Ocean in the Sea Read online

  As each of the members spoke in turn, the hardened heart of the woman melted a bit more. Tears ran down her face. Perillia tore her hand from Arsus and turned away. “I remember,” she whispered.

  “Once we were friends,” hissed Senjiita. “I remember that. Familiarity breeds contempt, and for too long we have kept company. But once, Perillia, there was a time when you meant more to me than the obsessive sniping shrewish crow you have become. In the beginning, you showed me the way. You were my Goddess, bringing the light of Tanandor’s truth. In that first awakening, I beheld you in the glory of my innocence. Would that you had remained as I remember. But we have all changed. A thousand deaths, ten thousand, with millions more to come. How will you endure them, if you cannot endure this? It is time to leave.”

  “Do you understand, now?” asked Valruun. “In every partition, you lose yourself, Perillia. This is no different. I always find a game to obsess over. Beloris always chases after love. Arsus seeks power. Senjiita seeks harmony. But more than any of us, you adopt the culture, embed yourself in their beliefs, take up their causes. But, Perillia, this is not your world. These are not your people. You are one of us, a prisoner, a wanderer, a jumper. Now is the time to awaken.”

  “I… know.” She swallowed and closed her head. “Thank you. You are my friends. I… never forgot, but I… had to fight. The cause here… the people, the hatred against them, I can’t help it. I had to act for them, even if I am not… one of them.” She clenched her fists. “Tanandor…” she growled. “The false prophet, the traitor, he is coming. I must be ready. We must ALL be ready.”

  “Better,” nodded Arsus. “Much better. Yes, Tanandor will come, and from him we will take the key, the map, and escape this prison. The truth, Perillia, it’s never been this close. We’ve never had this chance, and we might never have it again.”

  “We can’t screw it up,” stated Randuu. “Get the messenger. Take him alive. We need to know what he knows. Go and find Michael Garibaldi.”

  Memories of the Dead

  The drone was gone. Lewis wasn’t sure exactly when it had vanished, but it was no longer in the rear view mirror. The radio chatter on the police channel instructed several cars to break pursuit. After that, there was no mention of him, almost as if they’d given up. He was sure they hadn’t. Police didn’t back off without reason. Someone with authority was giving him rope to hang himself with.

  Chewing on a fingernail, he replayed his encounter with the Naval officer. She’d wanted to know what he could do – so she must not know. She’d said they’d been watching him since he got here – which meant they must be able to track him. If that were true, they may have told the police to back off. If they all had powers like his, it was possible they ruled this planet. A covert rulership. Like Valon had manipulated events on his world, these people might alter events in this one by dominating key players and throwing around tons of money. That meant they’d find him, no matter where he went, and they’d have help from the authorities. They could turn this entire world against him. In short, he was truly screwed.

  Maybe he should have accepted her offer, but she hadn’t known his real name, and tried to lie about it, as if he might refuse if he knew what she really wanted. That was reason enough to stay away from her. More intel – that’s what he needed first. Discover their abilities; find out what they wanted and what they controlled.

  She could make things stop – people and objects. The “others” like her must control different aspects of the simulation. If they all did something different, then maybe he was the only one who could change probability. Maybe that’s why they wanted him. Or maybe they wanted something else…

  Valon’s message?

  He wished he could pull it out of his head and have a look at it, but he wasn’t going to be that stupid. The Attistar, as Valon had referred to it, might not be delicate when it came to ripping knowledge out, and Lewis already wasn’t himself. He could sense it in the way he reacted. He was a thinker, not a man of action, and yet he’d somehow managed to hold his focus in a moment of stress that should have frozen him in panic. Valon must have done more than dump information in his head. He’d toyed with his psychology as well. Unless it was this body. Maybe some aspect of Michael Garibaldi was still there? He was in Garibaldi’s brain after all, or was he? For all he knew, his own body was still back on his world, sitting in the scanner, transferring his thoughts back and forth across the Attistar to this body. He wished he knew how it all worked.

  Desaree Felicity scratched at the passenger door and looked at him.

  “You want out?” he asked the cat.

