Impossible Places (18 page)

Halfway through he discovered that he could see the other side, the true Outside. Not the bastard mirage that lay between the Home and this hitherto unsuspected obstacle. It was lush with dense vegetation, unrecognizable flora blanketing hilly terrain. It drew him like a half-remembered dream. Ancient emotions rose up unexpectedly inside him. He knew then that no matter what the cost he had to reach that place, had to finish what he’d started. Not just for himself, but for all the smug, selfsatisfied, ignorant people he’d left behind.

The emotions that filled him brought with them a power and determination he’d never known he possessed. Confidence replaced fear.

It was a mistake.

Too soon by half to celebrate success. He’d failed to reckon with the insidious subtlety of the barrier’s designers.

As he rushed toward his goal, the river of wind and color and destruction abruptly and without warning reversed direction. It was almost as if it had been waiting for him to relax before springing the final trap.

Sensing the mistake he’d made, he threw himself forward at the last possible instant. No one but Lach’an could have reacted so quickly. Nonetheless, he wasn’t quite fast enough.

The impact was terrible.

He felt himself flying through the air, the wind completely knocked out of him. Saw the ground coming up to meet him and hit hard. Pain shot up his right leg.

Get up, something inside him screamed. Get up before the false peace you’re sliding into claims you completely. Get up or die!

Somehow he managed to gather his feet beneath him and rise. All around him the barrier surged and ebbed threateningly. He knew that if he failed to move, and move quickly, it would finish him any second. Not running effectively anymore, he was reduced to staggering on, stumbling weakly in the direction of the green grail that lay somewhere just ahead. Whereas previously he had put his faith in good judgment and conditioning, he trusted now to whatever luck remained to him.

Several times death missed him by inches, though in the nimbus of pain that ballooned from his injured leg he hardly noticed its grazing caress. He found that his outraged foot would accept some weight. The leg wasn’t broken, then. Just painfully sprained. The rest of his body was a single, shaken, mobile bruise, and that from the most glancing blow the barrier could mete out. If it struck him with its full force he doubted he would even feel it. The Outside was close now, so close. He could smell it.

As he staggered onward, a single immense blur bore down on him. He tried one last time to sprint, but events inside the barrier occurred too fast for thought. It was obvious that he wasn’t going to make it, that his injured leg would allow him neither to advance nor retreat in time. All he could do was watch the final seconds of his life tick away. Rather than peace or even pain, frustration filled him.

A great roaring rattled his skull as darkness descended. He felt himself being lifted off the ground as the barrier swallowed him completely, spinning him in tight circles preparatory to tearing him apart and spitting him out. He imagined himself becoming part of the irresistible flow, fragments of Lach’an rushing past at high speed to assault the next individual foolish enough to take up the challenge.

And then it was over, as quickly as it had struck.

He lay there breathing hard, several dozen yards from where he’d been engulfed. It took him a long moment to realize that instead of striking him as it had the razor-tooth, the deadly blur had passed over him, the vacuum created by its passage whipping him along before depositing him in its wake. He was further battered, but still alive and intact. A second such encounter would surely destroy him, mentally if not otherwise.

Not pausing to wonder if any strength remained to him, he fought his way onto his feet and lurched deliberately onward, aching too much to think.

Something solid blocked his path. He blinked, studied it, and realized it was a low containment wall. It marked the far side of the barrier. Uttering a disbelieving cry, he gathered himself and jumped, nearly tumbling back into the lethal slipstream, fighting to keep his balance. Behind him, too close, the barrier thundered.

It no longer mattered. He was through, across, beyond! From somewhere deep inside his soul he found enough energy to emit a cackle of triumph.

Safe now, he allowed himself to turn and regard the Servants still standing on the barrier’s far side. Their faces reflected the confusion they felt. They simply did not understand. Nor did they make any move to follow. Their respect for the barrier equaled his own, but their courage did not. He was alone now, as alone as one could be in the true Outside. What dangers lay before him, what mysteries and threats and revelations, he could not imagine, any more than he could define the emotions that raced through him.

Behind lay the security of the Home. Somehow that no longer mattered. Nothing mattered except that he’d accomplished what he’d set out to do. And he’d done the great thing without really stopping to analyze why it was so important that he do it. He knew only that everything felt right.

