Dream Thief (16 page)
Authors: Stephen Lawhead
Tags: #sci-fi, #Syfy, #sf, #scifi, #Fiction, #Mars, #Terraforming, #Martians, #Space Travel, #Space Station, #Dreams, #Nightmares, #aliens, #Ancient civilizations, #Lawhead, #Stephenlawhead.com, #Sleep Research, #Alien Contact, #Stephen Lawhead, #Stephen R Lawhead, #Steve Lawhead
But there was still one more wrinkle to check: the bubble memory. As an added backup to the overall design of the project, Spence had recorded each scan on a bubble plate. This was the source of the numbers entered in the log book. The rising and falling motion of the scanner's red ink lines was recorded within the thin sealed cartridge whose magnetic bubbles were interpreted by the computer as a continuous series of numbers. For every place the needle rested on the paper tape, there was a corresponding number. By reading the numerical values the computer could reconstruct the wavy lines on the paper tape.
He opened the bubble file and pulled the cartridge for the two sessions. He popped one cartridge into each of the slots in the memory reader of the console and gave the display command.
Instantly the numbers on the plates began filling the screen. He quickly scanned the columns and his breath caught in his throat; the two scans were exactly alike!
He dropped into his swivel chair and propped his feet up on the edge of the table. He stared at the rows of identical numbers on the screen and then closed his eyes, retreating into thought.
Here at last was the corroborating evidence he had been seeking—only instead of helping to solve the mystery, it deepened it. He began to think through the steps of his experiment and how it was recorded in all its various stages to determine how a situation such as the one glimmering at him from the wafer screen could ever have happened.
Given the fact that it was impossible for any two scans to be perfectly alike—even the same man on the same night could not produce two identical scans—he was forced to reckon the evidence an error, either human or electronic.
Now, with the evidence of the bubble memory, the likelihood of an electronic error diminished to the point of infinite improbability. The cloud of doubt in which he had so far carried his investigation began to condense into suspicion:
someone
had been tampering with his records.
The longer he thought about it, the more suspicious he became until the unproven hypothesis hardened into certainty. Someone
had
been tampering with his materials. Assuming that much, the next question was
why?
Why would anyone want to sabotage his experiment?
No, that was the wrong approach. Not sabotage—alter. That seemed closer to the mark. Why would anyone want to alter the evidence? And why these particular scans, in this particular way?
To puzzle this latest wrinkle in this confusing development he got up from his chair and shoved it across the room. He began pacing with his arms folded across his chest and his head bent down as if he expected the answer to form itself upon the floor.
The answer, when it came, hit him like a closed fist between the eyes; it nearly knocked him down.
The simplicity of it staggered him—it was so obvious. The scans had not been altered; they had been duplicated. The scan of 5/15 was a copy of scan 3/20. That was why they were identical. What about the other pieces of the puzzle? The tape, the log book, the main computer memory? Those simply had been manufactured to fill in the gap.
Spence's mind raced ahead like lightning along a once-traveled path.
The morning of 5/15 had been the morning after his first blackout when he awakened in the sleep chamber. That much he remembered clearly. He remembered Tickler remarking that the scan had gone well that night. He also remembered that he had not actually seen the scan at that time; it was not until after breakfast that he examined it. Plenty of time for someone to manufacture the missing pieces and place them in position.
Was the scan of 3/20 somehow significant? Probably not. It had just been selected at random from among the first of the experiment's records. It was used to fill in the gaps in the bubble memory and the data base memory.
What about the paper tape and the log book? That was the easiest part. Those had simply been created wholesale. The figures in the log book were dummies and the paper ribbon probably bore the signature of someone else's brainwaves.
Spence, swept up in the heady whirl of intrigues real and imagined, staggered to his chair and collapsed as if he had just run a thousand meters. He had it—the answer, or the beginning of the answer—and knew that he had it. Proving it was another matter, but he was not interested at present in proving anything. He was happy just to know.
His elation proved short-lived.
Within moments the other question reasserted itself? Why? Why had these things been done?
Clearly he stood at the beginning of the maze. Where it would lead he did not know. But at last he felt strong enough to face whatever he might find.
