Asks the Dream © James C. Stewart 2011, Paranoia Press 2015.

__________

"Identity emerges from itself in search of itself, and every time it is about to meet itself, it bifurcates."

- Marcel Duchamp

"...what is real asks the dream..."

- Skinny Puppy

1968

They were girls. Twins to be precise.

She saw them for a moment...shrieking, slimy red and purple pink snatches of flesh bundled into blankets and whisked forever from her life by masked figures wearing white.

Exhaustion and loss crawled through her. Silent tears blurred a matronly nurse's kind face, and a pinprick needle sliding cold under her skin painted the fluorescent sky a narcotic black.

__________

A persistent noise from faraway roused her.

She awoke in bed, only vaguely aware of the passage of time. The room was clinical white--like the masks the doctors had worn--except for a dark shape in her periphery, a shape she more felt than saw.

"Congratulations."

She turned her head. The form slowly came into focus--a man in a black overcoat with pinched, cruel face lined by years. His eyes glinted cold bordering on malicious.

Her voice came hoarse, "Who are you?"

She suddenly realized how thirsty she was.

He ignored the question. "I understand they were twins. I'm sorry you had to give them up."

Thin lips curled into a humorless smile, a smile that suggested he wasn't sorry at all. She asked the question again, pushing herself into a sitting position, "Who are you?"

He sighed and seemed annoyed, "I'm here to see you don't leave us prematurely."

The noise from the other side of the wall continued. He shot her a persecuted glance and went to the door, opening it, leaning out to nod at somebody. She concentrated on the sounds--a howling electronic alarm and boots running on tile.

She resisted the temptation to hope.

A nurse entered cradling one of her newborns. A soldier, a young, good-looking man in combat fatigues, accompanied her. The rank at his shoulder suggested he was an officer.

Her heart sank. They still had the twins. They still had her daughters.

Cruel Face was talking, "...and I don't think they'll get very far. In the meantime, perhaps you'd like to tell us more about your infant snatching friends."

They'd managed to get one.

Thank God.

Her eyes went to the crinkled tiny face, its blue pools of confusion blinking beneath the lightest fuzz of blonde hair. She smiled. The baby seemed to smile back. Still smiling, she shook her head, her eyes slowly meeting his, "I don't think so. Even if they only have one, the prophecy can still be fulfilled."

Cruel Face shrugged, "Suit yourself."

He swept out of the room. The nurse followed on his heels, disappearing with the child.

The young army officer unholstered his sidearm, walking toward the end of the bed. He fumbled in a pocket, producing a black tube he stoically screwed onto the barrel. There was a name patch sewn above his left breast pocket: Rusk.

She looked into his oddly blank eyes as he pointed the pistol at her head. His voice came flat, "Content yourself with the knowledge I'll give her the best possible life I can provide."

A tear slid down her cheek, "But what about her soul?"

He pulled the trigger twice...

The silencer reduced the sound to vicious, lethal whispers.

__________

FALL 1984

__________

Prologue

(Toronto, 9/4/84)

A cold fall rain washed the day of color.

Beckett stumbled toward the clinic. A mess of the disenfranchised loitered out front, all addictions and desperation. Suicide briefly wandered through his mind, a viable alternative until he dismissed it as irrational.

The Mid-Town Free Clinic claimed a dingy storefront, crowded between a second-hand bookshop and a burger joint greasing the morning air with a fume of plastic food. Like a scene from an old black and white spy movie, Beckett saw a man in a dark trenchcoat and matching fedora perched like a gargoyle on the clinic's tattered roof, a gloved hand holding a metallic glint at his ear.

Cop. Had to be a cop. About as subtle as a kick in the head. But--

His face. At first shadowed by the brim of his hat, his face was revealed as a sheet of eyeless white latex...

...but that couldn't be right.

Beckett glanced away, focusing instead on the damp sidewalk. He quickened his pace, making his way into the clinic passed the ragged collection of coughs and muttered curses, carefully averting his eyes from furtive hands exchanging money for folded paper bindles. Free clinics hosting methadone programs made for some of the best sales. Like wolves, the dealers preyed on weak junkies trying to clean-up. When Beckett had slipped a few months back a dealer outside a free clinic handed him a bindle and said, "Shit, sellin' to youse is like shootin' fish inna a barrel."

The clinic's doors opened into a waiting room, a claustrophobic space aromatic with antiseptic and depression. Four seated zombies made a somber welcoming committee, one drooling female and three males in the early stages of putrefaction. A woman better suited to waitressing than nursing snapped gum behind a small security window. Her voice came through a speaker set into the wall.

"Do you need to see a doctor?"

Beckett glanced around the room, unsure who she was talking to.

"You. You standing."

She meant Beckett. He strolled toward the meshed glass. Her eyes went from his face to his clothing.

"Yeah. I was hoping to join the program." He punctuated the sentence with a bronchial cough.

She looked at him the way one might regard something they've spit into the sink, snapped gum, and thrust a clipboard with attached pencil through a thin slot. A single sheet on the clipboard asked various personal questions.

"Take a seat."

She snapped her gum and picked up a nail file.

Beckett found a hopefully short-lived home in one of those uncomfortable metal and plastic affairs populating every waiting room around the globe. Directly opposite the female zombie continued to drool. Her head lolled, falling forward, a string of spittle dripping onto a soiled, flower-print blouse. Just when Beckett thought she'd passed out she abruptly brought her head back up, her watery eyes almost attaining some form of comprehension, the string of saliva stretching, extending and finally breaking. A viscous pool collected on her front suggested this routine had gone on for some time.

Beckett watched, morbidly mesmerized by this car wreck of a human being, swallowing before he gagged.

He forced himself to look away.

A magazine table...frayed copies of Time and Life interspersed with battered children's books. Faded colors from decades past to occupy junior while mom and dad drink methadone. The happy images gracing a vaguely remembered title sent him back to his own childhood, back to a nightmarish cycle of foster homes not even heroin could erase. Beyond the table a set of pre-fab shelves bristled with out-of-date newspapers. Bare dirty walls. Bare save for a tiny, black velvet rendition of Francis Bacon's screaming pope.

The thing held his attention.

Odd. He'd never noticed it before.

Beckett used to know the name of the piece...Study After this or that or something or other. The horror of the piece translated, even in this strange, velvet, trailer-park state. The terrified eyes, the screaming mouth, the white-knuckled fingers clutching the arms of a throne...portrait of a man trapped eternally in an incomprehensible hell.

A speck of white played at Beckett's perception, a subtle flaw in the velvet at the center of the screaming mouth. He blinked--

"Omigod...jesus-fucking-christ...!"

The junkie a couple of chairs down was screaming. Other voices joined in.

"Oh God...fuck...!"

And there was something wrong with the drooling woman across from him. She was slumped over in an unnatural position, a smear of red (what was that...? spaghetti sauce?) on the wall behind her.

The voices were becoming more insistent.

"What the fuck--? Jesus...!"

"Someone phone the police...!"

A figure flashed by, headed for the clinic's washroom. Beckett heard retching.

Junkies screaming for the police...not standard operating procedure. And what was with the dude on the floor next to the magazine table?

Beckett pushed himself out of the chair.

A grating, dissonant buzz startled him. The nurse-waitress who'd handed him the clipboard swept through a security door. Beckett noticed a scarlet pool spreading beneath the dude on the floor, and blotchy, wine-colored patterns adorning the waiting room walls...even his own clothing. Panic crawled through his nervous system, emanating from his stomach. A realization surfed the sea of denial--the substance was blood.

Everything clicked into place: the drooling woman and the "spaghetti sauce" smear, the body on the floor, the vomiting addict in the washroom, the cries for the police...

Beckett's eyes ping-ponged around the room, coming to rest on an opened, metallic briefcase resting on the magazine table.

The nurse-waitress took one look around the room and lost it. Total meltdown. Screaming followed by uncontrollable sobbing. Beckett moved to the other side of the table to sneak a peak at the interior of the case.

Pills...capsules to be precise. Red-blue capsules surrounding a rounded, glass and metal object traversing the length of the case. Inside the glass a thick, almost opaque liquid; and a pinkish-blue form, floating--

Beckett slammed the lid shut. No one noticed. The nurse-waitress continued her meltdown. Much wailing and gnashing of teeth. Beckett took the briefcase by the handle and let it drop naturally to his side.

No one noticed.

The police would be coming soon. Best to blow this scene, best to git outta Dodge. Beckett carefully backed toward the door watching everything at once. And then he was outside, blinking his eyes against the monochrome day.

No one noticed.

He forced himself to walk toward the subway station a block away, his plan being to blend with the other two million peons sleepwalking through life. A test of willpower...walk to the station, not run.

God smiled on him. The platform was suitably crowded. Morning busy, the city at work. Mercifully, his train came quickly.

The car was crammed. Forced to stand, Beckett held the handrail above his head, jostled by the sweaty commuting masses. He scanned faces--a hundred or so people, some staring straight ahead, some studying newspapers a little too hard. But he welcomed the urban routine of impersonal silence. It gave him a chance to think.

The car rocked gently, the movement lulling him. His mind drifted to the briefcase hanging from his arm.

Beckett went over it. The painting. That little white speck...then blood.

He couldn't remember a thing. The briefcase--the mysterious appearing briefcase--must've been somehow involved. And it contained drugs. What kind of drugs remained to be seen. Obviously something worth killing for.

The realization flipped a switch. A light layer of perspiration coated his body, sticking his shirt to his skin. Whoever owned this dope would want it back, want it back bad. Beckett glanced around the car. The faces took on a sinister quality, like the pope in the painting trapped in his hell. Beckett shivered.

And the briefcase suddenly seemed very heavy.

1

(New Amsterdam, 9/13/84)

"I had the dream again."

Cara punctuated the sentence with a perfectly executed jab at a punching bag. Bodum raised his eyes, his brush coming away from the canvas. It was a subtle pause but Cara noticed...it was unlike him to leave a stroke unfinished.

"The same or different?" His words came slow, not annoyingly so, just carefully chosen. Cara had never been able to place the accent.

She switched to the rings. Strands of black hair stuck to her forehead, her gray Ramones t-shirt damp, clinging with sweat. She stared at the rings for a beat, her blue eyes narrowing in concentration. In a single motion she jumped, caught the rings and flipped herself upside down. A muscle beneath her left elbow started to tremor. She cast a glance at Bodum, "The same, but different."

Still painting, and without looking up, Bodum said, "Straighten that arm, Cara. Concentrate on what you're doing. Be...arm...now. How was it different?"

She let her body fall backward, swinging herself around and pulling her legs into a spreadeagled position. She held it.

"Different circumstances. Same blonde girl, same giant fucking building with a zillion rooms, same lotsa stuff. But this time I was chasing her, trying to catch up with her, going room to room in this place. These dreams. Wow. They're so vivid, so detailed..." She spun around, maintaining the spreadeagle, knuckles white on rings, "...I could hear echoes, smell the rooms. It was weird, intense. And she talked to me this time."

"What did she have to say?"

Cara dropped out of the spreadeagle, releasing the rings, somersaulting three times before landing on the mats below. Bodum ran a hand over his stubbled head...a slight sign of impatience. Cara smiled.

"Well, she talked with her back to me, so other than her preppie clothes and hair I haven't actually seen her. But she said we'd meet again. She said I'd be back."

