In Dark Corners (38 page)

He opened his eyes, revived from his dazed state by the mist washing his face. His head cleared; and, looking at the medcenter entry, he realized that, once again he was back in The-City-At-The-End-Of-Time. He took a deep breath and let it trickle out slowly, searching his memory for some fragment of his last trip…

Nothing, not even a name.

He frowned. He could barely recall his own specifics: Rod Thomas, twenty-five-year-old actor in 1982…three bit part credits on soaps…behind two months on his rent of a studio apartment near Northridge State…and Sharon. He swallowed, trying to ease the tightness in his chest. His life was nothing to brag about…except it was his. He looked ahead, hoping this would be the trip back to L.A.

Rod started to walk, cocking his head, listening to his heels click against the chromium surface of the street, the sharp sounds rebounding in the fog. He followed his own footsteps, looking for the Sign: The curled bluesnake, tail in mouth. There he would find Oberon, his tour guide.

Silently, a cloaked inhabitant of the City floated by, as if riding the crest of a misty swirl. Rod watched the curious figure disappear into the fog. A man? Or a creature from another world? And this city? Oberon, in his vague manner, had said the inhabitants were men of the far future, living in a domed habitat on a transformed Earth. Of course they differed from twentieth-century man—they had lost the ability to emote, but they had gained a few skills. Hah! Like flying? And magic? And sending him back to…to all kinds of places he couldn't remember. Rod shivered; he didn't believe Oberon's vague explanations…

Ah, the Sign. The blurred circle of neon-blue shimmered in the mist. As he moved closer to the symbol, he felt a tingle of excitement. This might be the time.

The luminous sign hung over a gate in a white picket fence. On the other side of the gate, a path of flat stones led to a whitewashed, thatched-roof hut. A scene from a British Isles postcard—an obvious anachronism in the City. But he'd come to expect the unusual in this place. His excitement increased as he approached the quaint cottage.

At the door, Rod hesitated for a moment. Then he raised his hand to knock…

Untouched, the door swung inward.

He took a cautious step inside.

A white-cloaked figure, face hidden by a cowl, sat at a small, wooden table, facing an empty chair. A thick candle flickered in an open bowl, making shadows dance on the bare walls of the room. The hooded figure gestured for Rod to sit in the chair.

He sat down, glancing at the heavily shadowed face. The figure's eyes glittered in the flickering candlelight like icy-blue stars in a wintry sky. Rod dropped his gaze to the table top, to the figure's delicate, albino skin stretching taunt across fine bones, veins defined sharply like blue rivers detailed on a map. Cold, lifeless. A man's hands?

Rod looked up and asked, "Oberon?"

The hooded figure nodded.

Rod felt his unease increasing. It seemed that everything was designed to keep him off balance…on edge.

Five card-shaped pieces of opaque glass appeared suddenly in Oberon's pale hands. The slender fingers deftly shuffled the shapes like a deck of cards. "Are you ready for the game, Sensitive?" whispered the cloaked figure in a low rasp.

Inwardly, Rod flinched. Oberon's voice always startled him, raising goosebumps at the nape of his neck, reminding him of the dry whir of a rattler. He suppressed a shudder.

Oberon whispered, "The game this time is five card stud. Usual stakes…If I win, I select the next trip; if you win, you return to your time. But, first, we must prevue the trips…"

Oberon leaned forward and pressed a disc to Rod's forehead.

"…And, at the same time we determine the value of your cards."

Five card stud! A game Rod knew. He felt a surge of confidence. Maybe this would be his time. For a second he closed his eyes, trying to slow his pulse. The games were a hook: His potential ticket home. But for Oberon they were something more. Each game was structured to prevue several trips; and the disc picked up his emotional responses to the prevues. Rod blinked.

Nodding his understanding, Rod stared at the featureless pieces of glass. Prevues from The-City-At-The-End-Of-Time.

