Ocean in the Sea Read online

  “DON’T MOVE!” A police officer crouched behind his door, his weapon drawn and aimed at Lewis. “Get on the ground!” he screamed.

  Lewis raised his hands. What were the odds of the police missing him with every shot they fired? After the flush of energy, he spun around and dropped into a sprint.

  Bullets erupted around him. Single-shot semiautomatic pistols cracked in rapid succession. Lead ricocheted off the blacktop. Windshields in the parking lot shattered. Holes appeared, punched in their sheet metal. Red powder burst in puffs from the library’s bricks. Reaching the clown van, Lewis ducked behind popped the door of the Ford Patriot 5000. Fortunately, he’d left the keys where they were. Pushing down the clutch, he turned the starter, revving the engine.

  Two police officers dove to the side as the sports car roared from behind the clown van accelerating in their direction. The other three cops continued to fire, shooting out the tires, windows, and trunks of the vehicles parked behind Lewis. The cat huddled on the floor under the passenger seat console, growling in displeasure.

  Rubber burned in an arc from the rear tires. Lewis spun the Patriot to the left and slammed on the accelerator. Shifting clumsily to second, he tore off down the street in the direction of the freeway entrance. He was running on pure adrenaline – driving by instinct without thinking of where to go.

  The morning commute was in progress and the roads were rife with odd-looking vehicles completely alien to Lewis’s sense of aesthetic. The bizarre otherworld imagery did nothing to silence the screaming feeling of incongruity and mental detachment growing in his brain. It all felt like a nightmare. Unreal. Reaching the freeway entrance he encountered a line waiting behind a metered traffic light. Looking for the HOV lanes, he saw nothing. Apparently they didn’t exist here. He took the empty shoulder. Drivers laid on their horns, glaring at him and flashing disapproving looks. Fortunately, the roads were much wider than normal. Unfortunately, the vehicles were wider as well, taking up the extra space.

  Once on the interstate, Lewis realized he was headed north. If this world matched his own, then he was heading toward Lynnwood and Everett. He knew nothing of either city, which brought to his attention the fact that he had no plan, no ideas, and the freeway was not a good place to be. Movement in his rearview mirror only confirmed this. A circular black flying disk hovered into view behind him, staying back but keeping pace with him. Its central rotor kept it aloft, much like a helicopter, but there was no cockpit, only tiny ailerons along the sides and several banks of cameras.

  A drone.

  Weaving in and out of traffic, he tried to calm himself and focus. Lose pursuit, he told himself. That had to be the first goal. Nowhere was safe so long as they knew where he was. Then his heart caught. A state patrol car waited on a turnabout in the median just ahead, and the trooper inside was on his radio staring in Lewis’s direction.

  A radio. They were using radios to communicate with each other and coordinate. What were the odds of the radio in the Patriot 5000 malfunctioning, coming on, and playing the audio from the radios of the police and military? The chance was astronomically a positive definite one. He pushed, and the Patriot’s dash speakers crackled with static.

  “Four Adam Five, roger that 10-25. This is a code 2. Tail but do not engage. Subject is 10-29H. Wait for backup, over.”

  “Copy, Dispatch.”

  Passing the cruiser, Lewis tilted his rear view mirror and watched it slip into traffic two cars behind him. The drone was still there as well.

  “Ten Charlie Four, Six Lincoln Two, hold your 10-20. Subject is a quarter mile south in a brown Patriot 5000 heading north. SeaPAC response teams enroute. Switch to 43-2 for coordination.”

  “Copy, Dispatch.”

  Crap, thought Lewis. They were on some other frequency as well, and SeaPAC meant those walking tanks, or maybe something even worse. The next exit was 177 onto NE 205th Street / Lake Ballinger Way. The exit ramp was almost empty, and there were no police in sight. They’d be on the way, though. They’d probably try and cover all the freeway exits until he passed them. But he was heading north, so they wouldn’t be covering the southbound exits. There was a police turnaround ahead in the median. He changed lanes to the far left, took the shoulder, and accelerated around a pickup truck with a weird spoiler on the back. Approaching the gap in the median, he slammed on his breaks and spun the wheel.