Bodum stopped painting, setting brush and palette onto a small table covered in paint-spattered newspaper.

Cara lived with Bodum in an apartment spanning the floor above The Narthex, a public establishment he managed for the Blackened Hand. Her earliest memories were of the bar. In fact, her first conscious image was of its polished oak counter. It wasn't until Grade One she'd found all the other kids lived in homes without bars downstairs. Of course, all the other kids lived with mothers and fathers, but that didn't really bother her. She had Bodum.

He shook his head.

"I didn't much care for your landing. Try it again."

Cara's face pulled a pouty, pained expression. Bodum furrowed his brow and remained impassive. She sighed, rolled her eyes, and jumped back up to the rings.

Hey, at least it wasn't a classroom.

Cara had been ten when Bodum pulled her out of school. She'd fallen a sleep in class, and Shadi had attacked a teacher. The ol' bat was more shocked than hurt, but nevertheless, at the age of ten Cara began a regimen of physical training and home schooling.

At the age of fourteen she begged Bodum to let her try high school. Hormones were becoming an issue. The desire to fit in with some sort of peer group, overwhelming. Bodum relented, even though Shadi's behavior was becoming erratic and Cara's ability to control it, questionable.

It started out wonderfully; Cara took to high school problem free. She was naturally outgoing, predisposed toward athletics--Bodum's training paying off. Overnight she became captain of both the volleyball and soccer teams.

The boys had loved her. She wasn't like the other girls and they knew it. She noticed them checking her out in the hallways, and those who could look her in the eye sometimes asked her out.

Watching Bodum's attempts at dealing with her potential suitors had provided moments of high comedy. Some of the weaker minded were sent packing with nothing more than a simple look. And for the first time in her life she felt like a normal girl. For the first time in her life she felt accepted, content...happy.

Then she met Chas. In retrospect, Chas had been an arrogant muscle-head from the monied side of the tracks. At the time he'd seemed charming, a winning quarter back with blonde, all-American good looks.

Following a whirlwind month of happiness marred only by Bodum's stiff silence, Cara's illusion was abruptly shattered. Her period had shown up late enough to cause concern while ruining a set of favorite bedclothes. Then at volleyball practice, she discovered her locker graffitied with the large black word:

SLUT

It hadn't really registered.

At least not until Alice Fann started hyena--giggling from behind her.

Everyone in high school has a nemesis. Cara's had been Alice Fann. The tramp's voice whispered through the high school corridors of her memory, "Chas told me an interesting story. Chas told me you're pretty good down on your knees."

Shadi had tremored. Cara felt it as an electrical jolt starting in her toes, traveling through her nervous-system to the top of her head. She turned to face Alice, "You did this?"

Memory Alice batted her eyes in mock confusion, "Whatever do you mean?"

Shadi tremored again, this time with even more force. Cara took a step back, her left arm starting to shake.

"Alice, what the fuck are you talking about?" She glanced at her shadow, prone on a wooden bench against the locker room wall...it moved into a sitting position of its own accord. She felt panic churning in her stomach--Bodum would lose his mind if he saw this shit.

Memory Alice smiled the kind of cruel only a teenaged girl can, "Look, Cara, Chas told me...and I presume everyone else...about, how do I put this...your oral talents."

It had taken Cara every ounce of willpower she could muster to control Shadi. She broke out in a sweat, everyone and everything else fading away, Bodum's concentration techniques kicking in. From somewhere Alice said, "Well don't have a kinipishin fit..."

And with that Alice Fann had walked away, giggling with her friends, blissfully ignorant of her brush with death. Cara slid down her locker, the giant black word 'slut' directly over her head.

Shadi had hissed, "Find Chas."

Cara shook off the memory and switched from rings to bench press.

Bodum painted.

"In the dream, what do you think preppie girl meant when she said I'd 'be back'?"

Bodum studied his near-finished work. "Obviously she expects to see you again."

"Yeah, see, that's what I don't get. I mean, what's up with the dream reruns--?"

A phone resting on a Victorian roll-top desk interrupted her. Bodum picked it up on the third ring.

"Yes?"

Pause.

"I see."

Another pause, this time extended.

"We'll be down in a moment. Thank you."

He looked at Cara with mild confusion, "It seems we'll have to dispense with your scribe training today...Michael is downstairs."

Cara stopped in mid press and furrowed her brow, the confusion becoming contagious. A hopeful note crept into her voice, "I thought my expansion lessons were on Tuesdays and Fridays..."

She prayed they'd been canceled for the week. Expansion lessons were eighteen hour days...she loved Mike, but she hated Tuesdays, and she hated Fridays even more. Bodum caught her vibe, a trace of a smile touching his tone, "They are. He's not here for your lesson."

Cara continued her reps. She recalled that first expansion lesson with Michael the Obsidian, that first experience shortly after The Incident With Chas--

The Incident With Chas--that's how she saw it in her head, all the words beginning with capitals.

She'd caught up with him in the high school parking lot.

"What the fuck, Chas? Why is Alice Fann and her glee-club of Alice wannabes painting slut on my locker?"

He'd shuffled his feet, his stupid eyes on the ground. He managed something along the lines of, "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Fuck you, Chas. What have you been telling people?"

He'd raised his head and looked at her with this smirk, this little curl of the lip...

A white light of anger obliterated any coherent thinking.

There'd been no warning. It hadn't been a matter of Cara losing control of Shadi, it was more like Shadi acting of its own volition.

Her shadow had leapt off the pavement and coiled around her body like a whip. Chas didn't even have time to look shocked. Shadi struck with incredible precision, the dark form momentarily a razor thin sheet of black metal. It caught Chas in the mouth, shearing away everything above his jaw, the mess dropping onto the ground with a sick wet sound Cara would never forget. The rest of Chas--everything below his jaw line--kind of stood there for a second, then toppled to the asphalt.

Cara had stifled a scream. She vomited. She paced around the body. When she finally called, Bodum had shown up immediately. At least it seemed immediately. Looking back on it, her state-of-mind at the time called into question her ability to perceive events as they were actually happening. Everything slipped slow-mo, a nightmare soup of guilt and surreal horror.

Bottom line, Bodum cleaned up her mess. Being caught hadn't been a concern--apparently no one pegged young girls for things like the disappearance of the high school quarterback.

Go figure.

Cara rested the weights on the rack and wiped sweat. She would never forget that first meeting with The Obsidian.

She'd stayed in her room for two weeks, emerging only to use the washroom and occasionally to eat. At the end of the second week, Bodum had sent in Michael the Obsidian.

Mike had always been a presence in The Narthex. An old black man, a regular, always present when Bodum brought in the high-end jazz acts. Cara hadn't really thought much about him; she didn't think he was Blackened Hand, and he wasn't a kid. Consequently she dismissed him as part of The Narthex's rich and varied atmosphere--someone who blended with everything else from her childhood. At least until the day he meekly knocked on her bedroom door, and without waiting for an answer, shuffled in wearing a crumpled suit and dark, too big glasses.

"I've been told you have a problem little miss, a crisis of conscience." Except it had been more like, "Ah bin tol' ya've a po'blem lil' mass, a ki-sees o' con-sonce."

She'd glanced up from Heller's Catch-22 and deadpanned, "Uh, excuse me, this is my room."

Mike smiled, slightly patronizing, "I'm not debating that, child."

"What do you want?" She set the book on the bed...this weird little dude had her full attention. She felt Shadi open its eyes. "Does Bodum know you're here?"

"Relax, child. I'm not here to get sliced up by your shadow. I'm hereto help you see. And yeah, Bo knows I'm here. Ol' Bo sent me."

Cara remembered feeling somewhat exasperated with Bodum--she loved him dearly, but really, how could this old guy help?

"Look, I appreciate what you and ol' Bo are trying to do, but I need to deal with this myself...in my own way."

He smiled that same patronizing smile, a palsied hand removing the dark glasses, revealing eyes which were entirely black, no pupil, no iris. Just...black. And they twinkled, like Santa Claus on acid. He said, "You are not what you think."

The black eyes held her, a black deeper than she thought possible.

"Shadi is you, but you are not Shadi. Let your mind decontract. Let your mind see, Cara."

And she had. The old man in front of her changed, became a hairless, seven-foot giant made of a substance similar to black slate, "I am Michael the Obsidian...a son of the Modal line."

He extended his hand. Cara took it, a smooth texture, like running fingers over polished stone. Looking at Michael she realized why black was not a considered a color; he seemed to absorb light.

"Shadi is a reaction of your instincts, Cara. You have the control. Today we begin your expansion lessons. Today you will begin to understand what you are."

This time, she pulled herself out of school. Michael the Obsidian began to show up at The Narthex every Tuesday and Friday like clockwork. They started with a basic concept: Mike was a member of a nomadic, modal-dimensional line of warriors. When Cara asked the name of the tribe he shrugged, "In order for you to properly say it we'd have to alter your mouth cavity."

Cara rose to add weight to the bar, the memories fading like the burn in her arms. It wasn't Tuesday or Friday, and she didn't like the drawn expression on Bodum's face as he hung up the phone.

"So...what's up...? Why the weird visit?"

He didn't appear to hear her. His eyes were fixed on a non-existent point in space.

Cara pushed a ten-pound weight off the bar. It dropped to the floor with an echoing bang. Bodum jumped, startled.

"What's going on with Mike?"

His gaze finally met hers. His mouth said, "Hopefully nothing," but his eyes said, "nothing good."

__________

After negotiating a series of locks, Cara and Bodum exited a thick metal door at the bottom of the stairs into The Narthex's foyer. To their left a set of elegant brass and oak doors, each elaborately engraved with a question mark, one right side up, one upside down: the insignia of the Blackened Hand. They pushed through the oak question marks into the permanent dim of The Narthex.

The Narthex was a mid-sized club known throughout the city for showcasing an eclectic and diverse mix of acts. Over the decades its patrons had waltzed to the Glen Miller Orchestra and bounced to The Clash. No one really knew how old The Narthex was, but in some of the unrenovated areas bits and pieces of the décor went back to the turn of the century. There were gig posters from a thousand acts, a few of the more notable included The Doors, Hendrix, and Ziggy Stardust. Cara had caught a young noise act calling themselves Sonic Youth a few nights back, and about a week ago, on her sixteenth birthday no less, Miles Davis.

"Yo, Boss! How's the day?" Theo's smiling voice reverberated to Bodum across the windowless space, ping-ponging off the collection of tables and poster-spattered walls.

Theo had tended bar at The Narthex for an eternity, or so it seemed to Cara. He'd just always been there. A tall man, Cara put his weight at over three hundred pounds, with an enormous graying beard and Harley-Davidson t-shirt. The most notable feature about his face was a nasty vertical scar running down his forehead and over his left eye. Given its various oddities, The Narthex didn't need a bouncer. But even if it had, there was always Theo.

There was a smile for Cara, "And how 'bout you Little One?"

It was something Theo always called her. As a child, if she'd been going for the jar of pickled eggs or an amused patron's drink, he'd pull her off the bar and plant her on a stool with sweep of his giant hand, "No, no Little One, can't be getting into that."

The moniker had followed her ever since. When she was thirteen she asked Bodum to tell Theo her name was Cara, not Little One. Bodum grinned, "I'll tell him, but my guess is you'll be forty and he'll still be calling you that."

And of course nothing had changed. If anything, Theo was now calling her Little One for no other reason than to push her buttons. Cara pushed back.