Oberon placed the first glass card in the center of the wooden table. Rod leaned forward. For a moment the opacity deepened, then it cleared, the card resembling a miniature window. A scene materialized in the frame: A woman, wearing a gray one-piece suit, was running across a desolate landscape…

***

"Number 237 slowed to a walk, looking back over her shoulder at camp Mojave. The cluster of buildings appeared to be a gray mound in the predawn light. And no wall around the encampment! An illusion…probably programmed during her orientation. She giggled with relief, amazed at her good fortune. She had half expected to be dead or caught by now. But no; and it had been so easy. She'd just walked away…

However, she realized she was far from free.

Turning back to the east, she could make out the jagged shapes of dark mountains framed against the brightening sky. How far? Eight, ten miles? She wasn't sure. Still a long way to the mountains and the security of friends.

She increased her pace to a steady jog…

An hour later, the sun was a scorching ball, glaring into her face. Sweat had soaked her uniform. She sensed the first signs of fatigue—a rubbery unresponsiveness in her legs, a slight tightening in her back. She slowed to a fast walk. For a second she considered stopping to rest; but she knew that was foolhardy. Soon they would be searching for her. 'Copters? Maybe dogs?

The image of bloodhounds spurred her on…

The glass window opaqued for a moment; then cleared, a different setting: A room with a cool green light.

A man, wearing a headset and a wry expression, was watching a large monitor. A tiny green dot moved slowly away from the center of the screen, passing beyond an inscribed red circle.

The man spoke into the headset, "Warden? Number 237 has crossed the outer boundary. Her conditioning has broken down. Apparently she isn't changing her mind." The expression melted to a grin.

A long silence.

Then, a tired voice over the headset: "What's the matter with Orientation? That's five this month…Oh, never mind Sergeant…Okay, give her a two minute warning."

The Sergeant nodded to himself. He flipped a toggle below the screen, touched the tiny mouthpiece, and cleared his throat. "Number 237!"

The voice suddenly ringing in her head stopped Number 237 in her tracks. She stiffened, her chest heaving. My God! she thought, praying it was part of the Camp Mojave security illusion…a hallucination…

"Prisoner 237, you have two minutes to turn back…If you do not, a piece of plastimon, implanted in your sinus cavity during orientation, will be detonated…There is no escape from Camp Mojave."

She recognized the Sergeant's voice; and, heart sinking, she allowed precious seconds to tick by, trying to remember the medcenter orientation…An implant? No escape?

She stared longingly at the mountains, a deep purple now in the bright sunlight. Suddenly, she burst out laughing. Then she started to sprint toward the mountains, shouting, "Goodbye, Sergeant."

The Sergeant felt a surge of adrenaline, watching the green dot begin to move away again. Five. Five hits this month. Another citation. A 72-hour pass! He chuckled and flipped another toggle…

The card was a white blank.

"Value?" Oberon asked.

With a conscious effort, Rod suppressed a curse. He sat back, drawing away from the blank window. He forced himself to consider the question. Card value? Something tickled his consciousness…A memory of a play in Pasadena about World War II pilots…Fighter pilots with five kills. Five, that was it!

He sucked in a breath and answered, "An Ace?"

"Yes." With a deft motion, Oberon flipped over the piece of glass, changing it to an ordinary playing card: The ace of hearts. He pushed the ace to the edge of the table; then he placed another blank piece of glass in the center of the table. "Your second card."

The opacity cleared. Another scene: A young boy, kneeling in a clump of bushes, was watching several men grouped tightly near a fire…

***

The young shepherd knelt behind the thorn bush, watching the soldiers clustered near the fire. The boy shuddered, pulling his sackcloth robe closer about his body. Only the strength of his curiosity prevented him from seeking shelter from the unnatural darkness. The night had descended at midday, frightening away all but himself and the soldiers.

Quietly, he shifted to his other knee, keeping his eyes on the men as they rolled dice in the dust near the roaring fire. They had shed cloaks, swords, helmets, and breastplates; and their laughter rang boldly in the strange darkness. But the boy heard the strained falseness in their voices; and he saw them draw closer to the fire, even though their red faces glistened with sweat.

