ISBN 0-0000-0000-0

Hard Shell Word Factory

http://www.hardshell.com

Publication date July, 2002

Cover art by NUR


Index
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four N/A
Chapter Five N/A
Chapter Six N/A
Chapter Seven N/A
Chapter Eight N/A
Chapter Nine N/A
Chapter Ten N/A
Chapter Eleven N/A
Chapter Twelve N/A


Through The Necromanteum:
Project Far-Reach

Laurance Pearsongreer
Copyright 2000
All rights reserved

 


Chapter One




        "Old big, bad, Bobby's got the ass-kissing assignment of the year." Sharona ran naked around her cluttered dormitory room, dodging beanbag pillows and just barely avoiding a swipe of Bobby's long, thin hand. "Chauffeur to the Stars and big time politicians." She dove over her twin bed and rolled smack into her study desk. Thwack, went the sound of bare ass colliding with varnished wood. "Oo-ouch. Oh, shit. Look. I bruised my itty bitty bottom." She mockingly turned her reddening derriere to Bobby for inspection.
        Bobby, wearing nothing but his Army dog tags, had been running close behind her. "GERONIMO!" Seeing her well curved behind, spurred him to dive across the bed to grab at it. Momentum dragged much of the bedding with him as he tumbled awkwardly on top of her.
        Sharona reeled out an insane giggle and teased him some more. "Bobby, Bobby. Don't land on top of a girl that way... unless you really mean it."
        A television announcer's smooth mellow tones boomed out across the darkened dorm room:


        A panoramic camera shot followed. The camera panned in on the stout, pale, balding figure of the newsman. He stood calmly in his dark blue pinstripe suit as the camera slowly abandoned him for the scene behind. Its electronic gaze adjusted to encompass a low white building sprawled across a flat section of green land. Save for a few immature saplings, the new construction was a rush, no-frills deal. The exterior of this building was not meant to draw any protests of 'wastage' from an already uneasy electorate.
        That electorate was well represented in the teeming crowds held at bay by the riot-trained Police just beyond the camera's view. Nevertheless, there where many competing news crews present on the site. Sparkles of reflected sunlight danced maddeningly off their cameras and microphones. The unwanted reflections played continuously across the stark white walls of the building as the camera held its new perspective.
        "Sorry, Sharona. I couldn't... I mean, I'm not ready to deal with you again. Not just now." Bobby's voice was a hoarse whisper. He then sighed deeply and pulled the bed sheets into a makeshift pillow. 'Jesus H. Christ, Sharona. Give it a rest.'
        "Oh no? Don't tell me the mighty oak is reduced to a wilted willow... not for the whole rest of the afternoon. That would be a novelty, my dear."
        He smiled defiantly and placed the bundled sheets behind his head. Now he could see the TV on top of the desk. Bobby turned his head towards Sharona, while putting on a phony accent, and paraphrased: "Madame, I resemble that remark." All the while he flexed his eyebrows and thumped an imaginary cigar. "Does that make you laugh your tits off, babe?"
        Sharona mockingly covered her breasts with her hands. "Heh-heh-heh." A laugh full of more sarcasm than humor was Sharona's retort. "I have told you many times Jerry Lewis is funnier than Groucho. And since you're not interested in sex, leave my tits out of this, thank you!"
        "Seems like you're the one who left your tits out."
        "Hey, get back in the box, Corny, with the rest of the flakes." Frustration was not an emotion she handled well. Sharona was miffed and she showed it.
        "Whoa, don't get a funky attitude, Sharona." Bobby reached up and increased the TV's volume. "See, that big news story is on now. You know, the one about my honored passenger and his pet project. I told you I was waiting to see this stuff. So, please cut the false protest and shut up?" Bobby slapped her bare bottom, making her giggle loudly. "Besides, I said that, temporarily, I'm in no shape to do anything. So for a while, why don't you go contemplate your navel or somethin'?"


        "I know exactly what kind of shape you're in, babe. After all, I said it was the shape, and size, of your hands that first attracted me to you."
        "Sharona, please." 'And to think, I was attracted to her brilliance when I met her. Oh boy. When I heard she was tops in my History class, I thought it meant she had a burning intellect, but not perpetually hot pants, not that I'm complaining Lord.'
        Sharona rolled her slim, wiry body close to his, and as she spoke, began to nibble and lick the tips of his long, thin fingers. "Oh, all right. Watch your silly news show. I'll just have to find something else... to keep me occupied."
        Bobby gasped as Sharona directed her attentions elsewhere. But he was determined to hear this news show. He mustered his will and resolved to frustrate her nimble efforts for as long as possible.


        Bobby abruptly sat upright. "Hot damn! Those tight-asses never told me any of this stuff. Now it's on TV for all the world to see!" Bobby leaned forward to see the screen better. "And nobody thought I had a high enough security clearance to get briefed on the new stuff they're researching, either. You know, more stuff like this? But that's typical. They treat me like a bastard child back at that base. Can you believe that crap?" His diatribe ended, he strained forward to turn up the volume of the set.
        "Shit." Sharona became flustered because her face had been bumped aside by Bobby's sudden rising. She was trailing butterfly kisses across his tight abdominal muscles prior to that rude movement. "Stay down, damn it. Let a girl work her magic. Besides, that old doctor can't be any prettier than me."
        "You ought to see him, Hon. He's a really huge, black guy. Looks something like... a Captain I knew once. H-h-he...." Bobby's words were lost in a long moan that escaped from surprised lungs to an unready mouth. "God, what are you doing? Oh, damn! You're gonna kill me with that hungry mou...."
        "Shut up and watch TV!" Sharona interrupted, and then resumed her attack on his nervous system.
        Dr. Coffee stood in front of an overhead projector screen diagramming on the transparency. He lectured to an assembly of undetermined composition.



        Bobby's mind was churning as he laid back on the bed. 'So that's how all that fancy equipment at the base works. But the Brass at the base is doing a lot more with this stuff than just a Sunday visit with their dead moms.'


        Sharona abruptly stopped what she was doing and sat bolt upright. "Mon Dieu! Sacre Marie! He sure is confident of himself. Do ya' hear that? They have confirmed the existence of God. What balls this guy has! He's fearless. Doesn't he know every godless bastard in the world would lie, cheat and kill to keep that news suppressed? Mon Dieu!"
        "Uh, honey lamb, weren't you about to do--"
        "NO DAMMIT! I am not about to do anything! Good Lord, man. God could be watching us, right now. Look at me. Look at what I'm doing with my godda--oh shit--with my darned life!" She wailed as she flung Bobby's outreaching arms away from her.
        "Jesus, Sharona. Your mood swings more often than a pendulum. Does the word 'Bi-polar' sound familiar to you?"
        Sharona jumped up grabbing the bed sheets. Indignantly, she wrapped herself in the covers and fled into the bathroom. Bobby sat silently until she quickly re-emerged. Now she was dressed in tennis shorts. Her bare breasts were pimpled with goose flesh now that her hot-blood had cooled. Tying her jet black hair back with a white ribbon, she sat down. From a chair across the room she now intently scrutinized the TV set. "Don't look at me, watch the news, I sure am!"
        Bobby shook his head slightly from side-to-side. It was more a reflex than a comment. "You know, you've got wa-a-ay too much Gemini in your horoscope."
        "So do you! Shut up and watch!"