She bounced to the bar, "Hey, ZZ Top. How's tricks?"

Theo sneered mock-gruff, "ZZ Top? You think I look like ZZTop? Fuckin' wannabes. They wish they looked this good. What can I getcha?"

Cara's eyes flashed mischievous, "Bourbon on the rocks."

Theo rolled his eyes. Bodum silently floated up beside her.

"We won't need anything today. Where's Michael?" His tone was quiet, subdued. Theo picked up on it immediately. He thrust his chin at the West Wall, "Narthex B."

Bodum nodded and turned.

The West Wall, the wall directly opposite the bar, swirled in a perpetual two-dimensional enzogram; a twisting mass of black shot through with white, a snake pit of thick and thin belts, an insane graffiti artist's dream come to life. Some of the belts were outlined in light, momentarily there then gone, abruptly eclipsed by a floating stroke of black. Established in1905, Bodum said Michael the Obsidian was responsible for its development, the one who saw a need for a larger, permanent portal not requiring the use of a scribe. It was permanently underscanned, impossible to find if you were searching for it. As Bodum said, "To find the West Wall, one must wander with the intent of not finding it. Some do this consciously, others do not...the familiar is that which always eludes you."

As a child, Cara had stared at the West Wall for hours, the way her friends had stared at television. Of course she'd been forbidden to tell anyone what the West Wall actually was. In a lame attempt to disguise it, Theo had bolted an ancient rack of Sixties-style projection lights to the ceiling. During the hours when The Narthex was open, the lights added a bizarre, psychedelic effect to the West Wall, sort of masking the mural-enzogram's movement, but not really. Occasionally an uninitiated patron would ask Theo or Bodum or one of the waitresses--all either Blackened Hand of affiliated with Blackened Hand--about the projection lights and that "fucked up" design on the wall. They'd shrug and give the patron some vague, even unlikely explanation. Cara was constantly surprised how often the average human being would believe the most outlandish shit, especially if the truth was something their minds couldn't handle...or comprehend.

Like the time Bodum had shown up from Narthex B, stepping through the enzogram during The Narthex's busy time with three Blackened Hand dudes in full battle regalia. She'd overheard Theo having a conversation with a concerned customer who'd been convinced he'd, "just seen four guys walk outta that weird wall."

Theo's response was classic, and totally text book for a Narthex employee, "I think maybe you've had too much to drink--either that or you're seein' ghosts. You're not seein' ghosts, are ya?" Other responses included, "Oh yeah, people always think that, see there's this door really well hidden by the mural..." and, "No, no. That's an optical illusion created by the projection lights and the graffitied wall...pretty wild, huh?"

Cara watched Bodum's back move toward the West Wall. She whispered to Theo, "So hey...do you have any idea what's going on?"

He shook his head.

Without turning around Bodum said, "Never mind asking Theo. You'll find out soon enough. Now come along."

Theo gave her a sympathetic shrug. She made a face and hopped off the stool, bounding up to Bodum's side.

"No problem with your hearing anyway."

Bodum glanced at her, "Or perhaps you just whisper louder than you think."

Cara ignored the comment, instead focusing on the West Wall. Traveling by enzogram was instantaneous, but it always left her a little disconcerted, and sometimes mildly nauseous.

Bodum had explained the concept of "reality" during an early scribe training session...she'd been seven at the time. Cara hadn't really understood it then, but at the age of sixteen she was beginning to get the gist. She smiled, remembering Bodum's words on the subject.

"A pebble dropped in water," he'd actually dropped a stone into a deep ceramic bowl. "When the pebble is dropped, concentric circles expand ever outward. Think of the enzogram as a modal gateway allowing us to travel between the concentric circles in the waters of reality."

Ah, yes Grasshopper.

In her expansion lessons, Michael talked about the philosophy of "Indra's Net", and used words like "decontraction", and "labored" or "stressed" reality points. Cara knew the Blackened Hand initiates were issued scribes, and when an initiate receives a scribe, it and the initiate become one. But the scribe itself was an example of subtle form technology she didn't fully understand.

A short solid bar of what appeared to be engraved ebony, she'd learned it was actually a living being, a subtle form creature working symbiotically with the Blackened Hand. The scribe's purpose is two-fold: it's the Blackened Hand initiate's weapon, a weapon capable of changing as need requires; and it's a mode of travel, a technology enabling the initiate to manifest an enzogram. Enzograms produced by the Blackened Hand allowed for travel between Modal Variant 23 (our perceived Universe) and the next concentric circle out, Modal Variant 23B: the world of Dremchak. Cara referred to Modal Variant 23B simply as "Spooky Land".

She'd learned the Big Picture early.

Dremchak Incorporated. The prison corporation--a veiled force controlling all origin-codes sentenced to DNA cataloging coils on Variant 23. Origin-codes: what the uniniated naively called "souls".

Some origin-codes are sentenced for political reasons, some for crimes committed on other worlds, maybe in other dimensions. Whatever crimes they'd committed, their sins had been erased from their memories and their reality reduced to that of the uninitiated. They'd been sentenced to humanity and reborn on Earth. For as long as there's been life on Earth, there's been Dremchak, slipping into reality from Spooky Land, tweaking the control systems, mining misery and searching for origin-codes who've become mistakenly or otherwise decontracted.

The Blackened Hand were origin-codes, human beings first contacted and decontracted by Modals like Michael the Obsidian, sentient life forms from distant variants. Over several millennia the Blackened Hand had expanded their numbers, hiding in the forgotten corners of both variants, invoking their various symbiotic technologies and working with the Modals against Dremchak.

Bodum was a Blackened Hand initiate from way back.

Cara knew that was only part of the story. Each training session with Bodum, each lesson with The Obsidian, her knowledge grew, knowledge hidden from the uninitiated, the regular origin-codes trapped in their biological vehicles, their DNA sentences. Cara knew she was more than that. Cara knew Shadi represented a part of the Big Picture even the Blackened Hand didn't fully comprehend.

The West Wall mesmerized. Cara gulped a breath in preparation.

"So we're takin' a step up to Spooky Land."

Bodum gave her one of his classic-calm faces, "Up is actually always out."

She gave him a long-suffering sigh and they stepped through the enzogram.

The black-white swirling design swam through her mind. The feeling was vaguely akin to riding an elevator, but far more intense. She experienced the sensation of movement, of her feet lifting, coming over her head in a somersault.

And then they were through, emerging from what was now the East Wall of Narthex B.

The layout was a mirror image of the original Narthex, but Narthex B had no stage, no dim, smoky atmosphere. The gorgeous, sun-filled day that streamed through the skylights was an illusion, a hologram that masked reality, the reality of 23B and its permanent night, artificially created by Dremchak's unending pollution.

The rest of the room was green with a variety of plants, most unknown on Earth. They overflowed baskets hanging from the ceiling, and some of the more exotic gave the impression of movement. A path from the East Wall cut through the greenery and emptied into a small seating area with a convex coffee bar.

The Obsidian was there, looking very Obsidian. In Spooky Land he always maintained his original form. He was seated at a round, wrought-iron table with a long-haired man in a black leather motorcycle jacket. Cara thought she recognized him--some sort of celebrity. Both drank espresso from small silver cups.

Cara trailed Bodum as he beelined for their table.

Mike rose to his feet, his lanky, seven-foot frame towering over the assemblage, multi-pocketed military parka falling open, revealing a black t-shirt with a large smiley face melting into yellow streaks and pooling. Cara giggled to herself.

His greeting was unusually somber, "Sorry to take you away from your training, but this couldn't wait." He looked at Cara with a half-smile that came across forced, "And how's your day?"

"All right. I guess." She thrust her chin at his chest, "Love the shirt."

The Obsidian guided them toward two empty chairs. Once they were seated he introduced the long hair, "I'm sure you remember Nova from The Narthex..."

A tune floated through Cara's mind: "...Life is just a fantasy...can you live this fantasy life...?"

The Obsidian continued.

"...Mister Nova operates a decontraction operation out of Toronto. He's underscanned as an entertainer of some note, and consequently he and his unit are in a unique position of influence. I'll explain his presence in a moment, but first I have some bad news." His eyes met Bodum's, "I'm not sure how to say this, so I'll just say it...Sensaet is dead."

It caught Cara off guard. She'd expected something heavy, but not quite this heavy. Her mind went to Bodum.

They'd been brothers.

Bodum wore an expression of immaculate stoicism. He blinked, "When did this happen?"

Nova spoke for the first time, his hair partially obscuring his eyes, his hand cradling his espresso. His tone was quiet, respectful.

"Last week. But we didn't find his body until yesterday...mainly because it had been dumped in an isolated region of 23B. His remains are at the Ganglion, the Artaud Building. But on Mike's suggestion, I brought you this to hold onto until the End Ritual." He reached into an inside pocket, producing a piece of folded black cloth. He passed it to Bodum with downcast eyes.

Mike spoke softly, leaning toward Bodum, "Sensaet had been transporting NDT to various methadone clinics throughout North America--an experiment in partial decontraction with a continent-wide test group."

Bodum carefully unfolded the cloth package on the table, revealing a five-inch cylinder. Formerly a scribe, it now resembled a gray, granite core sample. It was the first time Cara had ever witnessed a dead scribe. It was like standing over a corpse. Bodum had explained the concept of scribe separation during one of her lessons--when severed from its initiate, its union, the subtle form creature dies, only its residue remaining. The scribe itself, merely a shell, begins to decay, breakdown. Within a month there's nothing left.

The scribe in front of Bodum was already a week gone.

Mike continued, "Mister Nova was working with Sensaet in Toronto. He's in a better position to explain the situation."

Nova cleared his throat in a slightly nervous gesture.

"As Mike said, Sensaet was transporting neo-dimensional tanomine to methadone programs throughout North America--this included three clinics in Toronto. I'm the highest level operative in the region, so consequently these clinics fell under my control--"

Cara interrupted, "What's neo-dimensional tanomine?"

Nova's eyes went to the floor. Bodum's head snapped toward her. Mike's lips tightened into a charcoal line, his face suddenly hard.

She realized her mistake as soon as the question was out of her mouth: she'd violated Blackened Hand Protocol. She was still considered part of the uninitiated, merely a candidate for the Blackened Hand, not yet at the Age of Choice, not yet a member. The only reason she was there at all was because Mike had asked Bodum to bring her. She spoke quickly, "I'll be quiet."

The Obsidian's face softened.

"We've talked about this Cara. You must remain silent during these meetings. The rules are there for a reason."

Bodum's face didn't soften at all, "And we'll be going over them again later...please continue, Mister Nova."

Nova gave Cara a compassionate smile, "Neo-dimensional tanomine--or NDT--is a subtle form compound, a drug which mimics a psychedelic, but which actually allows the user a slightly decontracted view of 23B."

Cara suddenly understood. There were people out there, normal origin-codes, experiencing glimpses of Spooky Land.

"Won't that make 'em nuts?"

Bodum sighed, frustrated. Mike shook his head. Cara rolled her eyes and went silent.

Nova sipped espresso, "After a four-hour period the drug wears off, and the user comes down from the trip. Incidentally, we've discovered NDT also acts as an endorphin regulator for heroin addicts, curing them almost instantly--it doesn't hurt matters their origin-codes are already predisposed to altered realities."

It was a brilliant idea. A huge jump in the Blackened Hand's campaign. The more people able to see the hidden constructs just beyond reality, the less control wielded by Dremchak.