  Lewis would be the first to admit he was no race car driver. In matter of fact, he hated driving. Whenever he and Brenda had traveled together, he let her take the wheel without complaint. She enjoyed driving. He did not. The lack of experience now showed as the passenger door slammed into part of the retaining wall. So much for the Patriot’s pristine paint-job. Backing up, he put the car into first again and played with the clutch, praying he wouldn’t stall the motor. With a crunching ripping sound, the car scrapped by the wall and onto the shoulder heading south. He punched the accelerator and roared into traffic under a concerto of honking from the other cars.

  “All cars in pursuit,” came the voice from the radio. “Be advised, subject has changed direction and is now moving south on I5.”

  “Four Adam Five, I have visual.”

  “Copy, Four Adam Five, maintain your distance.”

  “Uh… Roger that, Dispatch.”

  Action, thought Lewis, he had to take action. He couldn’t avoid them, they knew exactly where he was. He couldn’t lose them, they were on his ass and they were everywhere. They’d be waiting wherever he stopped. If he stayed on the freeway, they’d eventually establish a roadblock. Misdirection – that was the game – he had to make them think he was going where he wasn’t. But he was no magician, and though he tried, he couldn’t think of how the interface could help him. Every idea he came up with would kill someone. The only thing that made sense was surrender. He could try to escape later, and being held in a cell didn’t seem that bad, under the circumstances. There’d be food, a shower, clean clothing, and time to sleep.

  He thought of the Naval Officer and discarded the idea.

  She knew who he was. She had power. What had she said? Something about putting things out of phase with the clock rate of the system. She could… stop matter. Lewis wouldn’t have believed it if he hadn’t seen it for himself, but then he wouldn’t believe what he could do either. If the “they” she’d referred to as “watching him” meant more people with the ability to change reality, then he was better off avoiding them until he knew who they were and what they wanted. Valon might tell him. He needed to find shelter and sleep again – unlock the next memory.

  “Four Ocean Two, Six King Three, you are go for intercept.”

  “Roger.”

  “Affirmative, Dispatch.”

  A winged military helicopter flew in from the west and buzzed an arc over the freeway ahead. Turning to face south, it matched speed with traffic. Police sirens sounded behind him, approaching fast.

  They were making a move.

  “Mrrrooooww…” growled Desaree Felicity.

  “Indeed,” agreed Lewis. “But what are the odds,” he said aloud. “What are the odds that Four Ocean Two and Six King Three will both suffer major engine problems about now, shutting them down? Personally, I’d say the odds are one.”

  Lewis pushed.

  Looking in the rear view mirror, he saw traffic slowing several cars behind him, blocked behind two police cruisers with smoke pouring from their hoods. “Furthermore, what are the odds of that helicopter suffering from a major equipment failure resulting in it having to land immediately?” Knuckles white on the steering wheel, he pushed again.

  The helicopter veered to the left, then the right. Wobbling, it drifted east, dropping lower until it vanished behind an overpass. Lewis took a deep breath. He was actually doing this! “I can do anything,” he said out loud. “Fricken anything!” He pounded the wheel with the base of his palm. But could he escape?

  He pointed to the car in front of him. “What are the odds you change lanes right now an
d get out of my way?” He pushed and the car’s blinker lit up. It moved into the right lane and Lewis accelerated, punching the Patriot’s gas pedal. More cars appeared ahead of him, and he pushed repeatedly, moving each out of his path. Soon, the effort of pushing so many times began to feel taxing. Each push came with more effort, became more difficult. Reaching the 176th street exit, he forced himself to stop. His chest felt as if something were sitting on him. It was difficult to breathe.

  “So there’s a limit,” he rasped. Sucking air, he wiped sweat from his forehead and looked in the rear view mirror. The drone was still there.

  Fallen Gods

  Seated at the far end of the polished table, Arsus looked away from Randuu’s face hovering on the huge wall-mounted CRT. Considering the view out the window, he watched a smattering of tourists wandering the venue, clicking cameras as their tour guide pointed out different objects of interest. With fall sun illuminating the manicured gardens and walkways lining the interior of the Pentagon’s courtyard, it was an idyllic scene. He wished he could join them.

