Vision Page 2

  Erik kissed Ren's hand, then smiled back. “Just think of all the points it'll make me,” he said.

  * * * *

  Lawrence Valterzar had never wanted to work with this group. He'd trained in medicine, and gone on to specialise in psychiatry and organic brain dysfunction. And then, one day, he'd been called in on a consultation. A James Wickham had been admitted with severe bruising and lacerations. He claimed he'd been “stoned", but in the Biblical, rather than the modern, sense. Lawrence had thought it owed more to the latter, but he'd refrained from saying so.

  He'd been in James’ room when the tapping on the window began. The almost frenetic beat of tiny pebbles had given way to a glass-spidering assault by rocks and concrete. Then, the first of the invaders had beat down the barriers.

  The rocks came on. Lawrence rang for help, yelled out the door, and danced around the room, trying to get clear. He flung the covers over James’ face, but he couldn't forget the terror in the man's eyes. It was a rather graphic reminder of why he'd bothered to get into this gig in the first place. James Wickham needed help—and here was Lawrence Valterzar cowering behind a chair.

  It made him mad—mostly at himself, but furious nevertheless. He saw himself as a coward and a sham—running when someone needed him most. He stood up, and faced the barrage head on. The first concrete block grazed his cheek, and a heavy rock pounded his shoulder. If anything, his anger escalated. James, meanwhile, was screaming almost hysterically under the covers—undoubtedly wondering why Fate had tossed this particular curse his way.

  Lawrence Valterzar couldn't recall when he'd been so angry, and the fire burning in his gut upped another notch. Whereas fifteen minutes ago he would have hesitated to do anything that might affect his prestige or community standing—that might make others “wonder"—at the moment he didn't care. As a seeming boulder headed directly for his face, something lodged in his gut.

  He knew with certainty he could end this. He opened his mouth and roared, "Stop this!" The boulder stopped mid-flight, shuddered slightly as though fighting his orders, then dropped, motionless, onto the floor.

  All around him it was like rocken rain, rather than the pelting assault that had been taking place before. All the pebbles, stones, chips of concrete, and restless gravel dropped in a pinging resonance to the floor. Some bounced, landed and rolled, but none of them responded to anything but gravity.

  “Easiest cure I ever effected,” Lawrence had muttered.

  At the sudden silence, James had pushed the sheet off his face and looked a little warily around the room.

  “Was that the first time?” Lawrence asked him.

  “You mean was I a ‘virgin’ rock target?” James asked. There was a glimmer of amusement in his eyes.

  It told Lawrence more than James realised. That he could be amused by this meant he was, in some regard, accustomed to it.

  His panic, of a few moments before, suggested he'd sensed an “episode” coming on.

  If there was ever a case study for organic causes of brain dysfunction, it was this one. Though whether an ability to catalyse kinetic outbursts could be considered a dysfunction, was open to question; in Lawrence's book, it was certainly an aberration. He had a sudden stirring of interest, not the least of which was motivated by his own response to the rock toss. Why had he been so certain he could end it? Where had that conviction come from? It was hard to discount that particular feeling of burning energy that had lodged somewhere in his gut.

  Whatever else, it was certain the rock assault had ended at his words. Was that because James’ brain had suddenly picked up the message, and certain activators had been turned off? If James was able to turn this off, wouldn't a sense of self-preservation have triggered the impulse long before this? At a time when he was being personally pelted, and there was no one around to help him?

  Lawrence had found the thought that some part of his own brain had acted physically upon the rock storm quite alarming. In all the self-analysis he'd done during his training and afterwards, he'd never uncovered a potential for psychokinesis—or anti-psychokinesis, as the case may be. If he had, he would have found a way to discount it, ignore it, or attempt to rid himself of it.

  But now he was trapped. He had to know why.

  Still, he hadn't been the one to initiate or enlist the other members of this particular “Cluster". All it had taken was his proximity to James that day, his success in stopping the rockstorm, and some research that was the preliminary to a study he was going to effect on anomalous conditions. It had dangled a carrot, and someone had snatched at it.