Mike took over, "The experiment has been successful. In higher doses some of the exposed origin-codes have actually physically flipped into 23B without the aid of a scribe." He looked at Cara, "Unfortunately, in a low percentage of these cases, one of the side effects has manifested as a form of schizophrenia."

She smiled smug, "So it does make 'em nuts."

Nova produced a cigarette. He talked as he lit it, "Not in lower doses. In addition, the methadone acts as a sort of buffer...over a longer period of time, say once a week for six months," he exhaled as he spoke, "we've witnessed less problematic decontractions."

"So what happened?" Bodum asked the question quietly, without looking up from the ash-colored scribe.

The Obsidian put a hand on Bodum's arm in a gesture so touching Cara found herself blinking back tears.

"In violation of the End Ritual Protocol, we took what we could from the scribe's residual memory. We had no choice. We wanted to find out the circumstances of his death before the End Ritual, especially given the condition of the scribe--"

Mike interrupted himself, his eyes bouncing from Cara to Nova. He said, "Look, if the two of you don't mind, some of this is personal...if you could give us a couple of seconds..."

Nova was on his feet. "Of course. C'mon Cara, I'll getcha a coffee."

She followed him to the marbled, convex bar, taking a seat in a high, wiry, relatively uncomfortable metal chair. The coffee bar was unattended--Em was likely back in the kitchen. Cara tossed a glance at Nova, "So you gonna play The Narthex again or what?"

Nova shrugged. "Hope so."

"I dug your hit in '81--"

"Fantasy."

"Yeah," she sang-said, "Life is just a fantasy, can you live this fantasy life..."

Nova smiled. "At least you understand the lyric--you can see the code."

Cara laughed, "I suppose the line does make more sense sitting here in Spooky Land."

Em appeared from the kitchen through a set of western-style swinging doors. She'd painted her whiskers in fluorescent colors--a symmetrical, glowing rainbow on either side of her tufted face. The effect was stunning. Cara noticed she'd also dyed her fur skunk-style, a wide streak of white running through midnight black. Too bad. Cara had been fond of the tabby-colored dye-job last week. Em had been adorable.

"Hey! You changed it--"

Em's whiskers twitched. "Cara--! I didn't see you come in. Where's Bodum?"

"Over there with The Obsidian. What's with the skunk-job?"

Cara had met Em the first time she'd accompanied Bodum into Narthex B. It wasn't something Em was likely to soon forget. Cara had made quite the first impression, a five-year-old bursting into tears...after all, she'd never set eyes on a person with the head of a lynx. Cara no longer started crying when she saw Em, but it was still occasionally a shock, now more because of Em's strange fashion sense.

Em had originated on a world among the sub-modal variants, one of the concentric circles tighter to the center in Bodum's pebble-analogy. Her story was typical of the special brand of cruelty provided by Dremchak.

Back in the late 70s, some low-level research scientist in Dremchak Tower had eureka'd and decided to experiment with the lower modal variants. A portal had been opened, a team of non-personas dispatched. Specimens had been chosen, collected. Em was only one of a hundred such creatures ripped from their lives, abducted by the non-personas. Others, the unlucky, had been vivisected. She watched as her world had been strip-mined, raped of its life. Em had been handed over to a Menstrate lab. But in the big scheme of things, she'd been lucky. The Obsidian had found her...and freed her.

Now she tended the coffee bar in Narthex B.

Em's enormous, blue-green eyes smiled, "I needed a change."

"But you only lasted a week with the tabby-colors! And you were sooo cute--"

Em's tail snapped side-to-side, a sure sign of impatience. Cara knew to back off the topic.

Em poured coffee into a ceramic mug and passed it to Cara, "Too cute. Some of the new initiates were becoming a little overly friendly...if you know what I mean." She turned her attention toward Nova, fluorescent whiskers twitching, "Another espresso?"

He smiled, shook his head no.

Em shrugged, flicked her tail, and started toward Mike and Bodum, their heads tight together at the table.

Cara turned to Nova, "So what did the dead scribe's residue have to say?"

"Dunno...I wasn't there. And The Obsidian has been tight-lipped about it...Hand's taking the whole thing very seriously. I overheard a conversation between Mike and one of the Ganglion brass--something about a girl being involved--"

...back toward her blonde pigtails tied with red ribbon laying on shoulders virgin-white blouse...

Nova suddenly had her full attention. She interrupted, firing questions, "Whaddya mean 'a girl'? What did she look like? Did she kill Sensaet?"

...outstretched fingers inching toward white blouse...

Nova held up a hand, "Whoa--you know what I know. I overheard a snatch of a conversation. That's all." He wore a slightly freaked out expression--mild paranoia mixed with unexpected defensiveness.

Cara realized she'd been too intense, "Look, Sensaet was Bodum's younger brother. I'm just trying to get as much information as possible, you know, trying to help out--"

Em reappeared behind Nova, "They asked for you."

__________

Back at the table, Bodum stroked his stubbly beard and stared at the repackaged scribe. Mike smoked and sipped espresso. The vibe was quiet, somber. The vibe was tense.

Mike's voice broke the moment, "Lemme bring you up to speed. Sensaet wasn't just making a simple delivery of NDT. The Ganglion Council, in their infinite wisdom," sarcasm dripping, "had decided to issue the NDT clinics with Manufacturing Apparatus Pods...Sensaet was delivering such a device when he was killed."

Nova's eyes flashed pissed. "Why don't they tell me about shit like this? I mean there was talk of such a move, but that's all it was--talk."

"Why does The Council make half the moves it makes? You'd have to ask them," Bodum's voice came hoarse. He cleared his throat.

Mike said, "The MAP wasn't with Sensaet's body. We thought perhaps it had fallen into the hands of Dremchak, but an examination of the scribe's residual memory has determined Sensaet opened an enzogram moments before he died, taking the Dremchak Preserver and two non-personas with him. The MAP remained in the clinic."

Nova shook his head and gave a dark little chuckle, "And now it's missing...right?"

"Right. Good news is the second it was opened by an unauthorized origin-code, the subtle form creature encased within the MAP began transmitting 23B locator coordinates to the Ganglion."

Tentatively, slowly, Cara half-raised her hand, "What's a Manufacturing Apparatus Pod?"

Mike flicked ash, "A subtle form creature within a mobile case producing neo-dimensional tanomine. The concept originated as a means to cut down on the appearances of Blackened Hand personnel."

Bodum slipped the packaged scribe into his coat, "The situation is really quite dangerous. The MAP has been stolen. It's in the hands of ordinary origin-codes, citizens with no idea of what they're dealing with. You said it's been transmitting 23B locator coordinates...where is it now?"

"It's not in 23B. Whoever has it is still in the city. It hasn't left Toronto." The Obsidian snuffed his smoke, "I think it goes without saying its imperative the MAP be found quickly, and without upsetting any of the balances." He focused on Bodum, "Obviously you have an emotional stake in this. Protocol dictates I ask if you'd prefer to be left out."

Bodum said nothing. He stared at The Obsidian with hard eyes and an expression most approximating disbelief.

"Sorry. I had to ask."

Bodum's eyes softened. He gave an imperceptible nod.

The Obsidian continued, turning, "Mister Nova...Bodum and Cara will be joining you in Toronto following Sensaet's End Ritual. Please find them some appropriate accommodation for the duration of their hopefully short stay--"

Bodum cut him off, his voice strained, unusually hurried, "But she's not ready..."

Michael shot him a silencing look, "Ready or not, there's no time. She must see with her own eyes." He turned to Cara, "What do you think, child?"

She peered into a pair of black bottomless wells, "I guess we'll find out."

The Obsidian didn't say anything for a moment, the pause adding a degree of levity to his words, "I don't need to tell either of you that the Blackened Hand are not alone in their quest. Use caution. You can be sure Dremchak will be equally interested in finding the MAP."

Cara looked at Bodum. His gaze was hollow, emotionally drained. She quietly said, "So it seems we're going to Toronto."

2

(The Rusk Estate, 9/13/84)

9/13/84. Neural link-Dream analysis. Subject: Dremchak Special Preserver 1013: File#5022: Dremchak Incorporated: 01100010>00101<+=20#Fdqq?,#23$&$...a moment drained of color. Her steps echoed lonely through the vast lobby, reverberating off bleak concrete walls. She caught a flash in her periphery, a darting movement at the elevators...a figure, a dark-haired girl in a black leather jacket.

The sound of the doors opening shattered the silence. She ran, trying to catch the girl, trying to make the elevator...

The doors closed.

Frustration bubbled, but before she could even utter a curse a set of doors opposite opened with a ding. She entered a claustrophobic little box bright with a sheet of overhead fluorescent light. The doors closed behind her. After a pause that wasn't really a pause at all they reopened...

Into a hallway.

It was white, the patterned carpet apparently designed to cause optical illusions. Numbered, institutional-gray doors lined the walls on either side. She tried one...

Locked.

The hallway didn't appear to end.

There was a noise behind her. She stopped walking.

She turned--

The dark-haired girl in the black leather jacket appeared from one of the doors, far enough away to look like nothing more than a shape.

"Hey--wait!" She ran, the doors blurring by, the five digit numbers decreasing--

...70020, 70019, 70018...

The dark-haired girl kept moving away from her. She either didn't hear her, or didn't want to respond.

...70017, 70016, 70015...

Well, we gotta surprise for you honey...time to meet Tisi...

...70014, 70013, 70012...

Nothing happened.

Most disconcerting, most unexpected.

But the lights were on. More than on--blazing fluorescent--so where the fuck was Tisi?

...70011, 70010, 70009...

Okay, so there was no Tisi. No matter, if the girl didn't stop, or at least respond, she'd beat her to death when she caught her.

...70008, 70007, 70006...

"Hey! Stop! I'm not playing around here...wait!"

Fuck, she was asking for it. Charity summoned more energy, expecting a burst of speed.

It didn't happen.

Instead, impossibly, she seemed to slow down, seemed to be moving in slow-mo, her feet sinking into the carpet like it was sand, the dark-haired girl slipping further away...

...70005...70004...70003...

And where was Tisi? Why no Tisi? Tisi could solve this problem in a real hurry.

The dark-haired girl vanished into--

...70002...70001...

--the door numbered 70000.

She tried it. Locked.

Of course.

She inhaled deeply, centered herself, exhaled. She repeated the process, concentrating her attention on a point beside the door knob. None of this would be necessary if Tisi were here.

Her leg flashed out, striking the door perfectly. The lock gave with a steel-snapping crunch. The door flew open--

:::::00100110$#%^00101000107h4drem905661010:0010100::::::::Neural Link Severed 08:45:

__________

Charity came awake with a stifled, frustrated scream.

Her eyes did a quick side-to-side dance, recognizing her own bedroom.

She swept aside black silk sheets and pulled the plastic patch from her temple by the wire. It came away with a wet little pop.

Tests. Always with the tests. Always wired into something.

She closed her eyes and took a deep breath...she exhaled.

The stress ebbed back.

The room was too dark.

She slid out of the baroque, canopied bed, padding naked across white shag to a vast bay window. She pulled open black velvet curtains to reveal light.

Charity's eyes flashed mild panic. She glanced over her shoulder. Tisi lay flat against the wall. She smiled, relieved. She stretched. The day played off her eyes, sunlight on water.