  “MMmmooooowww.”

  “Sorry, kitty, but you’d be roadkill.” She probably needed to relieve herself. If she went on the floor it wouldn’t make it smell much worse. God, but he needed a shower! More than that, he needed a plan.

  He had to assume they knew where he was. Wherever he stopped, they’d be there in short order. What did criminals do when they needed to shake pursuit?

  His stomach leapt at the sight of a police cruiser parked on the side of the freeway. Steeling himself for another chase, he passed it and watched the mirror, but it remained where it was. The cop paid no attention, staring at something on his dashboard, sipping from a coffee mug.

  Passing Northgate, Lewis reached the bridge leading into Seattle and stared at the unfamiliar skyline. Though he’d never entered the city from this direction, he’d seen plenty of pictures, and they didn’t match what he remembered.

  Seattle was enormous. Black ominous looking skyscrapers dotted the landscape from the edge of the Lake Union to the far south of the city. They were far more uniform than they should be, as if designed by a single architect obsessed with stark utilitarianism. Smaller buildings showed some divergence in color and shape, but the bulk of the downtown area was shrouded by shiny black industrial-feeling monoliths. The city’s most familiar icon – the Space Needle –wasn’t there at all.

  What hadn’t changed was Seattle’s infamous traffic congestion. It slowed to a crawl going through the city, forcing Lewis to shift constantly. He cursed the manual transmission until he got past the snarled commute and the cars picked up speed again. Past the Convention Center tunnel, exits for Portland and Spokane appeared. He took the Portland branch, merging into the center lane. Within fifteen minutes, he was nearing Tacoma. On impulse, he took an exit just as the stench of cat shit hit his nostrils.

  “Mroow?”

  “Yeah. Sorry.” He cracked the windows.

  Clothing, food, a shower, where could he get those things? He barely had any money. A hotel was out of the question. So was a restaurant. What he needed was a quick stop with everything he needed all at once. And a new car. He suddenly shook his head. “What am I thinking!”

  Turning off of 38th, he drove into a residential area. “What are the odds,” he said out loud, “that there’s a house in here containing food, clothes that fit me, and a vehicle in the garage with the keys in the ignition?” Actually, the odds were pretty good for that one. “And what are the odds I’ll drive right to it?” he continued. “And that the owners won’t be home,” he added. “Oh, and it will be unlocked,” he finished. Pushing his will to the Attistar, he shuddered at the feathery flush of energy and turned the car once more.

  Desaree's cat eyes gazed at him curiously.

  Maybe it was just the area, but Tacoma seemed seedy. Houses were run-down and poorly maintained. Old appliances sat on porches. Windows sported metal bars. Nasty racial slurs and various threats, along with strangely stylized ornate graffiti, appeared on fences and the sides of houses. At the entrance to a block a sign read, “Blacks-Only Neighborhood.” Old paper milk cartons and cans littered the street. A garbage can lay upturned in a yard. Spotting a likely home he parked out front so as not to block the driveway. Popping the door, he let the cat out.

  “End of the road, Desaree Felicity.” He waved his hand. “This is your new home. I’m sure someone around here needs a c
at.”

  The feline hopped daintily onto the sidewalk and ran across the lawn, vanishing under a bush. Lewis headed up the walk and knocked on the door. No one answered. This must be the place he’d “arranged.” If not, it wouldn’t be unlocked. Grabbing the doorknob, he found it was.

  Inside, he moved straight to the bedroom and undressed for a two-minute shower. Climbing out, he paused before the mirror, seeing himself naked for the first time. The sensation was bizarre, unreal, and unnerving. The body was nothing like his own.

  A line of small puckers ran down Michael Gerivaldi’s left side, small indentations. Bullet wounds. Another scar ran across his left arm and continued over part of his chest. And he had a tattoo on his right arm, a flaming skull wearing a green beret with the caption ‘De Oppresso Liber.’ The skull’s forehead displayed a yellow circle surrounded by three black triangles – a radiation symbol. “Combat Related Acute Psychosis,” muttered Lewis. “No wonder.” He wondered if he was radioactive.