His leg throbbed. He was going to need food soon, and a place to rest while he recuperated from his injuries. With luck and persistence, he would find both. Without another backward glance, he turned and limped off into the silently beckoning woods.

On the other side of the barrier the Servants watched until he vanished among the trees. Only then did the larger of the pair turn to his companion to voice the confusion he felt.

“Didn’t think he was gonna make it. No way, no how. Damnedest thing I ever saw.”

“Yeah.” The deeper voice of his stocky companion reflected equal puzzlement, nor could he offer any further insight into what had just taken place. “I wonder why he wanted to get to the other side of the road, anyway?”

THE KINDNESS OF STRANGERS

Unless the filmmakers have a particular axe to grind
(and I’m not talking about
Braveheart
), all too many
movies tend to feature the same kinds of people in all-too-forgettable roles. When was the last time you saw an
Asian-American male in a major role that didn’t involve
him kicking or shooting the bejeezus out of somebody?
(Okay,
Fargo
—but it was a bit part.) How about an
Arab-American in a nonterrorist part?

Where it should be better, science fiction is often
worse. I hate idealized heroes and heroines. That’s the
movies, of course. Always have been, probably always
will be. But SF is, and should be, different. Fortunately,
editors are more receptive than producers to what
should be their artistic responsibility.

I know guys like this . . .

Harry Sandusky wheeled himself out the door of the sun-baked trailer (
mobile home
being far too grand a designation for the place) and down the metal ramp that pointed toward the abandoned gas station. Inside the trailer, the alarm had gone off, signifying the arrival of that rare and precious commodity, a customer. Despite the minimal entrance charge of one dollar per person, not many travelers stopped at the old station on State Route 163 to view Harry’s minimuseum of pickled rattlers, scavenged hubcaps, rusting license plates, Lucite-embedded tarantula paperweights, lovingly tended succulents, and other engaging detritus of the desert. But enough did to supplement his Social Security and SSI without drawing the attention of the IRS or any other avaricious government acronyms.

The visitor was tall, in his early thirties, and well-dressed. Overdressed for the high Nevada desert, but not for Reno or Carson City, both of which lay a modest distance yet worlds away to the west. Gamblers sometimes came Harry’s way, slumming just long enough to remind themselves how badly they missed room service and air-conditioning. They always had the dollar price of admission. Those that did not, didn’t come this way.

The man smiled tolerantly as the bearded occupant of the wheelchair rolled up. “Morning. I was just passing through.”

“What else would anyone be doing out here?” Harry cackled. “You’re welcome to have a look around. Admission’s one dollar.” He squinted up at the supercilious visitor. “Guided tour’s another dollar.”

“Name’s Rick Boyes.” Already bored, the visitor shrugged indifferently. “Guess I’ll spring for the guided tour. I’m trying to kill a morning.”

“Gonna make me an accessory to murder, eh?” Tilting back slightly, Harry spun the wheelchair on its axis. “Follow me. But not too close. I brake for critters.”

Looking suddenly uncomfortable, the visitor glanced down at his feet, not neglecting to peer behind him. “Your sign didn’t say anything about live exhibits.”

“Not exhibits.” Harry grinned. “Neighbors. There’s not much living around here that can’t get over, under, or through a chicken-wire fence.”

Boyes looked on politely as Harry proceeded to enumerate the details and delights of his modest collection. “That snake in that big jar over there, that’s the biggest rattler I’ve ever had on the property,” he would declaim. “And that over there is a coyote skull. I’d like to have a whole skeleton, and God knows there’s plenty of the critters around, but coyotes don’t like to kick off in accessible places, and until they build one of these grocery carts with tracks instead of wheels, I’m kind of limited in my roaming.”

The visitor nodded somberly, eying the chair. “ ’Nam?” Harry shook his head. “Bosnia. Land mine. Christ, how I hated those little suckers. Didn’t care who they killed or maimed. Our side, their side, little kids, some poor hungry sorry-ass sheep. Step on the wrong spot and your ass goes ka-boom. Only in my case, it was only from the ass down.”

“I’m sorry,” the visitor offered politely.

“Sorry, shit.” Harry spun the chair and pushed off in the direction of the old garage that he had renovated to hold his indoor exhibits.

They were coming up on his favorite part. The part that invariably startled and amazed his visitors. While some were gratified by the sight, and some were indifferent to it, and not a few were openly sarcastic about the limited appeal of his museum, there was nary a one who failed to be impressed by the gadget in the box. He called it a gadget because he had to call it something and he had no idea what it was. But then, neither did anyone else.