She checked the ornate chronometer resting on the antique cedar chest. Almost nine. She was a half-hour behind. Better hurry. Don't want The Colonel amping out.

Charity showered rapidly, and applied only cursory make-up. She swept blonde hair into trademark pigtails. She threw herself into the hated school uniform. She examined herself in a full length mirror...it was good. She blew herself a kiss. She paused. She cocked her head. Tisi flipped to the other side of her body. She smiled self-satisfied. Fuck that bitch in the dream. It was, after all, just a dream. Tisi was right there. All was as it should be.

She put her hands behind her back, gave herself one last look, and with a flip of her hair, turned and walked out the door.

__________

The Colonel was eating breakfast. Two soft-boiled eggs mashed into a bowl. Apparently he'd decided to take it on the terrace...an unusual move.

Charity wandered through sliding glass doors. The estate's expansive, tree-lined grounds rolled up to the ivy-covered walls.

She smirked, "So why we out here?"

The Colonel's uniform was immaculately pressed, his ribbons a pair of colorful, carefully arranged lines above his left breast pocket. A gold-leafed cap rested on the morning paper at his elbow.

He smiled broadly, "Oh, I dunno. It was just so pleasant. I couldn't resist."

Charity flopped into a cushioned chair across from him. She plucked an apple from a sun-washed silver bowl in the center of the table. "So where's Franval?"

The Colonel's eyes narrowed, "Ms. Franval left earlier. She didn't say where she was going."

Charity stopped in mid-bite. It was weird enough for The Colonel to take breakfast on the terrace, it was another matter entirely to find him unaware of Franval's activities. And why wasn't she here?

"How the fuck am I getting to school? You taking me?"

The Colonel flashed a look and dropped his fork with a clang. He took his cap off the paper, methodically brushed at it, and set it aside. He snapped opened the paper, obscuring Charity's view of his face. He crossed his legs. The moment stretched...finally he said, "I don't care for your tone or language."

Charity stared at him, her eyes angling into little slits.

The Colonel continued to read, nonchalantly flipping the pages.

She knew she'd have to apologize. The Colonel had never given in to any of her tantrums or tricks. On the contrary. But she saw no reason to make things simple for him.

"I had the same dream again." She took a bite of apple, chewing slowly, staring at the front page story's blaring headline--

REAGANOMICS: THE GAP BETWEEN RICH & POOR WIDENS

Whatever that meant.

From behind the headline The Colonel's voice, "Are you ready to apologize for your language?"

She made a face, opening her mouth filled with partially chewed apple, sticking her tongue out at the newspaper. She swallowed.

"It caught me off-guard, you know, no Franval. I didn't mean anything by it, I just wanted to get to school..." She surprised herself and came up with, "I have an overdue project."

The Colonel's head popped up over the paper. He fixed her with a stare, "Do you expect me to take that as an apology?"

She placed the half-eaten apple onto a white linen table cloth. Her eyes met The Colonel's, "All right. I'm sorry already."

The Colonel sighed. "I guess that'll have to suffice." He disappeared back behind the paper, "What's this about a dream?"

"It's the same dream. You know, the one I've been telling you about for, like, the past month...big building, thousands of rooms, me chasing a girl..."

He lowered the paper. A mildly patronizing quality crept into his words, "Reoccurring dreams can have a plethora of different meanings, Charity. In ancient and indigenous cultures they represented everything from nocturnal experiences of past lives to visions of a precognitive nature. Modern schools of metaphysics suggest dreams reoccur when the thoughts and attitudes of the dreamer remain the same. It's similar to repeating a grade in school...I think this may apply to you. You need to use the information provided, all of which is symbolic, to accentuate your learning. Only then can you advance to the next grade."

The newspaper came back up. Once again Charity's eyes swept the headlines.

THE COLONEL'S DREAM EXPLANATION HIGHLY SUSPECT

The Reaganomics headline was gone.

"Hey...! Wait a second..."

The page fell into The Colonel's lap. "What?"

Charity pushed back her chair and came around the table.

"Lemme see that paper."

The Colonel handed her the newspaper with a bemused expression, "What? What's the big deal?"

She flattened the front page onto the table.

REAGANOMICS: THE GAP BETWEEN RICH & POOR WIDENS

"What the hell?"

The Colonel chuckled, "Not a Reagan fan, huh?"

"No, no. The headline. It was different a second ago."

The Colonel's bemusement blossomed into a grin, "Is that right? How so?"

Sunlight dappled in her periphery. A rush came into her ears, ocean waves crashing over silence. A ring faded in, a tuning fork struck against the surface of her mind. She dropped into the closest chair and glanced at Tisi. The shadow performed a bizarre staccato movement, and hissed a whisper for Charity's mind only.

"Don't tell him. Say it was nothing."

The Colonel missed the whole play. Which was just as well. She hadn't had a Tisi-moment like that for a while, and after the last one they'd left her in the Dark Room for a month.

Charity hated the Dark Room.

The Colonel was looking at her with concern, "Are you okay?"

She found she was. The moment had passed. "Yeah, yeah. Just a head rush from standing too fast. I'm fine."

"Good," his face brightened. "Now what's this you were saying about headlines?"

"Nothing. I thought I saw something about a band I like." She changed the subject, "Hey, am I going to school today?"

The Colonel folded the paper, "Actually, no. No you're not. Your overdue project will have to wait."

The Colonel held an eight-by-ten manila envelope...Charity couldn't remember it being on the table earlier, and The Colonel didn't have his briefcase with him.

"Where did that come from?"

The Colonel cocked his head at her, "Where did what come from?"

"That envelope. It wasn't here earlier."

Again an expression of mild concern passed across his face, "Are you sure you're okay?" Then, with total seriousness, "Charity, this envelope has been on the table the entire time."

Tisi's voice, a barely heard whisper from inside her head, "He really believes that. Say nothing."

She shook her head, "I musta woke up weird this morning. Maybe I'm not fully awake yet."

"Are you sure? When you get back I'll have Dr. Menkin run some tests--"

She cut him off, a panicked little tone creeping into her voice, "No...no more tests. I'm fine. I just woke up wrong, no biggie..." Her brain caught up with what he'd said, "Whaddya mean, 'when I get back'? Where am I going?"

The Colonel executed a curt, professional movement; a file folder appeared from within the envelope. Charity noticed a red-tag. Dremchak only red-tagged cases involving Blackened Hand. She smiled. Apparently she was going to work.

The Colonel flipped open the folder to reveal a black and white photograph resting on a medium-sized stack of documents.

"Yesterday's analysis of a routine pulse-sweep exposed, among other things, this man," he slid the photograph across the table, "Mister Elphonse Tulpa."

Charity studied the photograph. It was grainy, slightly out-of-focus. An action shot: Tulpa in an over-sized coat with a large wooden box under one arm, caught in mid-step, seemingly hurrying toward a door. He was old, short gray hair and horn-rimmed glasses.

"It's the only picture we have of Mister Tulpa. The dossier says it was taken in 1963."

Charity's puzzled eyes scanned the photo, "How's it possible he's still alive? He looks about seventy here."

The Colonel smiled his annoying, I-know-something-you-don't-know smile, "Actually, he was eighty-four in that shot."

"So I'm digging up a corpse."

He laughed, "No, no. Mister Tulpa is still very much alive. He's a special case. We've been trying to find him for," he paused, searching for the right words, "well, a long time now. Tulpa's not a normal origin-code, not some drug addict who's accidentally become decontracted. If that were the case we'd send a regular operative and a couple of non-personas. No, Elphonse requires careful treatment. That's why we're sending you."

Charity handed the photo back to The Colonel, "If he's that important I'm surprised we found him...Blackened Hand didn't have him underscanned?"

The Colonel's face darkened, "We can't figure it out...it doesn't make any sense. The only thing that explains it is some sort of equipment malfunction on their part."

She folded her hands on the table, "So what are we talking about here? Recovery or termination?"

"Straight termination. Mister Tulpa is the last of a dying breed--a creature capable of altering the nature of reality. Tulpa may look human, but believe me when I say he's not. Be careful, Charity. Don't mess with this guy. No games."

She raised her eyebrows, "So this guy's got ya a bit freaked."

The Colonel placed the photograph back with the stack of documents and closed the folder. He sighed, "Sure. That's part of it. But there's also a briefcase full of NDT floating around Toronto," he met her gaze, "a briefcase that should've been recovered."

Charity made a face, her eyes flashing, "Not completely my fault. The bastard opened an enzogram...and let's not forget I did terminate a senior Blackened Hand agitator."

"The removal of Sensaet was important. But he was only the secondary goal of the operation. The MAP is what we were after." He softened at the ugly disappointment clouding her face, "Look, it's not the end of the world. You can get the briefcase back after you take care of Mister Tulpa."

She pouted. "Yeah...I guess."

The Colonel pushed back his chair, satisfied. He picked up the folder.

"That's my girl. I've got to go, but everything you need is in my study...locator coordinates, some cash--"

Charity's pout disappeared, replaced by a sneer of incredulity, "Cash? What, no credit card?"

"Not after last time, no. I'm still trying to explain to a State Department auditor half the purchases you made. Jesus, Charity, you took half the Glossy Posse to France."

"Well, Susi had never been--"

He cut her off.

"I'm not interested in explanations. Everything you need is in the study. I've arranged to have a couple of non-personas meet you in 23B."

She refused to look him in the eyes, "Don't need 'em. I'll take Caleb."

Her words were tight, clipped.

"Charity, don't put yourself at risk just to spite me. You're far too intelligent for such nonsense."

She shrugged off the mood, defeated by his logic, "Yeah. Don't worry about it. This Tulpa is just one guy and those faceless fucking dolts get in the way. Besides, Caleb's funny."

The Colonel's body language suggested skepticism, but his eyes windowed placated. He said, "Alright. Caleb is a little crazy, but I can see why you trust him. Still, watch your back. I'll see you tonight."

He crossed to her, bending to lightly kiss her forehead. Tisi whispered, too soft to catch, sending shivers down her spine. Charity said, "Sorry 'bout Toronto...and about the credit card."

He looked into her eyes, "Just promise me you'll be careful."

__________

The Colonel's office was all dark woods and dominated by a massive ebony desk--the kind of desk designed to convey a sense of power. The wall behind it stretched floor to ceiling with shelves, mostly filled with books, but there was the occasional knick-knack and oddity: a framed photograph of Charity; an ancient statue of the Egyptian war god Reshpu (apparently purchased at great expense); an exquisite dagger once owned by Prince Machiavelli; a complicated Dremchak chronometer and a human skull. Charity didn't know the story on the skull, but it rested on a dirty Green Beret shoulder patch peeking out just below the wired jaw.

Charity flopped into one of two mid-sized chairs placed at angles opposite the desk. The other walls hung-heavy with diplomas, maps, photographs and a morbid assortment of artistic prints depicting various scenes of war. The Colonel's medals lay pinned to purple velvet, displayed in a glass-fronted cherry wood cabinet next to an impressive array of pistols.

Charity loved guns. Especially pistols. She'd gravitated toward the exquisite cabinet even as a child. The collection was divided into sections, the bottom shelf devoted to early firearms, Charity's favorite being an Irish flintlock from 1830.

