebuilt the side fence.
When he spoke, Sean realized Carver was working hard to hide his laughter. “That’s enough combat practice for one day.”
9
Carver spent hours patiently working them through tying the invisible knot, connecting the safety line, making the transit. Over and over. Then he shifted them into the living room and began showing them how to fashion the portal. Using the energy. Drawing invisible lines in whatever surface was before them, or in the air. That was tougher, not having a wall to focus on. Carver showed no annoyance when they failed, which happened a dozen times and more, mostly with Sean.
Sean felt unbalanced by having released his rage against Dillon, as though he had exposed a dark edge that tainted him. This troubled state impacted his ability to transit. But Carver remained patient, bland, watchful. What was more interesting was Dillon’s response. Sean’s brother looked increasingly troubled every time Sean failed. As though the whole thing was his fault.
When they had both successfully transited five times, Carver called a break. Sean moved to the bathroom and was inspecting the place where Dillon’s rock had struck him when his brother appeared in the doorway. He carried a plastic briefcase that he set on the sink. “You’re still bleeding.”
“I know that.”
Dillon opened the case to reveal a miniature pharmacy. “Whoa. The dude has got himself a portable operating room.”
Sean stared at the case and its contents. The rage turned to something sick. There on display was every risk they might be facing with future tests.
Dillon found a bottle of hydrogen peroxide, wet a towel, and said, “Turn around.”
Sean did as he was told. His brother probed. “Ow.”
“The blood’s stuck to your hair.”
“Leave a little skin, why don’t you.”
“I’m trying to be gentle. Hold still.”
“Ow again.”
“Almost done.” Dillon dropped the pink-stained towel in the sink and opened a tube of antibiotic ointment. Dabbed a bit, capped the tube, shut the case. Said to the sink, “I shouldn’t have thrown the rock.”
Sean had a hundred different responses, but they remained unspoken. He could not remember the last time Dillon had apologized for anything. “It’s okay.”
His brother’s relief was evident. “We’re good?”
“Until I leave you stranded on some ceiling.”
Dillon grinned. “Dude, you did some serious damage to the colonel’s house. Your strikes made a crack in the foundation big enough to let the night in.”
“I don’t think it matters.”
“What do you mean?”
“Take a look around. The soap is still in the wrapper. The towel you just used still has its sticker.”
“I don’t . . .” Understanding dawned on his face. “Carver doesn’t sleep here. He doesn’t stay here.”
“If you could transit whenever you wanted, would you stick around Plantation Heights? I mean, think about it.”
But Dillon’s mind was tracking in a different direction. “This house, the furniture . . . Carver is here for us.”
“We already know that.”
“Yeah, but this is, I don’t know . . .”
Sean nodded. He understood. “Totally different.”
“The dude comes in, does his instruction, then picks up his lunch bucket and transits off to . . .”
“Argonistan. Back to the house and the kids and the two-headed dog.”
Dillon’s grin was infectious. “I want me some of that.”
Sean started to ask, Even if it costs you an arm? But he decided there was no need to point out the risk. Because he already knew the answer to that one. For both of them.
They were both exhausted by the time they completed ten transits each. Which was a little strange, since nothing about the transit was the least bit physically demanding. But by the time they halted, Sean’s entire world felt slightly out of focus. His muscles ached. Correct that—his bones were sore. Dillon sat across from him at the kitchen table, his shoulders slumped, his eyes vacant.
Carver told them to quit for the day, led them back to the front door, and saw them off with, “It will come more easily tomorrow.”
For once the silence at their dinner table was welcome. Sean had no idea what was on the television droning from the next room. Dillon did not speak once the entire meal.
Their father, Big Phil, was an accountant with the state’s Department of Agriculture. When they were young, Dillon thought his father said he worked for the Department of Oatmeal. The name stuck. The Department of Oatmeal pretty much said everything people needed to know about Big Phil and his wife, Gladys. Sometimes at night Sean and Dillon tried to remember the last time their parents had hugged. Forget kissing. Or had a conversation that wasn’t punctuated mostly by silences and unfinished sentences. They never fought. They never yelled at the twins. That would have required too much effort. The most excitement the twins ever saw Big Phil show was at the neighborhood cookout, when their dad got together with other dads and compared how long they had until retirement. Big whoop. Their mother managed the local CVS. She left in the morning tired and came back exactly the same.
When dinner was over and they had helped clean up, Sean dragged himself upstairs and collapsed with his clothes on.
Dillon appeared in the doorway. “How do I make the link at dreamtime?”
Sean wanted to tell him to go away. But his brother’s quiet desperation managed to filter through his
fatigue. “Carver said it was an invitation. Try accepting the idea before you sleep.”
“Okay, thanks.”
“De nada.” Sean dozed off in mid-word. A couple of hours later he got up, drank three glasses of water, undressed, brushed his teeth, and went back to bed. Dillon snored softly throughout.
He was back in bed before he remembered the circlet. He wanted to say, Not now, not tonight. But he got up anyway and fitted the dingus into place. The language-dream started up as soon as his head hit the pillow, or so it felt. And truth be told, the lessons were fun.
Sean woke the next morning to the sound of Dillon’s alarm clock. He had forgotten to set his own. He lay in bed, wishing he could get his mind to focus, when his brother called, “Breakfast in ten.”
Only Dillon did not speak the words. He sang them.
10
That Monday, school was a serious trial. Of course, it was never much better, especially since they had been dropped from the soccer team. But today was particularly rough. The lingering effects of the weekend’s exercises fitted around Sean’s brain like a blanket. Everything came through slightly muffled. Whenever he managed to fully focus, all he could think about were the wasted hours he was forced to endure in class.
In elementary school the powers that be had decided it would be best to separate him and Dillon. The idea was, the twins could then develop their own identities free from each other. That lasted, like, three days. Until the teachers got together and compared notes and realized that the twins were bouncing back and forth between classes, working the system. No reason, except they liked playing with everybody’s heads. So they were dumped in the same class. Permanently.
Today Dillon was one seat removed, and the desk between them was empty. First class was geography, the teacher was one of Sean’s favorites, but still he felt like the lesson was just another dentist’s drill working on his poor head.
Dillon positioned his notebook so Sean could see and wrote, Arghhhh.
Sean shifted his pad slightly and replied, Another nine days of this until summer recess.