        Bobby, seeing what remained was a discussion of Biblical history, had lost interest in the news. Sharona's reactions worried him. 'What's going on with her? She's always the wild spirit between the two of us. How come she's suddenly turning into some kind of frightened penitent?' The rebellious daughter of a conservative Air Force Colonel, Sharona was a dyed-in-the-wool tomboy who relished beating men at everything they did. "Where'd all this religion come from all'a sudden? You wasn't no Sunday school teacher when I met ya," Bobby declared in a parody of his own hillbilly dialect. He had grown out of his original speech pattern many years ago, but he fell into the dialect because in the past it never failed to turn Sharona on.
        "Yeah, but I was raised in a very religious home by my grandmother. And cut the farm-boy accent. I'm no longer into that sort of mood." Sharona crossed her arms and her ankles sharply. Apparently her libido was completely off-line now. "Grandmere was a pious, old-world woman. Born a French-Catholic, deep inside of Quebec, the old religion was all she ever really knew, so that's what she taught me from the day I was born. Father had Air Force assignments all over the blessed planet. Grandmere took me in while my father was out on assignment. Most of my childhood I lived with her, up in Canada."
        "Honey I'm not stupid. I was actually listening when you were telling me all this, weeks ago. Despite the stereotype, all men are not uncaring about what a woman thinks or feels."
        Sharona sighed heavily, as her eyes misted with regret, and her voice cracked with emotion. "I'm sorry, Bobby. It's just that, Grandmere was the only mother I've ever had. I loved her... more than breathing." She fell backwards onto the floor. The bedcovers absorbed the fall as she let her arms and legs splay outward. It was as if the emotional effort to recall her feelings had exhausted her. "When she died, I just couldn't believe in anything anymore. Man, if I had known for sure she and God were looking down on me from heaven, I would have lived my life a whole lot different, I swear."
        Bobby was not going to accept that. 'Sharona's just in shock. She's heard some news that's way beyond her ability to deal with right now.' "I got plenty of Bible training too, ya' know. Back when I was young. The Bible was the only real book my family owned... that and the Almanac." He began to crawl over to her, dragging the rest of the bed covers along with him. He tried to divert her attention from the TV. "I was the thirteenth child in a family of fifteen... didn't I mention that?"
        "Oh, yes, I remember. Hey, you've mentioned your family so rarely, how could I not remember?"
        "Well, my family had some land passed down, from great-grandparent to grandparent. It was rocky, viney, punked out land that couldn't support all of my cousins, brothers, sisters and aunts. Daddy told me things were so bad there weren't enough squirrels in the forest to support any more relatives. That was about when I was fifteen. Anyway, my folks had plenty of religion. Oh, how they believed in that Bible. They prayed and wished, and praised the Lord every Sunday. Old folks died of simple fevers 'cause 'We'ens too poor for store bought medicine,' my Ma' would say. All the while she was sewing another shroud for another funeral. Animals died cause we couldn't pay a proper Vet. Still they prayed and delayed. Then the last two kids born, the twins, died of malnutrition... before they were a year old."
        Finally Sharona was interested in what he was saying. She watched his face intently as she donned a T-shirt. He had not talked of his past very much, as if it were too painful to even recall. "After that, I was sick of all that praying and dying. So I up and left the valley...." Bobby had begun to speak so softly he actually whispered the last remark.
        "...You traveled and worked as a migrant for three years, picking fruit, onions, tobacco, until you joined the Army. I remember. I was listening every time you spoke about your life, so that's still not news to me, honey."
        Bobby turned his face away then. He stared vacantly out the window. "Well, that's why the Army is the only thing I believe in, or am afraid of. I don't believe in that 'Pie in the Sky when you Die in the Sweet Bye and Bye' crap, and you never did before this either. Admit it."
        Sensing the emotional depths this was coming from, Sharona moved close to him laying her head upon his shoulder. So much tension was bound up in his body, he began to shiver, his breathing became shallow and swift. Sharona could feel the bitterness of this childhood memory, poisoning Bobby's whole attitude. "You're right, my dear one. I guess I have over reacted a bit."
        Normally taciturn and easy going when they were alone, Bobby was now visibly agitated. Anger, pain and hopelessness boiled inside the cauldron of his heart. "Those big, important people have no contact with my kind of reality. Having life too damned easy is their damned problem. Those lucky bastards can afford to live in a fantasy, but I can't!"
        Bobby was getting more than a little bit angry. He finally ended up spewing his percolating resentment, as he made an offensive hand gesture, at the figures on the television screen. "Look at all of those scientists, politicians and preachers up there!"
        "All of 'em are speechifying stuffed shirts! They're just looking' to promote a fairytale machine to some gullible old ladies. I bet'cha most of the idiots who go in to one of those machines, won't see nothin'. And, the rest who do see something... well they just have too damn much imagination!" Bobby abruptly stood up. "Only somebody with no worries in this life would spend so much damn time worrying about the after-life, ya' know. The whole damn world is going down the toilet and these jerks waste time playing 'Peeping Tom' with paradise!" Bobby too, was out of the mood to make love, but his mood to express himself was just getting started.
        Sharona was atypically silent. She dared not disturb Bobby's rare moment. Actually to see him so fired up about something made him an even more compelling figure. He seemed more dynamic than ever before.
        "I got letters from my folks, these last few years. They're worried sick about the land. The soil has been all worn out. My family's land is dying. Factory garbage is poisoning the water table. Mining is dirtying the air. My God! They can't even make ends meet doing penny-a-pound-harvesting work. All the farmers who need hired men are filled up. '...Too many men, too little work,' is the excuse. And there's no work at the big factories for simple farm folk. You need some kind'a damn degree just to sweep some company's floors! And those bastards in the government... they're spending millions of bucks to talk to dead people. But they won't spend a dime to change the way they're shittin' on the land. It's the same all over, you know. The jobs men used to take out of desperation don't exist anymore. They've all been farmed out to Mexico, Thailand... hell anywhere they can find a poor bastard willing to work for twenty-five cents an hour!"
        'He's really angry.' Sharona was surprised at the depth of Bobby's concern, and she was secretly in turmoil for similar reasons. ''America, land of plenty, is not a reality for anyone anymore Bobby, save the very rich."
        Sharona's college major in History and Economics had explained how things had come to this. Greed, selfishness and shortsightedness, had been the Holy Trinity of Civilization. They had been worshipped fervently for the last Millennium of modern society. Sharona had talked about history with Bobby before. She already knew he was full of resentment for the 'Leaders' who had led the Country into this sorry state.
        Bobby didn't know what to do, except reach over, grab another can of beer from the plastic ring and fume.
        "Grandmere, raised me on a small farm." Sharona whispered into his ear, kissing the ear lobe ever-so-sweetly. "The problems you saw when you were growing up were not just in the 'States', ya' know. The whole of North America is a single piece, a single living thing. What injures one part affects the other parts. In Canada, we suffered also."
        Bobby, caught off guard by that statement, was immediately intrigued. He had always assumed Sharona was raised in the lap of luxury. After all, her father was a Colonel in the Air Force, didn't officer's kids get the best of everything?
        "The lumber companies killed our farm. The water was poisoned by chemicals that the lumber mills were bleaching pulpwood with--just to make darned copy paper. It all broke Grandmere's heart. She died as her land had died, poisoned by the same chemicals. From then on I was a military brat, moving from boarding schools in the winter to some backwoods base in the summers... never making any real friends, never being accepted, until you and--"