On an impulse he turned and punched a code into the ComCen panel. There was someone he had to see before another moment passed.
W
HEN TICKLER LEFT THE
lab he did not go directly to his quarters across the corridor from the lab. Instead he put his head down and scurried as fast as his feet would take him to the main axial and then took a lift tube to the eighth and topmost level of the station. He rode the tram along the inner ring radial until the track dead-ended at a blank white wall. Next to a large pressure port in the wall a large sign painted in orange letters read:
DANGER!
CONSTRUCTION AREA
PRESSURE SUIT REQUIRED
AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY!
Adjacent to the port hung a row of baggy pressure suits limp in their racks like deflated men. Tickler stepped across the trafficway and wormed his way into one of the bulky suits and disengaged it from the rack. He then punched a code into the access plate of the portal and stepped quickly through as soon as the panel slid open wide enough to admit him.
He waited inside the small air lock for the pressure to equalize and then popped the valve. He emerged from the little room into the breathtaking blackness of space. He stood blinking for a moment, looking up into the expanse above him at the stars shining steadily down with their icy light.
Bare spars, like the ribs of an ancient sailing vessel, stuck up out of the darkness. Some of these were hung with rows of red lights to mark portions of the station now under construction. Over the rim of the station's smooth flank floated a work platform loaded with sheets of metal and other materials, all secured beneath steel net to keep them from floating into space. Several robotrucks hovered nearby, tethered to the platform with steel cable.
Not a workman could be seen at any of the several sites, so Tickler proceeded toward a huge cylindrical projection standing at the midpoint of the construction area. Across the top quarter of the cylinder a diagonal band of light, lengthening as the station rotated toward the sun, slashed into the darkness. Ordinarily the whole area would be ablaze with floodlights, but the shift was over and a new one would not come on for a few hours. Tickler had the site all to himself. Still, he wasted no time, but moved ahead quickly and carefully, his magnetic boots clinking over the honeycombed, temporary trafficways set up like scaffolds all around the area. He headed for the cylinder.
When he reached it, he paused only long enough for the portal to slide open to admit him. Once inside and through the air lock he hung up his pressure suit on the rack next to another, already waiting there, and proceeded. A lift tube carried him into the upper section of the silo, and when the panel slid open he stepped into a bare apartment of immense size. At one end a light shone in a pool on the floor. Within the pool two figures waited. One of the figures resembled an egg.
“You are late!” snapped the egg as Tickler approached.
“I came as quickly as I could,” explained the breathless Tickler as the egg slowly revolved to display the wizened features of Hocking. “He kept me working all shift. I couldn't very well ask him to excuse me without arousing suspicion, and—”
Hocking grimaced and cut off the excuse. “I have been in contact with Ortu. He is not pleased with the progress we are making. I have taken the blame for our failure upon myself.”
“Failure?” Tickler asked, as if he had never heard the word before. He looked to the other figure standing to one side of Hocking's pneumochair. The young man in a cadet's jumpsuit stared back dully.
“I expect,” continued Hocking, speaking slow and crisply, “that you and Kurt will find a way to make this up to me. Well?” The eyes flashed from their sunken depths.
Tickler spread his hands. “We have done all you have required of us. I fail to see how we could have anticipated the setbacks arising from the subject's stubbornness.”
“I'm not talking about that,” cooed the skeletal Hocking. “I am talking about the breakdown in monitoring the subject's every move. Between the two of you, he should never be out of your sight for a moment. Do you know where he is right now?”
“Why, yes. He's in the lab.”
“Oh? Do you know this for a fact? Could he not have left the lab as soon as you did? Could he not, in fact, have followed you here?”
Tickler looked worried. He cast a quick glance behind him to see if Spence had indeed followed him to Hocking's secret chambers.
“See!” Hocking shouted. “You do
not
know! Reston has consistently moved about the station at will, and yet I have stressed time and again how necessary it is to keep him under surveillance during the induction period. It is only by the merest chance that he is still with us!”
Tickler did not speak; he gazed sullenly at the floor.
“But I am raking over old ground. Suffice it to say that if you cannot watch him more closely than you are at present, I will find someone who
can
…” He allowed the threat to trail off menacingly.