  And, just like a carrot, someone had snatched away his roots, and transplanted him elsewhere. He couldn't exactly say his reputation had “gone to seed", because there's a certain credibility in working for a government affiliate—but his security was shot to hell.

  As much as he'd wanted to explore the human brain before, now he realised there are a lot of things you're better off not knowing...

  * * * *

  “Ren's down for the count. Anyone tell you?”

  Of course, they hadn't. Valterzar had left it to him, the weasel. Josh supposed in its own way, it was a kindness, so that Dustin wouldn't have to hear the “why” from anyone else.

  Dustin grabbed Josh's arm. "Where is she? What's wrong with her?"

  Josh noted the panic and hid his smile. Good. About time Dusty let her know how he felt.

  Ren had never admitted it, either—until today. Today, she might as well have danced on the table for the subtlety of her gesture. She'd done something that went against her principles—for Dustin. She'd put herself at risk, and opened herself in a way that had left her vulnerable. She must have suspected she wouldn't be able to walk away from this one—that she'd have to endure either Valterzar's wrath or his helpful hands—and to someone with her streak of independence, that must have been a difficult surrender. Businesslike relationship replaced by an embarrassing intimacy, if Valterzar insisted on acting like a doctor.

  Plus, she'd put Dustin in an impossible position, which must have made her own nearly untenable. He was being given a choice to be excessively grateful, which she would have found abhorrent; to be furious at what he would consider near-suicide; or to be forced into admitting some kind of emotional attachment for her before he was ready.

  Josh didn't have to be very sensitive to guess that the last person Kithren Magnus would want to see on waking was Dustin Mallory.

  Josh hauled Dustin out of bed and into a wheelchair. He felt another twinge of guilt as Dustin flinched. Ren might have the venom, but Dustin still had the hole in his leg that went with it.

  Josh covered his dismay with a griping, “Hurry up, Dusty!”

  Dustin nodded. “Ready!”

  The last one she'd want to see, but the one she needed most.

  * * * *

  “It's Lawrence Valterzar's group.”

  Charles Smythe smiled. “'Rockhead Valterzar'?”

  Marc Jekkes nodded. “The only Valterzar I'm unlucky enough to know.”

  “Tell me again who's in the Cluster.”

  Jekkes looked at the chart. “Dustin Mallory, James Wickham, Joshua Wingot, Erik Dainler—”

  “—the prima donna,” Smythe interrupted.

  Jekkes grinned. “—Meredith Feiderman, and Kithren Magnus. In order: retrocognition, PK, clairvoyance, bioPK, mediumship, telepathy.”

  “What?” Smythe asked sarcastically. “No astral flyers? How could we have been so remiss?” He shook his head, and asked, in the same incredulous tone, “How did I ever get this job?” He nodded toward the chart. “Isn't Magnus a plant scientist?”

  “Yep. PhD plant pathology. Works at the university—pathogenic fungi.”

  “Good. We'll need her. Mallory's in graphics, and Wingot's a paleo man?”

  “Feiderman's the only one in the group without a PhD—and she has two Masters’ degrees, in philosophy and Eastern religions. She writes award-winning children's books.”

 
“Bright group. What's Wickham's specialty? Besides rockstorms, that is.”

  Jekkes looked at the text and chuckled. “Geology.”

  “Oh, Christ!” Smythe grinned. “We've been trying to figure out how Mallory gave the Drepanosaurus such physicality. He's been doing a 3D image for Wingot, by the way. Have you seen it? It's unbelievable. Amazing the parallels, here. Mallory spends most of his work hours creating 3D work that strives to emulate ‘reality'. Then, in his personal ‘3D world', he is merely observing, and it somehow becomes his reality. I would have thought PK on the injury if Wingot hadn't saved the spine.”

  “Any theories on the ‘physicality’ so far?”

  “Only one with any credibility. We think during the episode, he and Wingot were touching. Shoes, a hand on the shoulder—something like that. Wingot wanted this so badly he could taste it. It's possible they only came in contact when Mallory flung himself to one side—at the moment of impact. Between Josh Wingot's clairvoyance, and Dustin Mallory's retro ability, they were able to extend the boundaries.”