        "Until me and who?" Bobby interrupted her because this pause, in what had been an impassioned memory of her Grandmother's sorrow, was just too obvious. 'What is she getting at? What does she want to tell me?'
        At first appearance the two lovers seemed an odd match. But even though they were from different worlds, Sharona was very taken with him. Bobby was a deep, almost pre-destined kind of love for her. She had known that almost from the start. Never mind that she got involved with him for less than romantic reasons, despite her politics, she really wanted to stay with him.
        Sharona took a deep breath. Then she launched herself into a revealing statement, "I have made a few friends here, at college. Some of those people feel strongly about such things. Like-minded young people, just like ourselves."
        "Like ourselves? What does that mean?" Bobby, impatient to know what this was all about, prodded her to finish. "I'm getting' gray hair here, Sharona!"
        "My friends believe in taking action, all right? They want to change the way things are. We all know who's at fault."
        Bobby slowly began to shake his head from left to right. He didn't want to hear any of this.
        "Hey, my friends really believe in this! They know that common folks working together can, '...Sever the tangled vines of bureaucracy that strangle us...' and '...prune the swollen limbs of Industrial self-interest that block out our light.' I've got some uh, booklets here...." She mumbled idly as she started rummaging through her desk drawer.
        Bobby had recognized those lines she had spoken. It was the kind of rhetoric he had heard before. "That's some of that screwy 'Tree of Life' propaganda--ain't it?" He asked accusingly.
        "It's not propaganda! The 'Tree of Life' family doesn't do propaganda. This is the truth. This is all about the survival of our planet, this isn't political game playing!"
        "That's a bunch of bullshit, Sharona!" Bobby belched. Apparently this was more the beer speaking than his usually civil self. "Those Tree-Lifers are an anti-government bunch of propagandists. The Army warns us about groups like that. Hell, they've even been connected with some of those... 'Eco-Terrorists!'"
        Sharona was angry now and let her temper betray her. "We, are not Ecological-Terrorists! We--"
        "What the hell do you mean, 'We?'" Bobby roared as he sprung to his feet. His half-empty can of beer fell neglected on the bed sheet. Moving sluggishly, he grabbed his faded blue jeans. Forcing the jeans upon rubbery legs, he stood swaying in indignation. "The Army could fry my ass for even associating with Tree-Lifers. Hell, you know that! You were military at least part of your life. You know all the crap they could do to me if they found out."
        "They're not gonna find out from me. Don't be such a Wussy!" Sharona tried grabbing at his rapidly receding legs. Determinedly she tried to tackle his ankles, but with no success. She had planned to reveal all of this to him for some time. For days she had carefully considered how he might react. She had, unfortunately, not envisioned this particular reaction.
        "I gotta' go... this shit is way too deep for me to be getting into, ya' got me Sharona?" Bobby's anger had completely erased his beer buzz, and fear had wound his nerves taut. He reached down to the floor and hauled Sharona up by her arms. "I love you," he said angrily, kissing her hard on the mouth. "But, I gotta' get away from you for a while. Hell, right now, I'm so damned turned around... I don't know which way is up." Bobby quickly unlocked her dormitory room door and dashed out into the hall. He closed the door with a resounding, 'Slam', and then Bobby was gone.
nbsp;       "Bobby. Bobby, let me explain everyth--Oh, no." Too late to be heard, Sharona had snatched open the door but could only hear the quickly receding thud of his footfalls. "I'm sorry, Bobby. I never meant to...." Her words, at first shouted, quickly trailed off into a whisper. No one could hear her.
        Now a flash flood of rage cascaded down her face and shot down to the ends of her limbs. "How dare you! How-fucking-dare you, you Lifer-Army-asshole! Run away from the truth! Run away just like my father... you anal-retentive tin soldier. I don't need you anymore than I need him. I don't love you and I don't love him!"
        She slammed the door angrily, only too late realizing her fingers still clung to the doorjamb. "Shit! Shit-shit-shit!" Sharona began to cry openly. A keening wail, torn directly from her guts rose up in her throat so forcefully it should have shattered glass. No other sounds could penetrate the curtain of her tears. Anger, regret and fear played across her features in maddening procession. Her beautiful visage was distorted into a grotesque mask of emotions.
        Oblivious to time, Sharona didn't notice how many minutes had passed. Nor did she notice she had fallen to her knees with her forehead pressed firmly against the door. "I've lost him, I know it. Jesus, Mary and Joseph... how could I have been so damned stupid? Barry Ma and the others dared me to bring Bobby into 'the family' and I was dumb enough to try it. Mother-of-God, I hope I haven't lost him."
        It was at that moment a boom-boom-boom exploded against her forehead! Sharona leaped backwards. The pounding seemed about to shatter the hollow wooden door. Hope sent a flash of warmth through her trembling chilled heart. "Bobby? Oh Bobby!" She leaped to her feet and tore open the door. Stunned by the hall lights after her intense round of tears, she was having trouble focusing her eyes. About to embrace the tall silhouette blocking the brightly lit hall lights, she was stopped short.
        A male voice, but not Bobby's, answered her. "Whoa there, sister. It's not Bobby. It's me, Barry. Barry Ma. You look like hell warmed over. Have you been on a bender or somethin'? Jeez, pop a breath mint, babe. Finish getting dressed, I've got Jahmal with me."
        Sharona scurried backwards in to the semi-dark room and made a mad dash for the bathroom again.
        "Hey, don't get all dressed up on account of me...." Jahmal, a Goliath-sized man, bent his head low to clear the doorway. "...I'm part Nudist as well as part Anarchist--and I do love French pastry."
        "If I thought you really meant that I'd slap you, Jahmal!" Sharona had to shout to be heard through the bathroom door. In a minute, after washing away her tears, she emerged. She looked calmer and more composed. At least, she hoped she was composed enough.
        "I've never seen you look so shitty." Barry Ma pushed the bundled bedclothes aside with his foot. Then he crossed over to Sharona's desk and pulled out a chair. "Let me guess. You and your soldier boy had a fight? Maybe 'cause you delayed until two days before the protest to tell him about our little membership drive?"
        "Fuck you Barry."
        "Oh, Sharona... if only I thought you meant it. But you only fuck for the revolution, don't you?"
        "Jealous?"
        Jahmal tossed Barry a gold ID bracelet he found on the dresser. Holding up the bracelet Barry paused to read it. Engraved inside was the message: 'Eternally Sharona and Bob'. "No, disappointed. I thought you were asked to pump Petrocik for information, not hump him for fun and personal profit."
        "As long as I get the job done, my personal feelings for the man is none of your business."
        "It is our business if it shows evidence of you having a neurotic episode." Jahmal aimed this last verbal barb calmly. He meant to steer this conversation onto a new path.
        "What the hell do you mean by that, Jahmal? Practicing medicine without a license again? You're not a psychiatrist yet... you'd have to finish Med. School first."
        "All right, two point score for Sharona. Your ball, Jahmal."
        "I don't need your help, Barry."
        "Ever heard of an Electra Complex, babe?" Jahmal smiled as the inference began to sink into her mind. "It has something to do with little girls who 'DO' boys who are just like dear old Dad."
        "That is none of your concern. I got you information about how the base is laid out from the air and... when the Doctor would arrive for the new technology tests. That bit of treason was all I agreed to get you in the first place."
        "But let me speculate a bit more. Did you get Petrocik to call you from the airport... huh? Just as soon as his passenger has arrived? Are we going to be able to launch our demonstration as soon as he arrives on Base? Or do we resort to 'Plan B'?"
        Sharona was at a loss for glib words now. Unhappily, she would have to disappoint her guests. No student protest would be possible out at Zone R-V #7 tomorrow. She braced herself to tell the Tree Lifers that they would never get any assistance from Bobby Petrocik.