“Now, then,” he continued, “I have been thinking. By this time tomorrow we must have everything prepared to try another induction. Reston is ripe for it now, I can feel it. I have given him additional image cues while in dream state. We will increase the psychomotor quotient of the
tanti
this time—we have, I believe, underestimated our subject's mental strength and willpower. That should not hinder us again, however.”
“If it does not kill him,” muttered Tickler darkly.
“I heard you perfectly. Tickler. You might as well speak up. I am willing to risk killing him, yes. I'd prefer it to allowing him to slip away again. We cannot suffer that to happen. That is why I want one of you to be stationed with him when the induction takes place.”
“No!” Both men gasped at once and looked apprehensively at one another.
“You idiots! The projection will not harm you—it is not tuned to your brainwave patterns. I want you there to keep an eye on him and to prevent him from escaping again.”
“I don't know if it will be that easy. He was acting very strangely today. I think he may suspect something.”
“What can he suspect?” Hocking glared at his hirelings. “Answer me! Unless you have been careless again, I cannot see how he can suspect anything.”
“Maybe, but I was with him today. I tell you he does.”
Hocking dismissed the warning with an impatient jerk of his head. “What if he does suspect something? By tomorrow at this time it won't matter what our brilliant young friend suspects. It will be too late! He will be ours!”
THE SUN SHIELDS WERE
nearly closed when Spence stepped into the garden. The slanting bands of golden light falling through the trees resembled a kind of tropical aurora which flushed everything with heightened color. This was Spence's favorite time to come here—just before the shields closed and the garden received its nocturnal rest.
He hurried along to the center of the garden and the benches on the greensward. As he had hoped, the benches were empty; not another soul was to be seen anywhere. He settled himself on the last bench to wait.
The only thing missing is mosquitoes,
thought Spence as he listened to the racking squawks of one of Central Park's half-dozen macaws.
He closed his eyes and breathed the humid air deep into his lungs, tilting his head back to rest on the bench. He was still in this attitude, eyes closed, head thrown back, when Ari found him.
“I
know
I haven't kept you waiting
that
long!” she said. “How dare you pretend to sleep.”
Spence's head snapped upright as his eyes flew open. He jumped to his feet. “I didn't hear you come up.” He looked at her and stood uncertainly, gazing intently at her fair face, even lovelier in the soft golden light of the garden. He tried to read her feelings in her eyes, but could not.
“Ari,” he said, after an awkward moment, “thanks for coming. After what I did you had every right to refuse, and I wouldn't have blamed you.”
She did not make the moment easier for him, but stood there looking at him implacably.
“I
am
sorry. I… I treated you terribly.” His eyes sought hers and his voice became hushed. “I've never asked another person to forgive me, but I'm asking you now. Please, forgive me.”
The smile that transformed her face came like the dawn to his long, dark night of despair. All the way to the garden he had tortured himself with six kinds of fear and doubt as to the outcome of their meeting. Her voice over the ComCen speaker had been icily polite, giving away nothing that he could use to bolster his sinking ego. But her smile banished all his dark thoughts.
“Oh, Spence, I've been so worried about you. Furious, too, mind you. But more worried than mad.”
“I acted like an ass. Running out of the cafe that way—I don't know what I was thinking of. I'm sorry …”
“You're forgiven. Now, what is so urgent and secret?”
He drew her to the bench and sat her down. He looked around him as if he expected spies to be lurking in the shrubbery. She could see that his face was flushed with excitement. His slightly wild-eyed look was creeping over him again. She bit her lip. “What is it, Spencer?”
“I have proof that I'm not going crazy.”
Y
OU'RE GOING TO HAVE
to trust somebody." Ari's voice was firm. “You can't go it alone.”
They were sitting in her father's reading room. A plate of sandwiches sat untouched on the low table in front of them. Spence stared at the walled ranks of books as if he might find a title among them that would tell him what to say next.
“I need time to sort this out,” he said at length. “There are too many pieces missing.”
“I don't like it, Spence—this running away. It isn't safe.”
He swung around to peer at her with a puzzled look. “It'll be all right,” he said lamely. “I need to get away from here for a while, that's all.”
“What makes you think that if someone is tampering with your experiment they would stop there? They could hurt you, Spence. For whatever reason, you could get hurt very badly.”