The middle shelf held The Colonel's American pistols, from the modern to the antique. Automatics, revolvers...the names were stamped into steel; Smith &Wesson, Colt, Winchester. There were a pair of classic Peacemakers, old 1860 Colt Army Revolvers in a scarred but well-finished carrying case lying next to a dull but incredibly rare 1861 Prescott .38 Caliber Navy Revolver.

The top shelf housed The Colonel's most prized pieces. Charity's eyes swept another Peacemaker, an immaculately crafted pistol, hand-engraved and resting on wine-colored velvet in an opened walnut case. Next to it a framed, black and white photograph of The Colonel's company in Vietnam. A brass plaque explained: "Presented to Captain John G. Rusk, November 1967. From the men of Omega Company. It's Us or Them so better Them than Us."

Charity smiled. The photo was taken the year before she was born. The faces in the picture all seemed so young.

She wandered to the desk. Sure enough, a hard-topped leather briefcase waited for her next to an ugly cannon desk ornament. She dropped into The Colonel's pleated calf-skin chair, pulling the briefcase toward her. The latches opened with simultaneous clicks.

A business-sized envelope, a pandation lens and a slender 9mm automatic with silencer rested atop the manila folder The Colonel had shown her earlier. She dug through the briefcase's various pockets and pouches, finding a bulky grey cellphone, an extra clip for the automatic and a hand-held bi-dialmeter--a Dremchak chronometer and coordinate locator in one. This particular device had been programmed to highlight the last known location of Mr. Elphonse Tulpa, both in 23 and 23B.

Charity examined the device, frowning. Under normal circumstances the bi-dialmeter, once programmed with the DNA cataloging-coil of an origin-code, could pinpoint the origin-code's biovehicle at any given moment and at any given coordinate. For some reason they'd only been able to pick up Tulpa's coordinates during pulse-sweep intervals. Shit, if Tulpa had moved, she'd have to wait for another pulse-sweep.

This assignment could take longer than she'd anticipated.

Charity opened the envelope and found five hundred dollars in cash.

She would've preferred the credit card.

She threw the envelope back into the briefcase with a sigh and picked up the automatic, releasing the clip. Fully loaded. She slapped it back in and held the weapon, smiling while she examined the silencer. No homemade deal here, this puppy was strictly professional.

She reached for the cellphone and punched Caleb's number. The thing rang once, twice...

"Yo."

Charity pointed the automatic at a vase across the room and pretended to fire. She said, "Hey. Wanna come and get me?"

There was a pause on the other end. Charity heard street sounds. As usual, Caleb was in his car. With Caleb, it was always about the car. Finally he said, "The last time I saw you it took me a week to recover."

She put her legs up, crossing them on the desk, her skirt hiking to her thighs. She held the phone with her shoulder. A bored impatience wormed into her expression. She examined her nails.

"This time it's different. Simple shit. The Colonel gave me five hundred and a name. Do you wanna help or what?"

A second of silence indicated minor hesitation. Then, "Yeah. Sure. I'll be right over. Make sure I don't get a hard time at the gate like last time."

Charity smiled. She knew he'd come. He always came. He couldn't help himself. She knew she was part of it, but the reality was Caleb was an adrenaline junky, something Charity had no problem supplying.

"'Kay. See ya soon."

She placed the cellphone back into the briefcase and clicked the lid shut.

__________

Caleb tossed his cell onto the shotgun seat. It bounced off the cushion and onto the floor mat, landing on a discarded hamburger wrapper.

The dolt in the ride he was about to win gawked a "what-the-fuck?" expression. Caleb smiled, nodded, and took the Kamikaze headband from an inside pocket of his motorcycle jacket. Methodically, respectfully, he tied it into place, the Rising Sun carefully displayed in the center of his forehead.

The dolt registered the first sign of fear. Caleb grinned, checking out the dolt's car--Dodge Charger. Candy-apple red. He could only guess what was under the hood. Not that it mattered. In a few seconds it would belong to the Riot Club Boys, who would either keep it, adding it to their already extensive fleet, or more likely, sell it. The money would go toward cocaine, multiplying it ten-fold. His cut would be relatively juicy.

Caleb hated Chargers.

He gunned his engine as a strawberry-blonde road bunny in cutoffs bounced into the street. The Cadillac 500 made deep, evil sounds. The dolt popped his head up at the sound.

They were always caught off guard when he gunned the engine.

His ride was sweet enough, a 1967 Pontiac GTO, but it didn't really look like much--patchy, primer gray body, flat black rims. But the engine...well, the engine was a work of art: a rare Cadillac 500 ripped from an old El Dorado and modified to accept a 500 nitrous oxide-driven blower and two, 650 double-pump Holly carburetors. Pushing this piece of machinery, he'd eaten every pink slip crazy enough to go the distance.

Just like he was about to do now.

The road bunny pulled up her tank-top, flashing a pair of mid-sized, pink-tipped breasts...the 'get set' signal. She giggled at the assemblage--mostly Riot Club Boys and the dolt's buddies. Caleb saw the Riot Club Boys rowdy up a bit at the sight of skin, but heard nothing save for the growling 500.

The road bunny raised the flag. Beside him the Charger rumbled, its pistons jack-hammering in impatience. He gave its current owner one last knowing grin.

The flag dropped.

Adrenaline surge...colors drained from his perception. He drove the pedal to the floor.

The 500 leapt forward. Caleb sucked in a lungful of air, the G's pushing him back into the leathered seat. His nostrils twitched--the faintest odor of burning rubber. A split-second side-glance told him the Charger was fishtailing off the hop.

It meant the race was over.

Caleb's GTO had been outfitted with traction bars, a modification which prevented the rear wheels from performing the characteristic side-to-side bob. The traction bars ensured the GTO a problem-free start under almost all conditions. Caleb knew the reality was most drags were won at the starting line.

It was over as fast as it had begun, and it really wasn't much of a race. The Charger's fishtailing had cost the dolt precious seconds. It had something big under the hood, likely a 450 or a 455. It was quick, a cherry ride to be sure. The dolt had gotten close there near the end, but like his father used to say, "Close only counts in horseshoes and hand grenades."

Cole and Tag wandered up. Caleb leaned against the GTO's hood watching a smattering of low IQ Riot Club wannabes load the Charger onto a flatbed. The truck belonged to Cole's front company, DiFontaine Carting & Asbestos Removal--so identified by a colorful company patch on the driver's side door. Caleb noticed Cole had commissioned a new logo, a cartoonish caricature of a trucker from hell, replete with horns, flames, demon's eyes and a cigar clenched between bloody fangs. Cole grinned, "Look, about this Dodge--"

"Sell it. You know, the usual arrangement."

Cole's smile widened, "With my usual commission?"

"That's right."

Tag spit black shit. Tag drooled chewing tobacco and wiped it away with the back of his hand. Tag wore mirrored aviators and said, "Rock n' roll."

Caleb didn't care for Tag. Tag was what Cole called a "necessary evil". Caleb translated this to mean Tag took care of all Cole's dirty work; all the drug-running, gun-running, extortion and murder. This left Cole free to pursue some of the Riot Club's legit businesses, businesses like DiFontaine Carting & Asbestos Removal.

A distasteful sneer curled Cole's lips. He stared at the black puddle next to his dusty, booted foot while he spoke, "We're goin' for beers at the Boat House. Wanna toss a couple back or what?"

"Can't. Gotta go help Charity with some stuff."

Cole raised his brow. Tag's jaw stopped pumping tobacco in mid-chew. The silence stretched. Eventually Cole said, "Oh. Well--"

Tag cut him off. "Jeeee-sus. Now that's some sweet-ass coooze..."

Cole winced. Caleb calmly undid his headband and handed it to Cole, "Hang on to this for a second."

Tag didn't get it. Tag kept talking. Tag's mouth had a bad case of the runs.

"Jeeee-sus. Remember the last time, when she had her little school outfit on? Jeeee-sus. Kid, you're one lucky motherfucker--"

Caleb's arm shot out, taking Tag by the throat in a vise. The aviators came away from Tag's chubby, sweaty face, revealing beady, bloodshot eyes. Caleb's black buckled boot came down on the frames. The lenses gave a feeble snap. Caleb felt the chewing-tobacco slip down the man's windpipe--he tightened his fingers.

"You shouldn't say things like that. She's not a fucking road bunny."

Tag's face went scarlet. Thick veins started to pop out of the side of his head. He sputtered. Caleb continued, "And next time I'll let her talk to you."

He released Tag with a push. The man stumbled back. He gasped air, "Fuck, Caleb. I was just messing around."

"Yeah...me too."

Cole giggled nervous girlish, "I kinda saw that comin'."

He handed Caleb back the headband. Caleb carefully folded it, tucking it away back inside of his leather. He opened the GTO's door and fired the 500. It came to life, the pistons percolating a heavy patter. He leaned out the window, "I gotta go." He thrust his chin at Tag, who continued to rub his throat, "Keep that fucking idiot away from me. We'll factor the Charger into the math tomorrow."

Cole nodded and winked, slapping the hood as Caleb backed away.

Caleb gave him a wave...Cole was all right.

He aimed the GTO toward the closest route onto the freeway and the posh Halton Hills beyond. He let his mind go on autopilot while he headed for the on-ramp.

The neighborhood passing on the other side of the reinforced plexi-glass had been something in its day. You could still see it if you looked. The past peeked from a once proud restaurant's faded, embroidered drapes. You could see it in an intricate, hand-carved cornerstone. You could see it in the remaining high-end specialty shops, tucked away between empty storefronts and cheap, gaudy bookshops. You could see it in the wrought-iron park benches, now chipped and bleak in unkempt, garbage-littered parks.

The picture struck him as sort of tragic.

The GTO found the on-ramp and it all blurred behind him. Only Charity lay ahead...waiting.

He'd met Charity two years earlier, during the summer of '82. She'd been blonde, sparkle-dusted and hanging with a willowy Japanese girl. They'd strolled over too cool for words, demanding drugs, the Halcion Nite Club pumping in the background.

Caleb had almost laughed in their faces, "Shouldn't you girls be at home tucked into your little beds?"

To which sweet Charity had responded, "Look--dick-weed--you gonna sell us some coke or what? I need two ounces."

And then something odd.

A twitching movement in the dark behind her, a not quite human twitching, her shadow playing in the strobe.

Obviously a trick of light.

Charity introduced her pale-eyed friend, the slim always demure Susi Kimura. Susi with the Kanji tattoo in the center of her forehead.

And she'd actually bowed.

Charity had explained they were scoping clubs for something called the Glossy Posse, a clique of extremely wealthy teenaged girls. Caleb suddenly saw dollar signs in place of pretty faces...he'd always had a knack for sensing opportunity.

Charity and the Glossy Posse became regulars at the Halcion. Caleb kind of lurked about in the background. He watched her--the way she talked, the spark in her eye, the way she held herself. And he made a killing; the Glossy Posse had a prodigious appetite for a rainbow of narcotics.

The candy-colored memory danced through his head on a techno beat.

He'd tied himself to Charity the following fall.

She'd blown through the Halcion's doors one rainy November evening, alone, which was unusual in and of itself. She pulled him aside, cornering him near a speaker stack, her words a barely audible buzz overtop the mind-splitting thump, "I need your help."

She was harried, bordering on frantic, something Caleb had never witnessed. She needed a lift across the city. He agreed, not entirely sure what he was signing up for.

Not that it would've mattered.

The rest of that cold, rainy night was unforgettable, life-changing.