“You strike me as a smart guy,” he told Boyes as the visitor trailed along behind him. “Let’s see if you can tell me what this is.” So saying, he parted the wooden doors to the homemade display cabinet. Revealed within on its improvised stone pedestal was the gadget.

The foot-high, silvery cone had an integral curl at the top, like a just-dispensed soft ice cream cone. Through this curl and around the cone’s grainy, patterned surface darted a thumb-sized cylinder of light. Bright yellow, two inches long, it was not constrained by glass or any other visible mechanism. Its cone-orbiting path appeared random, sometimes circling the base, sometimes the crest, occasionally passing through the loop of the small curl at the top. The mechanism was absolutely silent, emitting not a whir, not a hum, not an isolated electronic buzz.

Appropriately intrigued, Boyes leaned close and stared at the simple, orbiting light. “You’re right. This is very interesting. No, extremely interesting.”

Harry tried not to grin. It was a reaction he’d witnessed many times before. “Worth a buck?”

Ignoring Harry’s request for a fiduciary evaluation of the object’s worth, his visitor inquired sharply, “What is it?”

“Beats the hell out of me. I call it the gadget, because that’s what it looks like.” He wheeled himself forward. “Watch this.”

Extending his right arm, he timed his reach so that his fingers would make contact with the swirling light as it swung around the base of the cone. Upon contact, a second cylinder of orbiting light appeared, bright red this time. Repeating the gesture produced a third orbiter, this one lime green. The lights not only circled the cone, they passed through one another, changing colors whenever they briefly merged. Soon Harry had half a dozen lights darting like overgrown fireflies around the cone and through each other. They gave off no heat and no sound. When Harry made a show of blocking their passage with his hand, they went over or around his outthrust fingers, seemingly of their own volition.

After a while, the newly conjured lights winked away one by one, leaving only the original yellow cylinder steadily orbiting its silvery cone.

Standing next to the wheelchair, Boyes was staring, his eyes just a little wider than normal. “What powers it?”

Harry shrugged. “Batteries, I guess. Though I’m damned if I can figure out where they go in. I haven’t been able to find the compartment lid. Maybe you need a special key to get inside it. Don’t really care, so long as it keeps going.”

“How long has it been running like this?”

“Ever since I found it. Round the clock, twenty-four hours a day.” He grunted softly. “Damn good batteries.”

“You found this?” With undisguised reluctance, Boyes tore his gaze away from the cone. “Where?”

This was the best part, Harry knew. His favorite part. He spoke slowly, savoring every word. “It fell out of a flying saucer.” He pointed eastward, toward the Saltlick Mountains. “I was camping, out looking for turquoise and jasper, and this big metal disc about the size of a Learjet popped right out of an arroyo not a hundred yards from where I was parked. Wobbled a little, like a fawn taking its first steps, and then pow-bam-goodbyema’am it went straight up out of sight. But while it was hanging there, doing that little wobble, the gadget fell out.”

He waited, anticipating the usual hoots of derision, the sarcastic comments, the smarmy sideways glances. But Boyes surprised him. The visitor’s voice remained calm, his attitude respectful.

“I don’t know how it’s generating those lights, and I’ve never seen metal like that. If it is metal. And you say it’s been running ever since you found it.”

Harry nodded. “That’s right. Nonstop. Like I said: good batteries.”

“Or something. That trick you did with your hand. Do the lights always appear in the same order, or can you bring up different colors at different times?”

“Sure can.” Harry proceeded to demonstrate. “See? It’s all in where you put your fingers.”

After the second light display had gone the way of the first, Boyes turned to the man in the chair and announced calmly, “I’d like to purchase the gadget from you.”

Harry smiled knowingly. It wasn’t the first time someone had tried to buy the gadget from him. “Sorry. It’s not for sale. It’s the one real out-of-the-ordinary item in my collection. If I sold it, I really wouldn’t have anything special to show people. I’d lose my big draw.”

“Yeah, I can see how many customers it draws. But I don’t want you to think I don’t understand,” Boyes told him. “I will sign a proper notarized bill of sale and give you five thousand dollars on deposit. I’d like to have some tests run on the gadget. If they come out the way I’m hoping they will, I will then pay you a balance due of one hundred thousand dollars.”