He had no answer for that. The same thing had crossed his mind many times in the last few hours. “Ari, all I know is that if I
stay
I will be hurt. I've got to go someplace out of reach to figure this thing out.”
There was a finality in his tone that did not invite further discussion. Ari sat with her hands in her lap, legs drawn up beneath her. She studied her clasped hands and said, “I'll miss you.”
He smiled. “I'll miss you, too. Believe me, if I thought there was another way, I'd take it.” He drew a deep breath. “I won't be gone long; you'll see. I'll be back in no time at all.”
“I don't call three-and-a-half months no time at all.” She colored slightly and admitted, “I was just getting used to having you around.”
“We'll pick up right where we left off, I promise.” He looked at her steadily and said, “If I stayed, you wouldn't want me around. It would be more of the same. Worse maybe.”
“You're probably right. Perhaps it is better this way.” She turned her head away quickly. He moved closer and touched her shoulder tentatively.
“Are you crying?”
“No!” she sniffed. “I'm allergic to good-byes.”
Spence put his hand to her chin and turned her face toward him. A moist trail glistened on her cheek where a tear had fallen. He wiped away the spot and bent his head and kissed her very gently.
“That's for missing me,” he said shyly.
Ari smiled and sniffed, rubbing the heel of her hand across her eyes. “The secret's out now, isn't it?” She looked at him again and he felt his insides turning to warm jelly. “Be very careful, Spencer. Don't let anything happen to you.”
“I won't…,” he managed to croak.
“Spence, I will pray for you every day.” She folded her hands unconsciously. “I have been praying for you ever since we met.”
He felt as if he had just stepped into a warm shower. His skin tingled with a strange excitement and his heart tugged within him. He wished that he could say that he would pray for her, too. But he knew that such a statement would ring false. It would cheapen her sincere belief. And though Spence himself had no such beliefs, he did not see any good reason to trample on hers.
“Thank you, Ari,” he said at last. “No one has ever said that to me before.”
They sat for a long time in silence. Finally, he rose uneasily to his feet and said, “I guess I'd better go. I've a lot to do if I'm going to leave tomorrow night.”
“Am I going to see you before you go?”
“I hope so. I'll come by here before I head down to the docking bay. Now you're sure—”
“Yes, you're cleared. And no one outside of Captain Kalnikov knows you're going.”
“Good.”
“But Spence, shouldn't you tell
somebody?
Someone should know.”
“You know. Everyone else will find out after I'm gone.”
Ari sighed. “All right, if that's the way you want it.”
They moved to the portal and Spence pressed the access plate. “I'll see you tomorrow,” he said, ducking quickly outside.
“Good night. Spencer.” Ari waved. He waved back and the closing panel broke the spell between them.
He hurried back to his quarters feeling like a cat burglar returning after a night's work. A thousand details had to be attended to before he climbed aboard the transport headed for
Mars; between now and then he had precious little time to spare. He would need to work through the night.
HE HAD JUST CLOSED
the door to the vidphone booth at ComCen when the call came through. He sat down and leaned into the camera slightly, resting his elbows on the shelf before him. The flat, square screen flickered to life in quick bursts of blue light. He smiled when the red light above the screen came on.
“Spence, it's Kate. Are you surprised to see me?”
He had not expected to see his sister, and for a few seconds could only stare at the image on the screen. In fact, he had imagined so many emergencies which might have provoked the call that he was a little disappointed to see her.
“Your sister, Kate—remember?” She smiled nervously.
“Kate, are you all right? Is everything all right?”
“I know I should have given you more warning. Yes, everything's fine. No emergencies. You sound angry.”
“It's just that it's in the middle of the night here—”
“I'm sorry. I forgot. It's three o'clock in the afternoon down here.”
Spence forced himself to smile in answer to her anxious look. “Don't worry about it. I don't mind. I wasn't sleeping anyway. When ComCen said I had a call coming through, I assumed something terrible had happened to Dad or one of the boys … you know.”
“Everyone's fine, Spence. I just wanted to talk to you—I hope I'm not interrupting one of your experiments …”
“No, no; I'm not working tonight.”