 

Chapter Two




        A burst of raw sunlight seared across a long desert road. Sun baked and oozing heat, it stretched for endless miles, yet seemed to go nowhere. The cacti and boulders that dotted the roadside afforded little shade from the unrelenting sun. There was, however, one exception. It followed a three-mile long gash that pierced a huge natural rock formation. This canyon was a huge squatting bulge across the flat desert floor. Some ancient river had eroded this route through the solid rock, a million years before Christ. But, that had been long before this land had turned into the arid rockpile it was today.
        A drab green vehicle exited the winding shelter of that bronze sandstone canyon. The solemn road had taken a turning back into the wide-open desert landscape. A blinding orange sunset lit the sky. Fortunately, polarized glass on the old Army car's windshield took much of the sting out of the sun's brilliance. Two dark silhouettes could have been seen framed in that windshield only a moment earlier, before the car curved into the sunset.
        Inside the car a silhouette began to speak. The younger of the two, he sought to break a silence that had existed for the past hour. "So, this is your first time coming out to White Sands, sir?" Nervously, the baby-faced Army sergeant dabbed sweat from his forehead with the back of one hand. With his other hand he steered the sedan.
        The soldier's anxiety was obvious to the second man seated beside him. Silently, he observed the driver giving only a shallow nod 'Yes' in response.
        This day was a hot one, but it was not extreme by NewMexico standards. Though the car was actually quite chilly, the young soldier kept adjusting the output of the sedan air unit. The driver's sweating palms on the plastic steering wheel slipped and squeaked as he maneuvered. The armpits of his khaki shirt were circled in black, stained by the heavy perspiration pouring forth from his lobster-red complexion. It was easy to see this man was nervous.
        'God, was I ever that young and anxious?' The passenger was too tired at this moment to really care, so he chose not to chat. He lazily removed expensive sunglasses from inside his even more expensive, suit jacket pocket. Sliding the cool steel frames over his tired eyes, he shielded himself from the new angle of the sunlight's attack. After having flown straight here from the Capitol, his sleepless eyes were red and sensitive. He had been too excited to sleep and he suffered badly from jetlag.
        The cool darkness of his polarized lenses felt so good, his natural optimism started to re-emerge. Now, more sensitive to the driver's mounting aura of tension, the passenger finally smiled more to himself than to the sergeant, and took the luxury of a long sigh. "Oh, but I have been out here before... just not in the flesh."
        The driver was, by now, much too distracted to notice the strangeness of this remark. His frantic banging on the air conditioner blocked out his passenger's reply. "These darned things don't hardly work unless you give 'em a good hit sometimes. This car is not usually this uncomfortable. But, you'll probably be a lot more comfortable once you get out to the Twilight--I mean Zone R-V#7, sir." The young sergeant's anxiety had made him incautious. He had referred to the top secret Army Intelligence base by a vulgarism, 'The Twilight Zone', a nickname used only by those not involved in that intelligence gathering operation.
        The Military Research base, still a couple of hours northwest of their current position, was remote and well protected. It cost untold millions to construct and maintain this base out in the middle of nowhere. R-V#7 squatted languidly behind barriers of electrified wire. Its laboratories, barracks, tooling shops and motor pool were lavishly spread out across the desert basin. The site was open for miles in any direction, and anchored in a soil of snow-white sand. Neither man nor beast could approach from the ground or air without detection. Every known form of surveillance was used to protect the sanctity of the base. Not even buzzards could soar near it without being noticed.
        The members of the Army Intelligence group that occupied the base were hyper-vigilant in their security. They intended not to be taken by surprise, so any methods used to protect their secrets were well worth the trouble. The driver was what that Intelligence group's members would have labeled "E.B.". Such Earth-Bound people were unschooled in the experimental methods of surveillance being developed at the base. These methods used the human mind as a new form of spying technology.
        It was this experimental practice that so frightened the young sergeant. He thought of the base's personnel as a bunch of 'spooks.'
        The passenger knew much of this trivia without actually having been told. The concepts just appeared, interspersed within his own musings, as if some mystical commentator was annotating his thoughts. This was confirmation his mind was still linked to the mind of 'Celeste', a non-physical entity who had compelled Doctor Coffee's presence at this secret desert base with but a single phrase, 'Don't let Archer steal the project.'
        "Dr. Coffee? Hey, Doc, did you hear me?" The vehicle slowly pulled through the first of the three scheduled security checkpoints, and then sped-up again. "I said, 'Welcome to White Sands Missile Range main entry checkpoint!' Didn't you hear me, sir? We're only a couple of hours up-range from our destination now." The driver prattled almost too solicitously. His voice, a staccato rendition of a chatty whine, sounded more high-pitched now than it did when he'd picked up the Doctor at the airport in El Paso, Texas.
        'This fellow is anxious about a lot more than giving you the VIP treatment, Jason.' A sweet, disembodied woman's voice was heard by him and no one else.
        'I picked up on that, too. What does he know that we don't?' But her presence in his mind was, as always, unexpected--and her departure unpredictable. She was no longer there. It might be hours or days before she made another of her casual comments to him. This no longer bothered Jason. He had grown used to this kind of treatment years ago.
        "There's nothing living out in this desert, 'ceptin' tarantulas and cactus between here and the base. Don't figure we'll be seeing another soul for many miles, sir."
        "I believe that seeing, is the operative word in that sentence... and to that extent you may be right." 'We won't see another soul, but sooner or later I'm sure I'll hear from one.'
        'You've never complained before--don't start now!'
        "Heh-heh-heh, right Celeste..."
        "Er-uh did you say something, sir?"
        "No, just clearing my throat, sergeant."
        "Oh. Well, next time we'll see any folks will be at checkpoint #2, as we enter the base's perimeter. The last of the three checkpoints will be as we enter the R-V#7 operational compound, just past the housing area." It would seem that the sergeant, whose name was Bobby Petrocik, had finally ended his breathy monologue. But, just then, Bobby realized something. 'Oh, duh. I said the same dumb stuff when I met the Doc at the airport.'
        His lobster-red complexion flushed to an impossible shade of crimson. 'Great! Now the Doc thinks I'm a friggin' re-tard. So much for impressing the Big Boss!' Embarrassment overflowed the boundary of his military collar. The crimson rash crept up his neck and reddened his still youthful cheeks.
        Young for his sergeant's rank, Bobby was very self-conscious. Initially, he was mortified he might appear incompetent in front of a cabinet level government official. Much of this fear had been allayed during the long ride through the desert. His perspiration level had decreased significantly, once he realized the Doctor was actually an okay guy, for a high-ranking government mucky-muck.
        Doc Coffee impressed Bobby as a laid-back sort of guy. Tall, broad-shouldered and thick through the middle, Coffee's skin was as dark as his name. He really did look a lot like that Army Captain, Bobby had once served under. That officer had been a strong fatherly influence on him. The resemblance between them was striking, except the 'Doc' was balding and sported a full beard.
        Of course Bobby would never confuse the two. That was mainly because Petrocik's passenger was Dr. Jason Coffee, Assistant Undersecretary of the Department of Health, Education and Welfare--and a personal confidant of the US Army's Commander-in-Chief, The President of the United States. In truth, the Doctor was not a major member of the Presidential Cabinet, but he was still widely known as one of the President's most venerated advisors.
        Dr. Coffee had aided the President in a time of great need. Bobby had read about how Coffee helped her to make a difficult emotional adjustment, to the First Spouse's tragic death. That was back at the beginning of her first term. Terrible pressure was upon her to initiate the reforms promised in her election, but she was desolate and out of touch.