He switched his attention to the centurion. The officer remained in full field dress, standing back from the hot blaze near the edge of darkness. Only his nervous head movements revealed his unease. He repeatedly shifted his gaze from the fire to the nearby hillcrest and the crosses silhouetted against the sky.

Earlier, the boy had been dismayed as the officer stood by idly and allowed his men to mock and insult the one stretched on the middle cross. They had laughed and offered the man a sponge soaked in vinegar when he moaned out, "I thirst." Their cruelty hadn't masked their fear.

Suddenly, the centurion moved to the far side of the fire out of the boy's view.

Now was his chance! Unobserved by the soldiers, the boy left the security of the thorn bush and darted quickly up the hill. He paused a few feet from the base of the middle cross.

Catching his breath, the boy stared up into the face of the one denounced by the priests. The man's eyes were closed, the pain etched into his gaunt features. The boy glanced at the two others. This one appeared no different…except for the crown. All three suffered. The boy swallowed, his chest feeling tight with pity. No, he thought, this one is hardly a picture of what he claims.

A tremor rippled through the man's body, and he moaned.

The cry of pain pierced the boy. He shivered, feeling the agony. He tried to think of some way to ease the man's suffering. But how? He was only a simple shepherd…

An image of his flock flashed into the boy's head. He saw them milling, restless, ill at ease: and, then, he heard the faint music of a flute. The boy reached inside his robe and withdrew the simple instrument. He glanced back down the hill at the soldiers. Dare he play? Would it anger the centurion? And what relief would a few notes be to this man?

For a few moments, the boy debated with himself. Then, despite his apprehension, he lifted the flute to his lips and fingered the holes. He closed his eyes and began to play; tentatively at first, then more confident as the first notes rang out strong and true in the darkness. He played on, caught up in the plain elegance, the haunting beauty, of the old shepherd's song. Never had he played so well. After the last note, he dropped his hands and gasped for breath. The magic of the music had tightened his chest.

Finally the young shepherd lifted his gaze.

The man stared down at the boy, his dark eyes soft and shiny like an injured lamb. Slowly, the man's cracked dry lips parted, as if he were about to speak…

But he remained silent; and ever so slightly the corners of his mouth curled. And a smile flickered across his pained face.

The boy stood rooted to the spot.

The man's eyes closed and his chin sunk to his chest.

But he had smiled; he had smiled…

***

Rod stared at the blank window for a few moments. Then he cleared his throat and nodded. "Of course the card is a king.

But…"

Oberon lifted his pale hand. "Just a king." He turned over the piece of glass—the king of hearts. He flicked the card to the edge of the table, next to the ace. "Your next card," he whispered, placing a new window in the center of the table. As he withdrew his hand, a scene materialized: A curtain of white fog. Barely visible, a tall man. He was dressed in formal Victorian attire, including a walking stick, shoulder cape, and top hat…

The man was standing near a bridge railing, staring down into the fog-shrouded waters of the river. Suddenly, he dropped the stick and clutched the sides of his head, as if struck by an invisible blow. He groaned, his chin sinking to his chest. "Lord have mercy," he moaned through clenched teeth. "The pain…the voices."

After a moment, he lifted his head and reached into his cape, withdrawing a tiny flask. With a trembling hand, he uncorked the stopper and took a sip. He grimaced, the fluid biting his throat. Even as he swallowed the maximum strength tincture of laudanum, he knew it would help little.

He replaced the flask, his fingers touching and momentarily lingering on the small leather kit pocketed over his heart.

Another surge of pain and the crowding voices:

"'Ello, gov, back so soon…"

"Ah, dearie…"

"Oh, now, ain't we the grandness 'isself…"

Pressing his fingers into his ears, he cried out, "Enough, enough…" His shout trailed off into the fog. He knew there was only one relief.

The man withdrew the little surgical kit, flipping it open, drawing comfort from the clean sharpness of the scalpels. To quiet the voices and pain, he would have to add to the five saved…