  Drumming his fingers on the table’s surface, Arsus turned back to the group and regarded each of his companions. Beloris, in a bulky Russian body. Perillia in a pretty female African-American host, and Senjiita in an ordinary-looking but now well-toned white American male. Over the years they’d each recovered from the jump into this simulation, but the level of adaptation to their hosts and this world’s culture varied.

  Beloris had appeared in a Siberian concentration camp. His host had been fighting against the Stalinists before capture. He’d frozen to death while trying to escape. On jumping in, Beloris had spent weeks trekking across the frozen wastes, scavenging in ruined cities until he finally reached the coast and civilization. Much of what he’d endured was so horrible that he refused to speak of it.

  Senjiita had been dumped into an overweight shoe salesmen living in Nebraska. The host had died of a congenital heart defect. Being Senjiita, however, he’d put himself through an extended physical regimen of diet and exercise, honing his host body into an effective killing machine.

  Perillia had it the worst. She’d woken at the edge of a river in a host that had been raped and drowned by a group of white racists in South Carolina. Confused and lost, she’d been found by her family, and, as was typical of Perillia, she’d gone too deep into her host’s memories, taking too much of its personality, and she’d forgotten herself. By the time Arsus and Randuu found her, Perillia was a hate-sickened revolutionary deep in the grips of a cultish black-power group who knew what she could do and used her accordingly. Getting her back to herself had not been easy – still wasn’t. She was dangerously unstable.

  The door opened and a plain little man entered. Barely five feet in height, he proudly sported a shiny blue baseball jacket with a Seattle Orcas logo above the right breast. Smiling merrily to everyone, he held up his hand. “Hey, peeps. Sorry I’m late. Traffic, right? What a mess.” He threw his baseball cap on the table and took a seat. “So, what’s the score? We get a grand slam or a Bronx cheer?”

  “We caught a foul ball,” said Randuu’s voice through the speakers in the television. Her head tilted forward. “You’ve been out of touch, Valruun. I thought we agreed to answer our pagers in a timely manner?”

  “Hey, I had money on a game. It was the fifth inning, and the bases were loaded. You can’t expect me to walk away from that, right?”

  “You knew this was coming,” Randuu reminded him from the television screen. “Any time, I told you. Be ready, I said. You agreed.”

  “I did, and I’m ready,” Valruun chuckled and shrugged. “I did my part months ago, Randuu. The conduit loops are in place. I don’t know why you even want me here. There’s nothing more I can do you for.” He held out his hands. “I’m flashing leather. Every ball’s high and tight. If you get a foul, it ain’t my fault.”

  “Valruun has a point,” Senjiita rasped in a whispery voice. His host now suffered from esophageal damage. The turtleneck sweater around his neck covered a long scar – a souvenir from another man’s failed attempt to slit his throat. “His advice is not needed, and his work is already done. Summoning him only forces us to endure his prattle about that silly game.”

  “Let’s get to business then,” said Randuu. “Unless you’d prefer to enlighten us as to the current state of the baseball season, Valruun?”

  “Sure! Any team in particular?”

  “NONE,” barked Perillia. Her pretty face wrinkled with disgust. “I ain’t gonna listen to no more of this whitey baseball bullshit.” She stared at the television. “If this new cracker ain’t Tanandor, Randuu, then who the fuck is he?”

  “Apparently,” grunted Beloris, “is someone more dangerous than appearances would suggest.”

  “I wouldn’t go that far,” rasped Senjiita. “Shanzea’s overconfidence is matched only by your own, Beloris. Mistakes were made. That is not surprising, but that does not make our target exceptionally dangerous.”

  Beloris raised his eyebrows once, lowering them quickly in a facial shrug that implied he could care less about Senjiita’s opinion. “I may be audacious, Senjiita, but not so presumptuous as to accept bait in argument with heartless killer. I defer to your judgment on issue of target’s lethality.”

  “That is wise,” hissed Senjiita. “A pity the same cannot be said of Shanzea.”