        'She was in no shape to run the country for weeks... until some of her movie-star friends out in 'La-La-land' recommended their Guru, Dr. Coffee. He worked his magic, as promised, and the President was back up to par in no time. That's when every newspaper started running articles about the guy. Man, I couldn't even watch TV without hearing his name twice a day. Now, he's sitting right next to me, like we were old chums or somethin'. Wow!'
        As reward for his exceptional treatment, the political slide was greased to get Coffee a post in HEW. That assured he would remain in Washington, within the President's reach if the need arose. It also guaranteed the Doctor some badly needed credibility in the medical community. Yet another plus was how the President's continued recovery gave credence to Coffee's groundbreaking medical practices and theories.
        Dr. Coffee was a well-known practitioner of the discipline of Homeopathic Psychiatry. A new mainstream medical system that deals with all dis-ease as a symptom of dis-harmony within the Mind/Body unit. It was more than the love child of Homeopathy and Holistic medicine, as some critics had quipped. It was a melding of those types of medicine along with a new system developed by the good Dr. He called the therapeutic process Holo-ingramic Reconfiguration.
        Petrocik had taken the time to read a couple of magazine articles on the Doctor at the Main Base library. From those he gleaned a list of key ideas
        1. That this man was some kind of medical genius.
        2. That he dealt in some kind of heresy that older doctors had critiqued as, 'Healing Hoodoo'.
        3. The buzz was, Doctor Coffee could get people to change the way they thought about things. Their attitudes were changed about their inner-selves; about their bodies; the meaning of life, even about the meaning of reality itself.
        Bobby had organized these ideas in his mind, in case he needed to make conversation on the long ride. The young sergeant was not a scholar but he was far from uneducated. He was a voracious reader who had educated himself far beyond his high school diploma. Bobby had thus attained his rank at an age far in advance of his peers, because of a sharp mind and quiet determination. He understood enough of those articles to know this doctor could get people to think-away their emotional problems, complexes, obsessions even their physical diseases. Utilizing hypnosis, herbs, music, sound, meditations, whatever combination that worked for the individual. The articles also said the Doctor used his own gift of telepathy to monitor and guide his patients to recovery!
        'Jeez. If the Doctor is a Telepath, then he might be reading my mind, and that makes him no different from those scary dudes out at the Twilight Zone.' Just the thought of that possibility, renewed the outpour of Petrocik's sweat glands in earnest. To make sure the doctor did not read just how apprehensive he was, Bobby contrived to distract the Doctor's attention. He decided to begin a lively discussion. Despite his nervousness, he would remember to speak in a casual, conversational, manner.
        The Doctor had insisted on that, back when they first met. ''After all... we will be riding alone together for hours, so why stand on a lot of stuffy ceremony?''
        Cognizant of some relevant headlines in the daily newspaper, Bobby launched into a bit of diversionary conversation. "I read in the papers where you just approved a bunch of those Death Centers for some of those big cities back east and--"
        "No, Bob, not Death Centers! That isn't right. The place you refer to is a center for communing with the dead... a Necromanteum. They are in a limited, experimental stage only. What we're doing is gaining statistical data that they actually can work across the board for anyone who uses them, not just psychics or the scientists who perfected the technique."
        "You guys are kidding us, right? There ain't nothing to life after you're dead, so how can you talk to nothing? I can't allow that scientists would believe in such... garbage!" Petrocik emotionally erupted his last few comments. He was spurred on by a violent disbelief in ghosts and his mounting fear about Zone R-V#7. Somehow, he felt the Army was exposing him to a whole lot of weird, dangerous, stuff.
        'I still don't know what Sharona and her wacky pals are up to. I just hope she doesn't do something that'll get her sent to jail.' The sooner he got through today and away from all the agitation, the happier Bobby would be.
        Coffee sighed audibly. Wearily turning his head aside, he looked out of the passenger window. Barren landscape rushed by, seemingly rushing on a course into the past. He needed to marshal his reserves of inner strength. Soon, months of extreme effort would be behind him. 'But, only if my coming experiments are successful.' Coffee, mindful of all this, recalled the sequence of events that had brought him to the desert today. He saw Petrocik as just one more amongst the many doubters he had encountered across the country in those months. Doubters who had made this advance in scientific knowledge so bloody difficult to put to practical use. 'But now, the great truth is known!'
        To the chagrin of conservative scientific stalwarts, the preachers, philosophers and priests had been right all along. The Soul exists and is immortal! In the last couple of decades, scientists had managed to put aside their traditional bias about the soul and its existence and had done some sincere and intense research on the subject. To their surprise, they had found overwhelming evidence for the continuation of life after death.
        One of the first breaches in the wall of resistance came directly through scientifically trained psychiatrists. Legions of their hypnotically regressed patients had found the cause of their present life's neuroses had roots in a perceived previous lifetime. Thousands of documented Near Death Events had become part of accepted medical literature.
        Physicians were next in reporting that people declared clinically dead and then subsequently revived on the operating table, were telling tales of an existence during death. Documented reports came in such great numbers that it was impossible for even conservative physicians to ignore. Whole new generations of electronic detection equipment were even recording the departure and return of that subtle energy body known as the soul, to those cold dead survivors.
        After all, well-established laws of modern physics had shown energy can neither be created nor destroyed. Science in turn had found the soul to be a matrix of complex and subtle frequencies of energy. Therefore the soul could well be immortal. The revolution in science that ensued after these discoveries had culminated in a practical technique for communicating directly with those energy bodies. Out of such research came the development of the chamber called the Necromanteum.
        Bobby grasped the steering wheel until his knuckles turned white. In an unguarded moment, he had let his mind drift back to when he had last spoken to Sharona. The anger and apprehension he had felt then was reasserting itself. 'How could she be so dumb? How could she believe all that crap those fanatics must have fed her?'
        It was twenty-four hours ago. Yet his neck hairs bristled with anger as he recalled Sharona's association with that bunch of amateur Terrorists. He tried to calm himself with a false belief. Bobby convinced himself that Sharona's involvement with those punks was superficial. 'She's just trying her wings... or maybe she's just flirting with disaster, to defy her Dad.'
        Bobby was not aware of Sharona's visitors shortly after their fight. He never saw the hurt, anger and frustration that he had left her trying to cope with that day. Those strong, conflicting emotions rendered Sharona's good judgment useless, at a time when she would need it most. If Bobby could see just how deeply his reactions had affected Sharona, he would be worried, not agitated.
        The blinding sunlight had softened considerably in the last few moments. The sun was setting behind the darkness of the San Andres Mountains. Those rocky hills were some miles distant, beyond the base. It was still not all that late but along with the decline of the sun's rays, so declined Bobby's spirits.
        He had hoped to be at the base by now. They were behind schedule due to a delay in Dr. Coffee's arriving flight. 'Man, if we were at the base now I might be able to reach Sharona by phone, before she goes to evening classes. I really need to talk to her, just to make things right between us... somehow.'
        Doctor Coffee did not share Bobby's agitation, apparently. Soft snoring from the Doctor's unmoving form was proof of that.