“Well, I feel so awkward. I mean, just think, you're a million miles out in space and here I am talking to you like you were across town or something.”
“Wait 'til you get the bill. You won't think I was all that close then.” He paused, studying her face on the screen. Though only two years older then he was, Kate had always been the wise, benevolent elder sister. He saw her now, a mother of two growing boys, looking more than ever like a matron. She bore little resemblance to the picture of her he carried around in his head.
“You look tired, Spence. Are you feeling all right?” she was saying.
“I'm fine. I've been working a little too hard, that's all.”
“Dad said you'd had an accident.”
“It was nothing. I bumped my head.”
The conversation seemed to dry up at that point. Kate licked her lips. She was trying to bridge the gap of all those miles by staring very hard into the vidphone screen. Spence realized it was not a separation of miles but of life that she was trying to cross. She was trying to imagine his life in that place. Clearly, it was beyond her.
“Why did you call, Kate?” he asked softly.
“Are you angry? Don't be angry, Spence. You'll think it's silly—”
“I won't think it's silly, and I'm not angry. Believe me. Now go ahead and tell me.”
She appeared as if she were about to confess a scarlet sin. “Spence, Tuesday's Dad's birthday.”
A pang of guilt arrowed through him. He did not feel guilty for forgetting his father's birthday; he had done that often over the years. He felt guilty because the event meant nothing to him. He did not care, and Kate's reminder made him face the fact that other sons
did
remember; they did care.
“I'm sorry,” he said flatly. “I forgot.”
“That's not why I called. Not to remind you. Well, yes it is, but not how you think. Dad says that you told him you're going on some research trip.”
“I told him that, yes. I remember.”
“Anyway, he's got it in his head that he's never going to see you again. You know how he gets sometimes. No amount of talking will convince him. He says he's sure something terrible is going to happen to you on that trip—he doesn't even know where you're going—and that he'll never see you again.”
Spence could see his father sitting in his faded red chair mumbling and fretting over his son's imagined demise. It was one of the stock images of Spence's childhood and he hated it.
“What do you want me to do, Kate?” he asked, wishing that his mother was still alive. At least she had been able to soothe his father's irrational fears; she had been the cooling balm poured out upon the fevered brow of her husband.
She answered hesitantly. “It would be nice if you would call him and wish him happy birthday. That way he could see you and hear your voice. It might convince him that you're still okay, and that you're thinking about him.”
“I'd love to do that, Kate, but I can't. I'll be on my way to Mars by then. I'm leaving tomorrow night and I won't be back for some time.” He did not feel like rehearsing the details of his trip with her.
“Mars! Really, Spencer? That's fantastic. Wait until I tell the boys—they'll be so thrilled.” Her enthusiasm died almost at once. “But what about Dad?”
“I'm sorry. He'll just have to understand.”
“But isn't there
something
you could do, Spence? Anything?”
“I could record a call and have it sent then. I could also send a souvenir of the station—he might like that.”
“Would you? It would make him so happy. I'm sure whatever you could send would be fine. It isn't the gift, it's the thought that counts.”
But it was Kate's thought—and that was the whole point. “I'll get something on the next shuttle.”
“Just send it to me. We're having a little family party for him on Tuesday night. I'll take care of everything.”
“Fine. You'll be notified about the call. I'll make sure they give you plenty of time to get to the base.”
There was a strained pause. “Well, Spence, I'd better go. Take care of yourself, how. And call when you get back. I know two boys who will want to hear their Uncle Spence tell 'em all about it.”
“I'll do that, Kate. Goodbye.”
“Goodbye, Spence.”
The screen went dark. He sat for a moment gazing into the flat gray square. Then he stood stiffly and left the booth, feeling very hollow and alone, as if every liquid gram of compassion had been wrung out of him in the pitiful effort of conversation with one of his family members.
He wandered back to his quarters, gray-faced and eyes burning from the exhaustion of his long day. He stopped briefly at the Visitor's Center to browse among various souvenirs and memorabilia offered as mementos of a trip to Gotham. He selected a small, cast aluminum replica of the space station which was mounted on a grayish stone—part of an asteroid or a moon rock—and designed undoubtedly to be used as a paperweight.