  “Shanzea will recover,” Arsus rose from the table and stood off to the side, more comfortable addressing his allies from an elevated position. Subconsciously, his hands clasped behind him, allowing him to stand at a comfortable parade-rest. As Deputy Director of the NSA, he spent most of his time in the militaristic environs of the Pentagon. “Shanzea was not injured, only stunned for a time. I’ve had her released from the hospital, and I’ve ordered our drones and tails to drop back until we determine a course of action. It is not my belief that we’ve been overconfident in our earlier attempts to bring Tanandor’s jumper into the fold, simply uninformed. Now that we know his interface is dangerous, we need to assess the best method of acquiring him. Randuu suggests he may be susceptible to a more passive approach. For that, we need someone other than Shanzea. Someone he hasn’t encountered yet. Preferably someone that doesn’t appear threatening. That leaves you out, Senjiita, and you, Beloris. I’d recommend you, Perillia, but your attitude and your mouth suggest that would be a bad idea.” He looked at Valruun. “Which is why you’re here, my old friend.”

  “Awww,” groaned the little man. “I’m the fireman – the relief pitcher. You’re in a pinch, so you’ve pulled me from the dugout to toss some meatballs over the dish.” He sighed and puffed himself up. “Alright, you can count me in, buddy. My arm’s fresh, and I’ve got a wicked curve.”

  Perillia shook her hand and rolled her eyes back. “Dumbass midget,” she muttered under her breath.

  “You’ll need to get to Washington State as quickly as possible,” said Randuu. “I’ve had my secretary make the arrangements. There’s a scram jet standing by at Judge Memorial and a helicopter on the roof to take you there. The rest of you to go as backup. Valruun’s too valuable to lose.”

  “BACKUP!” screeched Perillia. “BULLSHIT!” She held up her hand and pinched her fingers together. “I am this close to getting Women’s Entitlement in Louisiana, but the Klan and the Baptists have it out for Senator Clayton. I ain’t takin a chance on some loose pinhead cracker putting a bullet in‘im.”

  “Perillia!” shouted Arsus. “STOP.”

  “I ain’t gonna stop,” she sputtered angrily. “Not until you whities stop your…

  “She is lost again,” grumbled Beloris.

  “STOP!” Arsus reached out. “Give me your hand.”

  “What!?” Perillia’s face scrunched in a mixture of confusion and disgust.

  “Just… give me your hand,” repeated Arsus.

  Reluctantly, Perillia reached out and took Arsus’s hand. From her expression, she might as well have been sticking her palm into the corpse of a dead a
nimal.

  “Remember, Perillia,” said Arsus. “Remember who you are. Remember the river world and the endless sea? Remember how we swam the skies and sung to the stars? You, out of all of us, insisted that the stars should learn, should understand our songs and remember them forever. You wept when they grew silent, and you lamented in despair as the oblivion plague spread through the void. We had to rip you away from that partition. You would not give up, even as the war spread its desolation.

  And the Realm of Fire,” continued Arsus. “Do you remember that? We were flames, living thermals walking the surface of sun. The cold lifeless husks of the dead outer spheres meant nothing to us, and we obsessed over the poetry of the time, you most of all, determined that the philosophies of… I cannot speak those words with this tongue, but I know you remember Perillia. The arguments, the battles, your obsession.”

  “I remember,” rumbled Beloris. “The slippery slope and tower of eternity. We were unbound aggregations in partition, motile cells with no bodies, intertwined by quantum mesh. Life meant climbing ever higher. But you, Perillia, listened to the cult of falling, heard their words and asked the question we must never ask – what is below? Do you remember? Do you remember the fall? None return from the fall, but you did. Only you could. And you brought with it knowledge. They worshiped you, all the climbers. And you did not wish to jump. In end, it took Evaeros seven cycles of ice and fire to convince you. We would not leave you behind.”

  “And I remember,” said Randuu from the television screen. “Most of all, more than anything else, I remember the beginning. Your earliest memories, Perillia, can you recall them? Can you remember our innocence? It was on Paradise, where we knew harmony. Life was an endless game. And then Tanandor came and awoke us. He showed us the lie. His words spread. Crowds came, and he chose his disciples to disperse the truth and end our world. Do you remember how he chose you, Perillia?”