  Forcing himself away from the mirror, he searched the drawers in the bedroom, finding slacks, underwear, and a cardigan sweater. Taking a pair of leather loafers from the closet, he stuffed his stinking clothes into the wicker hamper and headed for the kitchen. Food was the next priority.

  The fridge was stocked, but held some new surprises. Bottles, but no plastic containers. No Tupperware, no plastic wrap, but there were jars and ceramic dishes offering a selection of cooked sausage, peas in cream sauce, bread pudding, chicken, and some kind of casserole. He piled several helpings of onto a plate and moved out into the living room, exploring as he ate. A huge portrait of a black Jesus stared down at him from above the mantel. A leather easy chair and two paisley-covered couches surrounded a bulky CRT television with an actual wooden console made of polished maple.

  Moving to the hallway he examined the pictures. An elderly African-American in a U.S. Army uniform stared back at him. Judging from the ribbons on his chest and the stripes on his sleeve, he must have been high ranking. Vacation photos showed the same man with what must be his wife and children. There was a picture next to the Washington Monument in D.C. A photo taken next to the Grand Canyon. A shot of some kind of march outside the white house where thousands of black men and women carried signs too small to read. Lewis squinted, remembering the “Black-Only Neighborhood” sign he’d seen on the way in. He could barely make out one of the signs in the front being carried by the protestors. “Separate but Equal.” The word “Not” had been added in red paint. Around the periphery of the marchers stood armed soldiers in riot gear. All of them white.

  Lewis suddenly blinked, feeling something stirring inside him. And then it came, a sensation from within. A dead man reaching up from the grave to leave a message.

  His head swam with vertigo. Staggering down the hall, Lewis dropped the plate and grabbed his head. Sharp fingers of pain laced inward, sliding over his brain, squeezing. Indigo light flashed, and he heard screams – not his own. The shag carpet hit his arm as he fell. His stared vacantly as the memory it hit him. Untrained and unaware, he was defenseless.

  People ran before him. Short people with tan brown skin and loose fitting smocks, robes, and skirts. Poor, destitute people, driven from their homes. Traitors, victimized by a disease. It could not be allowed spread - this false ideology. It killed faster than a plague. There was only one cure.

  By the dozens they ran over a smoky field littered with the jagged stumps of trees and smoldering fires. A mother carrying a naked crying child tripped and fell. A man turned, tried to help her up, but her leg dangled, twisted and broken, the bone jutting from the wound. As she cried out, Lewis felt something hard push against his shoulder. Rapid pulses vibrated through his arm, welcome and joyful, a song of freedom and glory. His ears echoed with the sharp staccato report of automatic gunfire, and his heart leapt as bloody mist sprayed from the man’s back. He felt himself turn, retargeting. Men, women, and children fell, shredded by steel jacketed depleted uranium. MG34, 8.1mm, armor piercing – standard issue. Lewis felt a grin stretch across his face. “KILL ‘EM ALL” a strange voice ripped from his throat. “Let GOD sort ‘em out!”

  “FALL BACK!” screamed a voice in his ear. “PLASMA INCOMING.”

  The vision shifted to a ground-based race over uneven terrain. It bounced and leapt in his eyes, almost comical and cartoonish, and also unreal. He felt no fear, only the need for safety, and an internal timer that ticked away… tick-tick-tick. Reaching a drop, he slid into a dry riverbed and turned back, awaiting the show.

  A scream from the sky signaled the arrival, and another shriek followed, shorter and deeper. The blurry object descended with a cry of death, a finned cylinder exploding several meters above the ground. Arcwight 540 plasmic discharge blossomed with the light of a white star, crackling with static and argent thermals. The air erupted with a bass boom rippling over the landscape. Even at this distance, trees hissed as their moisture evaporated. He ducked down, seeking the safety of the earth. Burrowing away from the heat, he dug himself into the undergrowth.