*****


        Several miles ahead of them, a solitary guard was on duty at the base gate. Despite the oppressive desert heat, he was cool and alert. The guard shack, air conditioned behind a wall of tinted polarized glass, was designed to maintain a level of alertness in men who must sit there for hours at a clip. This was the base's watchtower, its first line of defense.
        The soldier was amply trained to use the output of a secret Geo-synchronous spy satellite. It was hovering permanently over the base. The live feed from this twin sister to the powerful Hubbell telescope was displayed on a bank of HDTV monitors before him. This eye in the sky was easily able to track the progress of the military vehicle approaching the site, but still an hour's distance away. In truth the spy satellite, circling high above the earth, had tracked that car all the way from the airport. The event of a dusty automobile trail darting down a long lonely road was detected and reported to the 'Remote Viewing' Command Center, immediately, as per the General's order. However, that report was a redundant one. Especially since in addition to that, General Archer's 'Remote Viewing' psychics were aware of the arrival. They had 'heard' every bit of conversation within the car, for the last twenty miles.
        The guard picked up a secured telephone that was linked directly to the Command Center. "Cyclops 0041 to Main-One, please. Gamma-Blue-Ocelot, authenticate?"
        "That's a Roger, Cyclops. Sky-Turtle-Magenta confirmed. A secured line is provided. Go ahead."
        An orange telephone, placed next to a huge orange-colored leather chair, blinked its signal light on and off unnoticed. In the subdued light of the control room, that blinking should have easily been noticed and answered. But, since the phone was the private and personal line of a General, no one dared touch or even acknowledge its activity. The General would not look kindly on any such breach of his sanctity.
        The General was not at this phone, so automatically the call would be re-routed to first his private office phone and if not answered there, to the General's sleeping quarters.
        Inside the spacious converted office space that was now his home, the General's long gnarled finger casually pressed a red button marked 'capture' on his telephone. Under the solitary lamp light, brownish 'age spots' freckled his extended hand in abundance.
        Automatically, a voicemail robot instructed the caller, "...this call is being placed on hold... Please remain on the line until the phone is answered. Thank you."
        Then the freckled hand, obviously belonging to a man of many years, withdrew to its former position. After repositioning, it continued to stroke minute red scars on his unusually smooth chin. The entire upper portion of the General's face was hidden in darkness. But his lower jaw was highlighted in the desklamp's yellow glow. A chin so smooth, on a man possessing such old hands, was a startling incongruity. But, such considerations carried little weight with the General.
        The General was at that very moment talking to his plastic surgeon about other such 'improvements'. He was anxious about how they might affect his pending political career. "...Wallace, Wallace. How am I to impress the goddamned electorate with my 'Mature Vitality', if my hands still look so... fuckin' old!" General John Ian Archer paused to clear his throat. He wanted to speak to this caller in his most persuasive voice.
        A distinct buzzing was the only response heard from Dr. Hugh Wallace, a famous re-constructive surgeon and member of the National Party Committee. Anyone standing nearby would have caught only that buzzing fly sound in the deliberate silence of the General's apartment. The room was purposely insulated from the outside world. It was hidden behind a sound blanket of extra thick carpeting, huge antique tapestries and the humming of the air-filtering unit.
        "Cut the cock-and-bull. You've got to do that experimental procedure, Hugh. I need you to tighten up the backs of my hands and remove the fucking age spots. Dammit man, you know how anxious I am about this meeting with the National Committee. I have got to look my best. If I can impress them with my political viability, then I'm home free. All I'll need then, is for my people to rally enough votes for me at the national convention."
        Again the buzz, buzz, buzzing of the phone was heard in the room's onerous silence. At the same time, General Archer made scribbled notes on a nearby notepad. Waiting his turn to speak he began underlining specific words for emphasis. Once his thoughts were gathered, he intended to take the initiative and resume his appeal.
        "Yes of course... I am certain the outcome of this week's experiments will get us publicity. Yes, in every news service in the world. Don't worry about the final experiment. I guarantee I will emerge as a pivotal figure in that event, and the history made because of it."
        More buzzing emitted from the phone unit. The mood of the sound had gained both in volume and intensity.
        "You tell those bastards that's a crock of shit! I haven't put all this effort into a losing proposition. Don't let them stonewall you. Break 'em down... make them cooperate. You deliver the goods for me and I'll do the rest." Anxiously the General paused for the surgeon's reply. 'Hell's Bells--everything depends on him right now!' "Uh, yes! I plan on coming out to your Clinic... Next week...... Well, just you remember, I've got to have both hands done... Sure, then we'll be ready. The National Committee will beg me to run."
        The reply did not decrease in its intensity; Doctor Wallace did not sound reassured by what he heard.
        The General sighed with exasperation. 'Jeezus Hugh! What a pussy you are. I knew you'd harp on this old subject again.' "Come on man! Don't worry about Coffee... I'll handle him. So? ...Even if he is that bitch's lapdog, I'll keep him in the dark long enough to make my historic excursion into the great unknown, all alone...... Aw, come on, Hugh. Stop sounding like an old female body part.... Hey, if you don't have the balls for this little intrigue, how can you expect to win back the White House? What? No... She won't know what hit her. We'll steal all her thunder when we go public, first!" Sure that he had made his point, General Archer gave his salutations to Dr. Wallace and swiftly pressed the phone button that was blinking before him. A soft click was all he heard as he answered the caller being kept on hold.
        "Archer here, speak!"
        While the reply from the guard was being received, General Archer continued to scribble notes. "What else, soldier? ...Give me an ETA... They'll get here no sooner than that? Right."
        Note taking, a chronic indication of the highly organized, was also an admittance that age had dulled his once fantastic memory. Nowadays, Archer put things into writing that as a former Intelligence Officer he would have read only once. He had been capable of committing many pages of information to memory, almost at a glance. But time, a thief that mercilessly steals the blush of youth, also steals from us our memory. Thus, it kindly renders the loss of vigorous perfection, more sufferable.
        "Update me if your estimate changes. Over." Archer, satisfied that things were proceeding as planned, ended the call curtly. Then he speed-dialed the Command Center. The phone number he called was the desk of the military duty officer.
        "You know who I am--who are you?"
        A woman answered. She tried unsuccessfully to identify herself without stammering. "Th-this is uh, Captain Bedford, Sir. How may I help you?"
        "Where's Salter? You know who the hell I am talking about--don't you?"
        The Captain paused, long enough to purge the anger from her voice. "...Yes, Sir, I know who Max Salter is. But he's not in the Command Center, General."
        "What the frigging hell kind of answer is that soldier? If he's not there, where is he?"
        With a tremulous voice, she gave the one answer she knew would make her look even less competent than she already did. "He was right here a moment ago, Sir. Maybe he went to the... lavatory."
        "Maybe... maybe? Did you finish High School Captain? 'Cause you certainly didn't finish that sentence. Don't you KNOW where he is?" Archer, used to getting his way, had a tendency towards crassness. But, in the blink of an eye, the General's whole voice and manner changed. The politician within him knew he'd get more cooperation if he practiced a bit of courtesy. "I'm sorry for my bad mood uh...um..."
        Archer quickly checked he desk Rolodex. "...Elizabeth. The... uh pressure of this upcoming event has left me a bit testy. I apologize."
        "Oh no, Sir. Please, no apology is necessary." Captain Bedford played the poor dumb fish. She hurriedly rose to the General's bait. "I know how important today is, Sir... especially with all these VIP's here. If you could give us a moment, I'm sure we could locate the Chief Engineer and bring him to the phone."
        "Thank you, Elizabeth. Just place this call on hold while you search, please." Archer's phone voice now cooed in a sugary manner. "Maybe I'll take a trip to the little General's room in the meantime. Just tell Engineer Salter to wait for me if I'm not back by then, okay? And thanks again for the assistance, goodbye."
        "Goodbye, Sir." The Captain quickly put the call on hold. Then, calmly turning to the assembled workers in the Command Center, sighed. She was relieved to have temporarily averted a crisis. Captain Bedford then stood up, and mustering her loudest voice, got the attention of every available soldier on hand.
        "Everyone... scatter! Find Max Salter. Hurry! Anyone, who is not essential to the operation at this very moment, get going... Salter can't be too far away. He was just in here. Check all of the telemetry system bays, maybe he's double-checking the equipment. Tell him 'God' demands his presence, now! Let's go. Move! Move! Move!" The Captain collapsed in her captain's chair, positioned dead center on the command area's highest tier. In the amphitheater-like design of the center she had a full panoramic view of all activities. Below her were four other tiers; long consoles filled with various pieces of electronic equipment enclosed each tier.
        The seats of the equipment operators were mostly empty now. They were out looking for Dr. Salter. At the front of this curved area was the staging area which was a platform level with the floor. On this, were placed the special couches to be used by the subjects of today's experiment. The staging area was covered with a carpet of specially made fiber that would not reflect the various energies emitted by the frequency lances. Directly above the couches were the energy generating lances which could be mechanically raised or lowered to target the couches with a bath of frequencies designed to enhance the subjects 'Remote Viewing' activities.
        Captain Bedford engaged the security camera network to search the halls for Dr. Salter. He could not be seen anywhere on the Command Center's TV screen. "Oh, Max. Where in the heck are you? Darn-it!"
        Behind the couches was an enormous, flat Video Display Unit large enough to provide a clear view to every one of those seated on the tiers of the Command Room. Due to Dr. Salter's genius, the screen would show the actual mental perceptions of the 'Remote Viewers'--as they traveled through time and space. With a virtual reality program written by a company that once worked for Disney, International that reconstructs mental images into pictures, the VDU could provide a bird's eye view of each spiritual traveler's experiences.
        Even though he could not be seen on the security screens, Max Salter was nearby. He was in an annex to the Command Center Theater, located behind the VDU. He had no knowledge or concern for the manhunt that had him as its target. At the moment he was otherwise engaged. Max Salter was busy, talking to the dead.
        "Hello... Val? Please communicate with me, Val!" Max, stared off into a luminescent whirlpool of light that danced in the center of the room. "I know today is a little sooner than you had... anticipated for a return visit. I know, I do realize, you may not even answer me. But please, if you can... visit me, for just a little while."
        The whirlpool of light continued to twist and turn up and down its own length, shifting its luminescence up and down the color spectrum. Sometimes, when its color shifted up to the ultraviolet light range, it ceased to be seen at all. Then in a flash its color shifted directions and slid down the light spectrum again, going from violet, to yellow, to red and back up to orange in a matter of seconds. The pattern of this dance of light was completely random. Max Salter knew this because he had designed this system for the original Necromanteum technology. Before him was a holographic light carrier wave, a sort of malleable, luminescent, playdough. A spiritual energy being could impress their own image upon this substance. At the moment, no spirits impressed themselves on the carrier wave. Unused, it would continue to slowly turn in a vortex of pulsating colorful light.
        "Val. Please honey... I miss you so...." Max's voice trailed off as he realized the futility of his pleading. Val would answer only when the timing was right.
        Ever since he had joined Dr. Coffee's research project to build the Necromanteum, he had known what Coffee's 'Main Rule of Encounter' was: all contact is voluntary on the part of the spiritual being. That's because in the world of the non-living, time has little or no meaning. Val would not see Max until there was a pressing need for the encounter. For instance a future event the spirit might see and choose to tell Max about. The spirit might wish to give Max a head start on tomorrow--out of some residual concern for his welfare. The dead still love us, but we have become a lower priority for them. They have a whole new world to explore and so, prefer not to do a lot of idle chatter with the living.
        Val had already told Max to, '...get on with your life, before it is all over.'
        Max persisted in calling to Val once each day, even though Val might only respond once in every five. Finally Max gave in. 'I guess I'll have to have my communion with Val tomorrow. Shit, I did so want the communion, to give me strength. Maybe if I could just look at that beautiful face for a moment....' Max reached over to the remote control unit he had patched into the Necromanteum system. He started reprogramming the unit's output. This private chamber was actually his Hi-Tech workroom. He had used this place to merge the complicated electronic systems developed by Coffee's researchers into the technology used by the R-V#7 group.
        After fiddling with the mini-computer, the remote unit actually, he hit 'start' and the whirlpool of color abruptly changed. Suddenly inside that swirling mass of colorful light was a 'Being', a small-statured slender figure. Delicate limbs and gentle dark eyes stared back at Max. A gently curved forehead was framed in an immense mane of fiery colored tresses. The lithe little body was naked and devoid of any sexual characteristics. This androgynous being floated unmoving in a frozen wave of colored light.
        Max got up from his couch and circled the projection, looking at this ghostly image from all sides. Tears welled up in his eyes but never fell. It was pointless to cry over this thing. It was not a ghost. It was merely a recorded hologram, a three-dimensional picture recorded from his last encounter with Val. The dead could manifest themselves visually in any number of ways. They could appear as they were in the most recent lifetime or as in another previous existence. They can appear as a misty cloud, or as a bodiless head. Val chose to appear as a composite--male and female, black, yellow, white and red--of all the people Val had been, or would be. The image was quite disconcerting to Max, at first. But later, he grew used to the differences, could still perceive the similarities. Val, the person he had loved so deeply, was still completely present within that intermixture. Besides, Val had begged him to shed no more tears.
        With no actual spirit to speak with, Max talked to the frozen hologram floating before him. He hoped his thoughts and feelings would somehow reach Val in the great beyond. "I remember you saying how you felt no more pain over there, except the pain you felt for me and my lonely heart," Max said with a sad smile. He plopped his squat dwarfish little body down on the floor and looked up at the shining vision before him. He pushed aside a lock of thick black hair that blocked his view of Val's likeness. Sadness covered him. It was physically pressing down on him. It was like the wet wool blanket those frat boys had wrapped him with--during his freshman college year. He'd almost suffocated inside of that thing. He would have, too, were it not for Val.