He'd taken her where she wanted to go, which was apparently dictated by a classy-looking little thingamajig in her hand. Eventually, after zig-zagging around the worst parts of the city, she'd had him pull over in front of a neglected two-storey in a forgotten run-down neighborhood.

That's when she'd screwed the silencer onto a .38.

He'd tried to look cool, but part of him wondered if he'd live through the night. Charity said, "This is it...wait here while I go take care of some biz."

The interior of the GTO was dim, street-lit. He studied her, too cute in her school uniform, the .38 in her lap. She raised a black-tipped finger to smiling lips, her blue eyes glistening manic, "Shhh."

He'd fallen for her then, completely, totally and utterly. From that moment forward Charity owned him, a fact he hadn't even revealed to himself.

She knocked on the tattered screen door, making faces at him while she waited for an answer. A woman appeared.

And that's when Caleb met Tisi.

Charity's shadow, previously laying flat against the pavement in the chink of light provided by the opened door, suddenly came to life. Caleb's mind flashed back to the Halcion. The shadow pounced, enshrouding the startled woman. Charity pushed her back into the house. The door slammed behind her. Caleb broke out in a cold-sweat. He gripped the steering wheel, white-knuckled, not entirely sure what he'd witnessed.

Charity exited the house moments later, blood-spattered but happy. Charity checked her face in his rearview. Charity babbled words he only figured out later..."decontracted", "non-persona", "Blackened Hand". Charity fished around in her purse, still chattering, and produced what resembled a 35mm camera lens.

The device could've been anything. He watched her fiddle with it, his mind re-living the evening, and it all kind of spilled out at once, "Jesus-fucking-Christ Charity, what the fuck is goin' on? What the fuck happened? I saw your shadow, Charity. Your shadow is alive." He thrust his chin at the camera lens thingy, "And what the fuck is that?"

She found a joint and lit it. A patronizing quality crept into her giggling voice, "Look, Caleb, that was Tisi. And don't call her a 'shadow'. It pisses her off. I just took care of some business for The Colonel back there. You should feel honored. The only reason I asked you to give me a lift was because I thought you could handle it. You can handle it, right Caleb? You're not gonna go all after-school on me, are you Caleb?"

Passing him the joint, she refocused her attention on the lens. Three outer rings spun around the device's circumference, clicking with each movement, "This is a Dremchak pandation lens. You're going to love this. Watch."

She placed the device on the leathered dash.

The thing began moving of its own accord, the outer rings spinning, clicking. From the center of the lens pulsed a dim glow.

Caleb toked, watching in amazement. Outside the car even stranger things started happening. The air seemed to liquefy. Bands of black swirled over the GTO's hood. The glow emanating from the lens intensified, casting a creepy, not-quite-red light through out the interior. Caleb remembered the ember on the joint turning green. There was a sense of movement beyond the forward motion of the car. He felt momentarily nauseous. The black bands obscured the exterior completely then, whipping around the car, allowing only occasional flashes of intense light to illuminate the process before plunging the interior back into the now fire-engine-red pulse radiating from the pandation lens.

Charity's laughter echoed through the memory.

He pulled himself back into the moment, the memories of Charity and that first nocturnal trip into 23B fading.

The freeway stretched into the morning, into a black dot on the urban horizon. Caleb saw the off-ramp for Halton Hills.

He swung the GTO toward the declining asphalt spiral. It spilled onto Lakeshore Drive, a wide, four-laned street traversing the northern part of the city. He followed it, passing strip malls, fast food franchises and other modern suburban necessities. A big billboard pushing that TV preacher Kane floated by. Two stoplights and left hand turn later he hit Spruce Street. He began the climb into Halton Hills.

The commercial zones petered out, giving way to executive residential. These in turn became less frequent, but larger, usually with pools and spectacular views of the city below. Everything was suddenly greener. Halton Hills was one of the last areas of the city that still had trees.

He followed the steadily inclining road.

The passing residences became more and more ostentatious: gilded gates and sprawling brick structures obscured by trees; an occasional flash of someone washing a Bentley, a Rolls...snapshots through high hedges of beautiful people in white playing tennis and lounging on lush lawns.

Halton Hills. The good life.

Caleb shifted in his seat. He always felt torn passing these mansions--part of him envying, coveting the lifestyles he glimpsed. But another part of him screamed bloody rage...this was the part of him that reached down and slammed Mötorhead into the tape deck. Like everything else in the GTO, he'd modified the stereo. Lemmy abruptly shattered the costly stillness of Halton Hills, distorted guitar grinding harsh echoes. Caleb smiled, not so much seeing but feeling the cold eyes peeking disapproval from behind triple-paned windows.

The road continued to climb, curling around the hillside into a heavily wooded area. The morning dimmed beneath over hanging trees. He was on The Colonel's property now--everything from this point forward belonged to the Rusk Estate.

After about a half-mile or so the road widened into a turnaround. A gate and peaked guardhouse waited, the road cornering beyond. Caleb turned down the tunes and idled the GTO up to the gate.

A cop guy appeared, regular day shift and completely hard to deal with. He kind of smirked, his eyes sweeping the GTO's patchy body.

If Charity had done what she was supposed to, there wouldn't be a problem getting up to the main house. If not...

The cop guy's eyes narrowed, "Yes?"

The cop guy was acting like it was the first time he'd ever laid eyes on Caleb. Caleb sighed--this was bullshit. The dolt knew him. Caleb had only been here, like, twice a week for two years.

"Hey Gerry. I'm here to see Charity Rusk."

The cop guy made a show of checking his clipboard, snidely peering at Caleb, "And your name is?"

Caleb's first inclination was to snap cop guy's neck. Instead he deadpanned, "Sammy Davis Junior."

Last time he'd said Dean Martin. He saw no reason to fuck with a theme.

The cop guy just stared, exasperated. Caleb smiled charming. Cop guy disappeared for a moment, reappearing with a phone at his ear. "Just a moment...Mister Davis."

Caleb searched his jacket, coming up with a battered pack of cigarettes. He exhaled smoke toward the guardhouse, knowing full well cop guy was a non-smoker. As far as Caleb was concerned, turnabout was fair play. Cop guy feigned a feeble cough and batted at the smoky air. He talked into the phone's mouthpiece, "Miss Rusk...? It's Gerry down at the gate. I have a Mister Sammy Davis Junior here to see you..."

Caleb could imagine Charity on the other end: a moment of confusion, then peels of laughter. He put the GTO in gear. Cop guy sneered the inevitable, "Head on in...Mister Davis."

Caleb blew one last cloud at the dolt.

The gate came up. He guided the GTO along the twisting, tree-lined quarter mile up to the main house.

3

Charity saw the GTO from the study's picture window. Caleb would be miffed she hadn't called down to the gate, but she secretly believed he enjoyed his weekly confrontations with Gerry. Besides, she got a major kick out of hearing all the different names he came up with.

She shot a glance at herself in the study's full-length mirror. No school meant she could change, so she'd thrown on more Caleb-appropriate clothing: sleek boots, form-fitting leather pants and silky red top beneath a multi-pocketed yet fashionable jacket.

Charity slipped into high gear. She slammed the briefcase shut and slid it off the desk, moving quickly downstairs through a spacious living room and a Victorian dining room before ending up at an impressive set of thick, mahogany doors. They boomed closed behind her.

Caleb was on his way up the stairs.

She grinned, bouncing toward him, "Yo, Sammy! How's the rest of the Rat Pack?"

"Yeah. That's some funny shit. You know, I'm getting really sick of that cop guy--"

"Gerry."

"Yeah. Gerry. How much does it cost The Colonel to replace those boys? 'Cos, I'm thinkin' I might have to disappear Gerry."

"Nah, don't do that--The Colonel genuinely likes you. If you start killing off his house staff that might change."

She headed for the GTO.

"What, don't we have time for a coffee?"

Charity opened the passenger door, "No. I wanna get moving. This guy might be harder to find than I thought. And I'm supposed to meet the Posse at The Troubadour at five."

Caleb pouted, disappointed, "I thought maybe we'd do something--"

"Not tonight. It's Susi's homecoming party."

She found his cellphone amid the junk-food wrappers on the floor and frowned, "Do you know how expensive these things are? I didn't give it to you so you could toss it around your car." She crammed it into the glove box and sighed, "You should gimme a smoke."

Caleb rolled his eyes. He found a cigarette, lit it and passed it to her. She smiled sweet and opened the briefcase. She checked the bi-dialmeter. Caleb watched, "So, who is this guy? And more importantly, where am I headed?"

Charity shrugged and took out the pandation lens. She slapped it on the dash. Its outer rings clicked twice and the thing started to glow.

Caleb's eyes flashed at the lens, "Jesus. A little warning would've been okay--"

Charity flicked ash, "Sorry."

23B provided the quickest route to her target, to this Elphonse Tulpa. They'd use 23B to travel to Tulpa, then jump back into New Amsterdam once they were on top of him. She studied the bi-dialmeter. There was a pulse-sweep scheduled for 11 a.m. The chronometer indicated she had a few minutes to wait. At least she'd have an opportunity to see if Tulpa's origin-code had moved. Hopefully the old bastard had stayed put.

She glanced at Caleb, white-knuckled on the steering wheel as the GTO made the jump into 23B. Outside the world exploded, reality torn into snaking black ribbons, the GTO colliding with dark where once there was light...then they were through, into the permanent night of 23B. Charity cracked the window and watched her cigarette swirl sparks into the darkness. More to herself than Caleb she said, "It's always dark."

She shivered.

Caleb slowed the GTO to a crawl and opened the door. He leaned out to vomit onto what was now a road of blackened gravel. He pulled himself back in and slammed the door, wiping his mouth, "Shit. Sorry. Every time we do this it gets a little worse."

Charity inhaled deeply. The air burned her nose. The atmosphere in 23B always reeked of one chemical or another. Given their current coordinates it could've been worse. She sighed, bored, "Yeah, I've heard that happens to some people."

Caleb reached down and flicked on the headlights. The GTO followed an intricate lattice work of multi-sized pipes running along the ground on either side of the road. Occasionally the pipes would branch off to a fenced in block of machinery resembling a small electrical transformer station. Lit by enormous overhead lamps, these stations dotted the darkness with pools of light into the horizon. The scene reminded Charity of oil fields, a memory of traveling across Texas with The Colonel, the eerie desert solitude and the strange structures perpetually pumping.

"Where the fuck are we?"

Caleb's voice distracted. She turned, her eyes reflecting light from a passing station, "The Clutoni Plains."

She found the bi-dialmeter, "The old mummy's holed up in Nox." She glanced at him, "We'll jump back there. Just keep heading south."

Caleb shook his head in confusion.

"Old mummy? What? What are you talking about?"

Charity giggled, "Not an actual mummy. This guy I'm looking for, he's really fucking old. He shoulda been dead, like, ages ago."

"What's this Clutoni Plains?"

She furrowed her brow, "I'm not entirely sure. I'm guessing it has something to do with the Dremchak mines. Barrier generators maybe. I'll have to ask The Colonel."

The bi-dialmeter issued an almost musical tone. A pulse-sweep was occurring.

Charity smiled cold, waiting for the results to register. In 23 the sweeps were imperceptible, unless you'd somehow become decontracted. But in 23B--

She looked out the window, into the sky, her heart suddenly quick in her chest.

Caleb whispered, "Wow."