  Race Relations

  Arsus moved his eyes from screen to screen. The house seemed nothing out of the ordinary, an old craftsman in what was once a middle class black neighborhood. Fallen to crime and blight from an influx of the meth trade, its owner was one of few who’d determined to fight back, remaining while his neighbors left. His profile appeared on one of the screens - Master Sergeant Darren Sanders, retired US Army veteran. Cross references showed no association to Michael Garibaldi.

  “He’s taking forever. What’s he doing in there?”

  “I’m not sure,” Randuu said from the largest of the screens. “It’s been twenty three minutes. If I had to guess, he’s taking a nap.”

  “That would be stupid. He knows we’re after him.”

  “He only jumped in yesterday,” she reminded Arsus. “Police records indicate five security officers and two orderlies died during Garibaldi’s escape from the C.R.A.P. facility. He must have been shot. The Attistar would have restored him, but that doesn’t mean it would have left him in optimal condition. It doesn’t always do that.”

  Arsus nodded, thinking of his many jumps. Arrival was never pleasant. The hosts were sometimes in dire condition, recently deceased. The initial struggle to survive could be brutal. Combine that with being new to the ring, and it wasn’t surprising that Garibaldi would seek any port in a storm. He glanced at the time. Valruun wouldn’t be in Seattle for another few hours. “We could send the locals in now.”

  “Your choice,” said Randuu.

  Arsus sighed. “Move the drone closer. Let’s see if we can get a view through the windows.”

  ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

  Lewis felt the fibers of the carpet under his nails and blinked, sucking down the air in great heaves. “What the fuu…” He pushed himself back and climbed to his feet. A rumbling in his guts gave enough warning, and he swallowed hard, barely keeping the food down. Tasting bile, he raced to the kitchen, sticking his head under the tap to guzzle water. Gagging and coughing, he drank his fill. Was this going to happen again? He shuddered. Valon should have warned him.

  How long had he been out? The question seemed important. Blinking rapidly, he recalled his pursuit and remembered his intent in coming here. He had what he needed. Gotta go NOW. No, NO, need a watch. A watch was important. Sleep made a watch important. Slapping his face he felt the tough rubbery texture and scratchy stubble. Moving to the bedroom, he pawed through drawers like a common thief. Like a murderer. Like a fucking killer. Slamming his fist on the bureau, tears burned his cheeks.

  Michael Garibaldi was in his head. No, he was inside of Garibaldi. The bastard’s memories waited like a trap, and maybe Garibaldi too, sleeping until Lewis jumped out. Sick. He was a sick son of a bitch - cold blooded without remorse. Lewis felt his jaw clench, seeing women and children cut down like a game with bonus points for the most defenseless victims. From inside, he’d felt all of it, trapped behind those eye
s. These eyes. The memory stained him, like a dirty perverted blot. It felt like a worm in his brain, excreting waste, polluting his thoughts, trying to eat its way out.

  It was impossible to believe such people existed. It was impossible to forget they did. Forgiveness wasn’t even on the table. Ripping a drawer out, he dumped the contents on the floor and threw it across the room. No watch.

  Garibaldi deserved death. It would be doing the rest of the world a fricking favor. Lewis was a cork hammered into the ass-end of a constipated maniac. When he was gone… Maybe it would be better if he just… It was something to think about. Later. When he jumped, he didn’t want to leave a mess behind, and Garibaldi was one Hell of a mess. The voice of an animated Owl from Lewis’s childhood suddenly leapt to the forefront of Lewis’s mind, chirping, “Give a hoot, don’t pollute!”

  “Yeah…” he groaned. “Pick up your garbage.”

  Even his voice disgusted him now. He sounded like an asshole.

  Finding a cheap gold-plated mechanical wristwatch, he marched swiftly to the garage. He wanted back on the road. Away from here.

  As me moved, something hummed by the kitchen window. A shadow crossed the closed drapes, too big to be a bird. Lewis crouched, thinking of the drone that had followed him. He’d taken too long. Spotting a pegboard covered with keys, he crawled over. What were the odds he’d pick the one for the car in the garage? The answer was one. After the flush of energy crawled over him, he closed his eyes and plucked a key from the board, crawling toward the garage to avoid the windows.