  “So, what happens now?”

  “None of the players realise how much we know—including Valterzar. His people wouldn't believe how zealously he guards their privacy—with one exception.”

  “The prima donna?”

  Smythe grinned. “Yeah. In Dainler's words: ‘too much privacy, and I wouldn't be riding in a limo.’ We're thinking of teaming some of them up, and creating situations that might stimulate a repeat performance of Mallory's and Wingot's fiasco. Besides, Mallory's been getting a little dissatisfied. It might be a good time to give him something to think about.”

  “Isn't that a little hazardous?”

  “We're paid to extend the boundaries, then find a use for it, Marcus. We could use some fresh alternatives to conventional military action right now. Something beyond the piddling clairvoyant surveillance or PK number crunching.” He read Jekkes’ next question in his eyes. “It doesn't matter whether they approve or not. None of them would be alive right now without our intervention. They would have become stats on the infant mortality rolls. Just a few more unexplained crib deaths.”

  “But wasn't it covert activity that initially put them at risk?”

  Smythe shrugged. He told Jekkes, a little irritably, “And we could argue aboriginal rights, interment camps, and black suppression, too. Ancient history. The point is, an effort was made to rectify the situation. It was Symbio—and by extension, the ‘government'—who supplied the ‘therapy’ that kept them from becoming victims. We've also supplied money for their education, run counter to any obstacles their ‘conditions’ might have created, and covered for them when ‘accidents’ have put them at risk, like Ren Magnus’ overblown response at the hospital today.”

  Jekkes commented, “So, their lives would have been hell without us, whether they know it or not.”

  Smythe hesitated, then said bluntly, “And so, Marcus, whether they like it or not—they're ours.”

  * * * *

  Dustin lurched out of the chair before Josh had even brought it to a stop. It was the sight of her, his Kitten, lying there so still that shook him. He looked up, quickly checking the room. He caught Erik Dainler's eye with a look of relief. “Thank God,” he whispered.

  “Nice to finally get the respect I deserve,” Erik remarked.

  But Dustin wasn't listening. Valterzar felt almost embarrassed watching this. Mallory was nearly as exposed as Kithren Magnus had been.

  Or was he? Again, it made Lawrence Valterzar wonder. Was he seeing more than someone else would? Because he knew them—or because his instincts were more refined than most? He'd been wondering it for a while now. The way he'd been hired, and some of the probable reasons behind it. The way he'd been a damned good psychiatrist—because he could frequently guess what his patients were thinking; anticipate their needs. Had Dustin and Ren really shared their feelings so openly, or was that just the way he was seeing it?

  Dustin brushed his lips across her forehead, but there was no response. “Is the respirator—?”

  Valterzar nodded. “Keeping her alive,” he said quietly. “We have to do this now, Dustin.” He smiled at him. “Give her a kiss for luck, and let's go.”

  Dustin bent and kissed her on the lips, then nearly toppled over on his bad leg. Erik caught him, and perched him on the edge of the bed. “One patient at a time,” he pleaded, grinning. “Please.”

  “Will it interfere?”

  “Probably,” Erik said reluctantly, taking another glance at Ren. “But sit back against the pillows and hold her anyway.”

  Dustin wrapped his arms around her and brushed his lips against her hair. “Ready,” he said. “Let's do it.”

  Erik nodded. He closed his eyes, rested his hands on Kithren's middle, and let himself go.

  Chapter Two

  There's no way I'm ever going to do it again. Not a chance.

  No more retro visits.

  A normal life.

  “No way in hell,” he told Lolita. She fluffed her feathers at him and came in for a scritch, her big hooked beak dangerously close to his ear. She was really annoyed by his uneven gait these days.

  “Don't give me attitude,” he told her. He balanced on his good leg and rubbed with a couple of fingers behind her yellow crest. “If you didn't weigh so much, we could both manoeuvre better. Good boy,” he muttered, but his mind was elsewhere. They'd stitched him up, given him antibiotics, and let him go home on the second day.