Well,
Harry mused. This was a new one. “I’ll be damned. You believe my story, don’t you? You’re the first one.”

“I don’t believe your story. Not yet. That’s why I want to have tests run.” Boyes nodded in the direction of the gadget. “But I believe in what I can see with my own eyes strongly enough to make the offer, and give you the deposit.”

“A check, I suppose.” Harry found himself stalling for time. His visitor’s offer, coupled with his apparent earnestness, had thrown him off stride.

Boyes nodded toward his car. “I had a good week in Reno. I have twenty-two thousand four hundred dollars and change in a money bag in a hidden compartment in the trunk of my Cadillac. Five down, one hundred thousand on successful completion of tests. I can provide you with telephone numbers, credit card numbers, dozens of personal references. I’m a pretty successful guy, and I can deliver on what I promise.” He leaned forward solicitously. “What do you say?”

“If you think the gadget is worth a hundred grand, that says to me maybe it’s worth two hundred grand.” Harry grinned up at his visitor, showing missing teeth.

Boyes’s return smile was forced. “Like someone’s going to come along tomorrow and offer you more.”

“Might,” Harry declared. “Or maybe I’ll get a hold of a professor or two at the college over in Reno and have them run a few tests for me.”

“That’s hardly fair. I’m the one who suggested that course of action.”

“Fuck ‘fair.’ ” Harry took a swipe at the place where his legs should have been. “Don’t talk to me about ‘fair.’ ”

“All right.” His visitor took a deep breath. “Ten thousand now, two hundred thousand if the tests prove out.”

This time Harry had to think a little longer, and his reply came harder. “Man, the more you look at it like the way you’re looking, the more I think maybe I’d better have this checked out on my own.”

“They’ll take it away from you,” Boyes warned him. “You’re a nobody, you have no clout, and if you let others get a hand on it, they’ll steal it right out from under you. The government, some big corporation. They’ll screw you out of your rights of ownership, and nobody will give a damn.”

“Let ’em try. I’ll take the story to the media.”

Boyes chuckled, and the sarcasm that heretofore had been absent from his voice materialized in his laugh. “And they’ll all believe you, right? Even if you can get some tabloid to print your story, and find a lawyer to take your case on contingency, whoever rips you off will tie your claim up in court until you’re dead or don’t care anymore. Then there’s the little matter of taxes. I’ll give you cash. Why not accept my honest, straight-up offer now? Two hundred grand would buy you a lot of creature comforts. New handicapped-equipped van, all kinds of amenities for that dump you’re living in, trips, live-in help if you wanted it—what do you say?”

“If it’s worth ten grand to you on the spot and two hundred thousand later, it might be worth my while to try and find another legitimate buyer. If I could get it auctioned, nobody could steal my claim to ownership.”

His visitor stepped back. “You think too much. That’s how people lose in the casinos. Doesn’t matter whether its craps, or baccarat, or keno. They all start thinking too much. You have to be quick enough to react instinctively.” Turning, he started for the door. “Think about my offer, Harry. But don’t think about it too much. I’m going to give you some time to think, and then I’ll be back.”

As soon as he heard the Caddy fire up and spit gravel, Harry wheeled himself out onto the porch of the old gas station. His visitor had left in a hurry, accelerating in the direction of the snowcapped Sierras and the civilization they represented far faster than was necessary.

Who could he call on for help? The nearest sheriff’s deputy was based in Palo Verde, thirty-five miles to the south, and the chances of getting him to come out to the place on a supposition and a suspicion were about as good as Harry holding the winning ticket in the next lotto. A natural loner in a lone place, there wasn’t really anyone he could call to come keep him company while he waited to see if his visitor made good on his promise to return.

He worried about it, because he hadn’t liked the look in Boyes’s eyes when he’d departed, hadn’t liked the cant of his jaw or the hostility implicit in his posture. None of it boded well. Harry had a couple of guns, but he didn’t fool himself about any imagined ability to repel boarders.

He could take the gadget, climb in the old station wagon, and drive into town—and do what? Sit in his car until something happened? Until Boyes found him? He had no doubt that anyone who could make a legitimate offer of two hundred thousand dollars for the gadget could find him. He had no money to run with, and even if he did, where would he run to? Metaphorically, of course, he thought bitterly.