*****


        It was after midnight. The air was damp and especially cold for October. Val had luckily been passing by at the time, and had kindly untangled Max's short little legs from the bundle his Frat brothers had left him in. This was no easy task because the Frat boys had also dumped the blanket into the stone birdbath gracing the lawn of the Art Institute. The college was a private one in northern California. Val was an 'Art Major' working on a sculpture after hours and fate had thus provided Max an escape.
        Max and Val became pals from that night on. Through four years of college they were always there for each other. Then one day Max got a rejection letter. It came from his high school sweetheart, May.
        She wrote that she, '...Just had to be able to get a better man than some... dweeby dwarf....' and called off an engagement that had lasted from the tenth grade.
        Max was thoroughly depressed. Only five foot five inches tall, his family had encouraged him to date an even shorter neighbor girl, 'Cross-eyed' May Scheutznauer. May was not as intimidating as other girls and was not likely to protest any possibility of marriage, arranged or not.
        The very shy Max was squat, hairy and a dedicated science nerd. With May, he could at least feel confident enough go to church and a movie once a week without having apoplexy. That was the basis of their relationship, and that was their dating routine, for seven years. They weren't likely to 'do any better', according to their families. So, neither of the two ever considered any other possibility.
        The two were 'scheduled' to marry since the tenth grade. Dutiful to their respective parents' wishes, they had remained chaste with each other, and with themselves, pending those future nuptials. The wedding day was on the calendar; planned for the month after Max got his Doctorate in applied sciences. Max had always known he was no lady's man, so he didn't resist. He realized the possibility of finding another fiancée was pretty remote.
        But, apparently 'Cross-eyed' May's prospects were better than his. In her 'Dear John' letter to Max she ripped away any of the pretense that still clung to their relationship:


        Max got depressed, then angry. Then Max got drunk. He got so drunk he ended up retching his guts out in front of Val's dorm that night. Val was duly notified by the House Parent and retrieved Max from the azalea bushes. Two hours and a pot of caffeine latter, Val had wrest the sad tale from a reluctant Max. Finally realizing who his real friend was, then declared, "...You know after drinking all night, I realize I don't give shit about May. I don't give a damn for anyone. The only person I'd give a damn about losing... is you. Nobody's cared for or meant more to me than you." Val had to agree about feeling the same thing.
        Valentine Chu, small and delicate even for an oriental, was five foot one inches tall. Art was the only love Val embraced. There was no other, ever. Val was an inwardly directed soul: sensitive; neurotic and repulsed by most of the activities that living required.
        The weekend after the 'Dear John' letter, Max and Val had gone out to get drunk. They spent the night swapping complaints about their love lives. Val's complaint was that the Chu family had distanced itself, "...because they are sure, I will never give them a grandson. I am the youngest in the family, so marrying was never a critical thing for me personally." The remark was said in a drunken moment of self-pity.
        The following morning found the two very hung over, but convinced of the profound depth of their friendship. When they graduated college and got their first paying jobs, the two rented a house in Suburbia together to defray expenses. Max got work as an engineer only for short periods of time because he refused to leave behind the area, and Val, to find work. Val could not get work as a sculptor and ended up working as a newspaper cartoonist. In hard times when Max couldn't find work, Val's cartooning paid the bills.
        Four years later they were still roommates. Their lives were linked inextricably and no family or public opinion would change that.
        Max was given a big career break at this time. Because of his brilliance, he was hired as a research engineer on a big military project. He was directly under the authority of a Colonel John Ian Archer, and would be doing research on 'Thought Projection', using electronic amplification. Unfortunately, Max would have to relocate to the military base nearby during the weekdays, for security reasons.
        Val was devastated. The long periods of separation left him desperate to embrace Max when they did see each other. In truth, their visits once a week, when Val went to pick up Max at the Military base, came at the end of five days of tortuous loneliness. Val had taken to wearing women's clothes so the passionate kisses they exchanged, wouldn't draw too many stares. With Val's butt length black hair and the light makeup he had taken to wearing in recent years, no one even looked twice, except to envy Max's good fortune.
        No one noticed, except Colonel Archer. Unfortunately, it was only years later that Max understood that. By then it was too late to save Val.
        Max's reverie was abruptly interrupted by a voice to his rear. "Say! Dr. Salter, the General is looking for you! He wants you in the control room, pronto!" It was one of the security people, a pimply faced fellow in a private's uniform, that had shouted at him.
        "Oh, fuck!" Obviously, Max had overstayed his little break from the daily routine.
        "Give me a minute. I'm coming right away." He quickly pulled himself up from the floor and shut down the power to the beautiful hologram.
        The recorded image would fade slowly. The energized light vortex floating in the center of the room would return gradually, its normal spectrum of random colors beginning their cycle of shifting colors. Max intended that this room's energy lance be left active. It would serve as a back up to the frequency lances in the Command Center. If those should fail, in an emergency this auxiliary lance could be used to control the return of the spiritual travelers to their own bodies.
        Max fumbled in his lab coat for his pocket computer as he walked briskly back to the Command Center. Never once did he give a second thought to the still active equipment in his workroom. If he had turned to look backwards he might have noticed the immediate formation of a long thickening sliver of red.
        The sliver twisted and danced in the energy vortex. It was flexible like a strand of misplaced angel hair, so insubstantial that swirls of colored light could bounce it about. Visually it was strangely compelling. It pulsed to a rhythm all its own. With each pulse that traveled down its length and back it... thickened. The high frequency whine of the generators shifted, increasing the power being fed into the vortex. Now, it was as thick as twine, a moment later as thick as a shoelace, ever growing. It danced more erratically, but still it thickened. The generators increased their input, as if in response to some unseen command. The shoelace's coiling length must now be several feet, then yards long in the passage of seconds. The pulsing of the thing was not just up and down its length, it could now be seen that each pulse increased its girth too. Its color shifted with the changes in the light, but a contrasting geometric pattern could also be seen stretching its length. When the rope-sized object was red, the pattern was blue, when it was green, the pattern shown in orange.
        The generators were being pressed to give more than they possibly should. Warning lights and indicators all over the workroom were beginning to flash red and crimson-colored signals. The undulating thing was still moving in a serpentine fashion, only now it was the thickness of a Cobra. Even the pattern along it seemed--reptilian. The generators, driven beyond the levels for which they had been designed, started shutting down. Circuit breakers kicked in to protect the systems from overload.
        By this time, the thing had grown to be as thick and long as a Python. Incomplete, not fully formed, the thing slid heavily down and out of the vortex. It glided with unnatural ease down to the floor. Then, with swiftness unimagined, it darted across the floor and disappeared impossibly down a screened air vent, as if the screening was not even there.