  Erik had claimed he was too spent after Ren's healing to do any more, but Dustin knew him better than that. He was pissed off, and Dustin figured it had something to do with Ren, and the way she'd nearly killed herself trying to help him.

  As though I had any say in it. Dustin frowned a little as he considered what she'd risked. He didn't blame Erik for being angry. He was angry, too, but he didn't have anyone to direct it toward, except himself.

  She'd risked a lot. It had been a long time coming. He'd never wanted to make the first move. He'd decided a long time ago he didn't have anything to offer her. His life could be hell at times, when he stepped into a backwards world. He couldn't move, couldn't see what was happening in his own time. Instant fool—out of sync. One unwary step and he'd appear more of an oaf than he already did. Tumbling down stairs as he was dodging to avoid a wayward cart.

  Which was foolish in itself. Until three days ago, the past had never reached out to bite him. He had to admit the physicality of that last event had scared him shitless.

  When he felt better, he might talk it out with Josh. Lawrence would want him to talk it out with him, but Dusty baulked at that. Valterzar was a psychiatrist. He'd listen, say little, and shove it into a report.

  Dustin didn't want it. He'd never asked for psychiatric help—or any other kind of help. He hadn't even realised till a few years ago how strange that was. There'd always been someone there—someone who came in, and yanked him out of the middle of a busy street when he froze halfway across, lost in Never Never Land. Someone who explained away the incidents, or rang him up to see how he was doing during those times despair had rendered him nearly housebound.

  But, normal people didn't have “helpers", or “managers” who came out of nowhere. It was funny how he hadn't known. How the people he hung out with most were those like himself. Ren, Josh, Erik, James and Merrie had been his friends for years—since they were kids. He gravitated toward them, because they, like he, were hiding. Trying to function in a normal world while hiding the phenomena that sprang at them out of the woodwork. Only Erik had decided to come out of the black hole. He'd gone public, and it had been shortly after that that Valterzar had shown up on the scene. That was six years ago now.

  Now, Dustin worked a job that was “safe". Stationary. Just him and his computer, some workmates, and an office that didn't go spinning off into the Middle Ages or Jurassic Park if he took a wrong step. And, recently, he'd begun to hope again. Maybe Ren. Just maybe.

  Ren and me. He grinned. She
'd been dropping by every day, with little gifts for him that were somehow just perfect. Drawing pencils, special watercolour paper for his printer. She was the most beautiful—and certainly the most special—aspect of his life.

  The next instant he was worrying that she had another motive entirely. She was one of his closest friends, and naturally, she was concerned about his health. So concerned that she'd taken some of it off him.

  He was glad she came. He was as worried about her as she seemed to be about him. Whatever Erik had done, though, had enacted a cure. She looked great.

  He sighed. Boy, did she look great...

  But, he had to admit that he still didn't feel right. He'd phoned the doctor because he had a fever, and they'd reminded him he was on antibiotics, and told him to call them if he was still hot tomorrow.

  He knew what Valterzar would say. “Just give me a call and I'll drop by." That, however, was not what Dustin Mallory wanted. He didn't want his keeper fetched, or his life arranged around him. He wanted to go through channels, just like anybody else.

  “If you're sick, Lolita, call the doctor,” he muttered. Damn if he didn't feel crappy. He couldn't eat, and he hadn't slept since he'd woken up in the hospital ward. He knew he was almost at the point where any doctor would do—even Valterzar—but he was too damn stubborn to give in. “Call your own doctor. Not some trumped-up, glorified, psychologically-perverse quack.” He rubbed Lolita under her wing. “Good boy.”

  “Harsh words. By the way, she's a girl,” a voice reminded him.

  “Nice of you to knock,” Dustin said sarcastically.

  “And make you jump off your deathbed? No way.” Josh grinned. “You can treat me like royalty next time.” He nodded toward the injured limb. “How's the leg?”

  “Know you'll find this a little ‘hard to swallow',” Dustin retorted, “but it almost feels like I got bit by a dinosaur.”

  “Shit, you're a lucky bastard.” Josh sighed. “Even if it was just a sting.” The way he said it made it sound like a negligible bee had somehow found its way up his pant leg.