It was magnificent. They could tell the sweep originated at some point faraway to the south, a blink of sharp light. A second later a distant ripple of greenish-blue, similar to the aura borealis. A pause. Then again, closer, brighter, more colorful...deep reds, oranges. And then right over top of them, the dark sky suddenly daylight. The Clutoni Plains were revealed, the bizarre stations peppering a gray wasteland crisscrossed with pipes and the road they traveled over. There was a sound...subtle, but very there...a noise between a rush of water and a humming beehive. The daylight darkened into a green tinge. Abruptly it changed to blue, then red...then it was gone, replaced once again by night.

Charity's eyes went back to the bi-dialmeter.

"Unbelievable. Tulpa hasn't moved."

"Tulpa?"

"That's the name of the guy we're looking for: ElphonseTulpa."

Caleb snorted, "You're kidding...Elphonse?"

"Yeah. That's his name."

"He musta been pissed with his parents. Can you imagine having to go to school with a name like Elphonse?"

Charity thought about it for a second, "I guess you'd just tell everybody your name was Al." She frowned, examining the bi-dialmeter, "I'm surprised Al hasn't moved. He's been in the same spot for over twenty-four hours without being underscanned. I don't get it. If this guy is half as important as The Colonel said, why the fuck is he out in the open like this? Why doesn't the Blackened Hand have him underscanned? He's a sitting duck. It's not like they don't know about the pulse-sweeps. The Colonel said it had to be some sort of Blackened Hand equipment malfunction. But for a full day? Fuck, they track down and underscan regular decontracted origin-codes faster than that, and this guy's supposed to be important..."

She trailed off, checking the chronometer. They were making good time. As long as there were no hitches she'd have an hour to spare before Susi's homecoming party.

Thank God for the pandation lens.

Simply put, 23B was smaller than 23. Had she attempted to find the elusive Mr. Tulpa in 23 it would've taken a good forty-five minutes just to get to his location, forty-five minutes through suburban and urban environments. Not so in 23B. By using the pandation lens she'd cut the travel time in half.

The Clutoni Plains gave way to headlight-illuminated brush, an alien landscape of dense, vaguely coniferous trees interrupted every once in a while by towering, circular rock formations.

The gravel became pavement.

The brush leveled out, replaced by a vast expanse of night. Caleb slipped Mötorhead back into the deck and Charity bummed another smoke. A wide, neon blue tube abruptly grew out of the ground, traveling alongside the GTO. It ran low, following the road to a glow on the horizon. They were approaching Nox, the Dremchak city-state, the largest population center in 23B.

Roadside advertisements began appearing, small at first, then blossoming into billboards and high-def electronica. One of the more colorful looped a digital depiction of the world-renowned televangelist Father Kane, but the majority plugged various Dremchak concerns. There was an inter-urban jostle, the road they were on merging with a bustling highway, the neon blue tube angling away, following an intersecting road, joining a multi-colored cluster and disappearing in a different direction.

The vehicles they joined were mostly from 23, but there was a smattering of extraterrestrial and extradimensional traffic, bizarre vehicles Charity had never really become used to seeing. Caleb openly stared.

They passed two parallel towers of light streaming a holographic, three-dimensional advert: two immense worlds overlapping, one with continents in white, one with continents in black. The thing loomed skyscraper high and stretched for a city block, the black and white worlds slowly revolving. Occasionally, in letters the size of a house, the words 'Welcome to Nox: A Dremchak City' would orbit the worlds in a mobius loop. Charity remembered the first time she saw the Nox logo--a childhood trip into 23B with The Colonel.

Unlike metropolitan centers on 23, there was no suburban sprawl into Nox proper. Nox was a commerce-trading zone, the bulk of its citizens claiming residence on other worlds and in other dimensions. Most of the Dremchak employees (standard origin-codes) traveled back to New Amsterdam at the end of their shifts, giant pandation lenses built at strategic points ferrying them back to 23. And of those the vast majority weren't even aware they were making daily band jumps. Several pandation lenses--lenses large enough to iron out glitches like nausea--had been constructed into subway tunnels, the stations designed to mirror those in New Amsterdam. The buildings where the corporate drones worked in Nox were windowless. From the outside they were polished black monoliths.

Dremchak employees were forced to adhere to rigorous company policy for their fat pay cheques, forced to concentrate strictly on their tasks, blinded to the larger picture, unaware of how they fit into that picture. Of course most had an inkling something lurked beneath the surface of their comprehension, but they dismissed it as the standard secret workings of a government-contracted, multi-national corporation. Those who did find out about 23B either found themselves heavily medicated in a Dremchak-funded insane asylum, or more likely, disappeared entirely...ignorance, as they say, is bliss.

The bi-dialmeter led the GTO over the concrete rings around the city, the gleaming canyons of charcoal steel providing a vista into a foreign cityscape. The Nox skyline was dominated by Dremchak Tower, a vast headstone standing in defiance of human description. Scattered about at its feet like toys were the enormous windowless boxes of its reality-blind employees. Charity felt a silent, soul-destroying insignificance gazing up at the monstrosity. The bi-dialmeter whispered music, and from the iron peak of the Dremchak Tower a pulse-sweep flashed daylight out over Nox.

Charity shook her head. Tulpa's location hadn't changed and he still wasn't underscanned.

"This guy is either nuts or an idiot. He's gotta know we're coming for him."

Caleb nodded, "Death by stupidity."

Her eyes followed the map on the screen in her hand, "Head toward D-District."

"You got it."

Charity chuckled to herself. 'D-District' was an abbreviated term for Dremchak's so-called 'Desolate District', an area of Nox dedicated toward pleasure: nightclubs, girls, drugs, gambling. You name it, you could find it. D-District was always easy to spot no matter where you were in the city. All you had to do was look up into the night and follow the Grays as their silver, saucer-shaped vehicles blinked into being overhead. Inevitably they raced there, all sensors set to fun. The Grays liked to indulge themselves, and there was no better place than here. Variant 23 was a forbidden zone for the Grays, but the little fuckers were wont to party hard, and when they were messed up they were liable to do anything. Thus D-District explained a plethora of UFO sightings throughout the ages.

Charity just about died laughing when The Colonel had explained that one, but it figured. The Truth was always some sort of cosmic joke, rarely pure and never simple. She shook her head. It was all so absurd. God had one seriously fucked up sense of humor.

A couple of turns and the surroundings morphed heavy-industrial--stacks belching black and masses of machinery. The street narrowed, walls of pipes and steel obscuring the sky. A refinery zone. Huge rounded tanks marked out a series of concentric city blocks, headlights catching luminescent Dremchak logos. The acrid smell of fuel and chemical hung denser than air, making them dizzy, lightheaded.

D-District had been crammed into a warehousing zone as the Dremchak Corporation tried to gloss over unpleasantries even in 23B. A coldly logical move. There was no sense in foreign dignitaries and business associates being subjected to fucked up Grays buzzing them in flying saucers or drunken riff-raff interrupting deal-making dinners. Best to keep things neat and tidy. Best to keep D-District marginalized out on the fringes with the refineries and toxic waste...like the slums back in New Amsterdam.

Multiple exhaust ports vented a thick, fetid smog. Without warning they were blind, unable to see beyond the front portion of the hood. Caleb took his boot off the accelerator, steering with one hand, holding the other over his mouth and nose. His eyes watered.

"Jesus, what the fuck is that?"

His voice came muffled through fingers.

Charity pulled her jacket around to cover her face. She blinked away tears, "Smells like a sulphur compound--some part of the refinery process."

It took the GTO an eternity of five minutes to idle through it. Eventually a bloody glow appeared, the smog dissipating into a cloying mist. Silhouetted forms ghosted into being; figures splashed in Day-Glo party paint felt their way along a wide corrugated pipe toward the red aura ahead.

D-District. Particularly intense wearing scarlet neon and dappled fog. Charity grooved on a persistent dancy thump from somewhere deep in the bowels of the place. Her eyes wandered: check out the nasty whores at the entrance, all latex and lacy coverings to hide the sores; check out the non-personas, furtive faceless watchers, floating mannequins in dusty fedoras and leather overcoats; check out the Grays, messed-up, cruising for whatever designer chem was trendy; check out the vibe--beckoning, digitech sin.

Welcome home, baby.

Even Tisi twitched.

Caleb grinned at her, "You love this don't you?"

Her eyes reflected neon, "Don't you?"

The GTO wound around the D-District perimeter, eventually pulling into a shadowed, soggy alley. Caleb slipped the transmission into park. Charity studied the bi-dialmeter. The alley ran along the grimy backside of a restaurant, the stench of decaying food emanating from a boxy metal bin suggesting the place was some sort of seafood joint. Still, it was better than the sulphur fog.

A single light, a flickering, wire-shrouded bulb, swayed gallows-style from a pole over the garbage bin. Weird little creatures like rats--but not rats--scampered around the bin. On every side dark concrete obliterated the sky. The dancy thump persisted, background noise now, blending with the pumping machinery and a general collage of the alien-urban soundscape.

Charity performed a final check on Tulpa's coordinates. Caleb lit a cigarette.

Two shapes moved in the misted shadows just beyond the headlights. Caleb perked up, "Hey...we're not alone back here."

Two non-personas hovered into the light, ghastly in full illumination. They approached on either side of the GTO, tiny colored dots blinking like mad above the breast pockets on their overcoats, scanners scanning, heads cocked, uncanny featureless faces thankfully shadowed beneath the brims of their hats.

Poker-faced, Charity rolled down her window, fishing in a jacket pocket, coming up with a heavy silver object similar to a dollar-sized coin. She held it out and sneered, "Dremchak Special Preserver 1013."

Both of the leathered specters stopped moving. The one on Charity's side scanned the proffered coin. She continued, her voice taking on a drawn out Valley-girl mimic, "So, like, why don't you fuck off?"

She smiled sarcastic sweet and batted her eyes.

Caleb stifled a chuckle.

The non-personas didn't get it. But the appearance of her badge and their subsequent scan was enough. They silently did exactly as Charity had suggested. She watched them go, two leather-clad ghouls momentarily in daylight, a pulse-sweep lightning flash providing a dreary, industrial backdrop.

Caleb's voice caused her to turn, "So why does Dremchak call you 'Preservers'? I mean, why not 'agents', or 'operatives'? Personally I think 'operative' sounds way cooler."

Charity grinned and gave him a knowing glance, "'Cos we preserve the reality flow, protecting it from decontraction and mixed up psychotics like the Blackened Hand."

She turned her attention back to the bi-dialmeter.

Tulpa hadn't moved.

"I don't believe this guy! Well shit--whatever. So much for the thrill of the hunt."

She clicked a couple of rings on the pandation lens.

Caleb watched, "Don't forget to fire a construct-dam. I don't wanna see The Colonel go ballistic again."

"Step ahead of ya."

The GTO crawled along, the pandation lens breathing fire-engine-red. The alley ended. Caleb angled the GTO onto one of D-District's main arteries, joining a steady stream of traffic cruising the neon strip. The lens went from red, to orange, to a brilliant yellow.

Charity took a peek out the window.

On the street a couple of Grays momentarily turned their heads to watch the ugly car vanish into a mass of convulsing, three-dimensional ribbons.

No one else paid much attention.

__________

End novel excerpt (Intro, prologue and chapters 1 - 3)

Asks the Dream by James C. Stewart is published by Paranoia Press and available through Amazon.