 


Chapter Three




        Silence prevailed inside the car for the last score of miles. Jason Coffee had tried to rest his eyes a bit.
        Bobby had driven in silent respect, while his thoughts were compelled to re-hash his last parting from Sharona. His eyes were still glazed over and he barely concentrated on the empty miles of road before them. Bobby was very worried. 'I'd have done just about anything to--' "Jeez, look out for that thing!"
        Dr. Coffee, anticipating a sudden stop, reflexively braced both palms against the dashboard.
        "Shit!" Bobby veered and braked hard to the left, straight across the roadbed. "What the..." He never finished his four-lettered cliché, he was much too occupied with avoiding the huge, black, bulk that loomed between them and the sunset.
        They were roughly jerked forwards then backwards, the car's body protested with a scream of distressed metal and lurched sideways as it recoiled off something massive in the road. The car's momentum spun it in a doughnut as the tires made contact with something wet on the tarmac. It slid, impotent and graceless, backwards into a ditch; the engine stalled and flooded with gas.
        'What in the hell did we hit?' Bobby's thoughts bounced around his head as he staggered out of the car and ran into the road.
        "You need medical assistance? Are you hurt?" Dr. Coffee was only now regaining his equilibrium. 'I can't focus my eyes--damn my high blood pressure. Oh Jesus, I'm dizzy. Must be from that vehicular centrifuge we just went through. But if I move slowly, I can get up and help whoever....'
        "Don't trouble yourself, sir. It's nothing you need be concerned with." Bobby reeled backwards as his nose was assaulted by an odor most foul. "Whew! Jesus H. Christ!" The air was filed with an unholy stench. A huge black carcass was stretched and twisted in a pool of its own blood. The maroon flow had gushed and was smeared across the whole road.
        Coffee, still concerned about the need to give medical assistance, stumbled out of the tilted car and onto the slippery tarmac. "Shit!" He almost lost his footing on the slippery surface. "Wow! How in the world...." His words drifted off when he saw the remains of a large black steer. Judging from the putrid stench of the thing, it had been dying of some profane infection even before it stumbled across their path. "Oh, Jeez, this is so unfortunate. But at least we're okay."
        "Oh, yeah. We're fine, sir. The car's a little crumpled but it's not totaled. It'll get us to the base at least." Bobby surmised the car's condition after checking it over.
        "My God, that poor thing's rotting from the inside out. Maybe we'd better move the beast. Get it out of the way or it'll cause a fatal traffic accident once it gets dark." He moved towards the body to perhaps grab hold of the beast's horns and try to drag it to the side.
        "Step back there, Sir!" Sergeant Petrocik was issuing a command with a definite military timber to his voice. He was not making a request. This was obviously something more serious than it first appeared.
        "What's up?"
        "Sir, there's no telling what kind of crap that thing was dying of. Please don't touch a thing. We'll need to get an Army Decontamination team out here right away... or leastwise once we get to the base.
        "Why so cautious, Bobby?"
        "Those guys in Bio-Hazardous Research have a small lab out at R-V#7. Maybe this steer's a pet of theirs. And any pet of theirs I wouldn't touch with a ten foot pole!" Bobby cackled with nervous laughter as he moved his toe out of a spreading puddle of blood. "Uh, I'm thinkin', let's both get back in the car... and clear the heck outt'a here?"
        Coffee considered what Bobby had inferred and elected to follow his lead. He was aware of the Bio-Hazardous Research Unit here. His duties with HEW included reading declassified reports on their research. 'Those guys may well be playing with some very nasty bugs, I'd hate to think just what that disease might be.' Jason took one last look at the rotting carcass and shuddered.
        Bobby was already assessing the condition of their transportation. The car was not permanently damaged except for the headlamp on the passenger's side. So, only minutes passed before they were on their way again.
        The image of that bloody mangled carcass rotting from internal disease, kept acting as a stimulus to Dr. Coffee's memory. The animal must have suffered long and painfully for the sickness to cause such degeneration. His mind involuntarily drifted backwards in time to an event from his past. He remembered that time when he met someone else who had endured terrible suffering, just as that animal must have.
        Jason remembered one particular day vividly....

*****


        Endless drizzle had blanketed the city for those last few weeks. Out in the countryside, the sun was an absentee lord over this fall's harvest time. Late ripening vegetables still clung to tree and vine, still green where they should have been gold, wanting just a few more days before their debut. While inside the city, idle hours with no purpose left Jason Coffee free to roam. He had walked randomly, all morning, along the avenues of Frankfurt, Germany, his mind taking pictures of a city he was soon to depart.
        He looked wistfully upon the city's cobblestone streets. Some of those streets were older than the country he was born in. Each 'Landstrasse' was flanked on either side by neat little houses; tiny painted bungalows. Some of them were very old, some not so old. All wore a riot of colors. To Jason, each modest habitat applied its makeup of brightly colored sash and trim to glamorize its worn visage... as if it intended to seduce him into remaining, rather than going back to the USA.
        Jason's Medical Fellowship at the University was at an end. In another week he was to return to the States to finish his residency requirements for certification as a Doctor of Psychiatry.
        He fumbled inside his raincoat for a cigarette, remembering too late he no longer smoked. He sat down on a bench in a small local park, and silently leaning backwards, let the misty drizzle drench his face. The slightly dirty solution was great camouflage for his tears. It dampened his tightly closed eyes with soothing coolness; a small relief for eyes cried red with sorrow. 'Celeste is dead... and the beautiful dream that became real is now only a memory.' Jason had lamented to himself as he sat motionless in the rain. 'Celeste... Celeste....'

*****


        Destiny had been waiting for Jason inside the door of the 'Antiquitarien'.
        For some strange reason this large shop of antiques had beckoned to him, from all the way across the 'Weiserstein Landstrasse'. An unavoidable impulse had brought him to this place today. It had nagged him and turned the path of his footsteps away from their intended route. So, giving in to the urge, he found himself dodging trolley cars and autos, as he trotted across the wide boulevard over to the shop.
        Jason had no business there. He was an American medical student on a limited stipend. He was mailed a modest check each quarter for his living allowances. So, he could ill afford to browse expensive antique shops. But some inexplicable compulsion, some other voice inside him, made Coffee enter the shop. The same compulsion made him elbow his way forward, jostling through a crowd assembled there for an auction.
        Jason, feeling not at all like a Black American 'Bull...'in a German'...China shop', which he was, walked beyond the standing room crowd. Resolutely he marched into a seated area, normally reserved for the auction's most elite clientele. Oblivious to the angry stares of others and curses of '...arrogant American bastard.', thrown with relish at him in several European tongues, Jason stood dazed and unaware. Undeterred by the mounting resentment, he listened to the Master of the Sales' spiel for each item up for purchase. His eyes wandered the crowd looking for... he didn't know what he was looking for, but he kept looking anyway.
        "'Meine Dammen und Herren', here is lot number forty-eight!" The auctioneer spoke in a southern German accent, that marked his origin as from old Bavaria. "This is a collection of diaries. They are refuted to have been transcribed from unpublished papers of the eighteenth century mystic, Emanuel Swedenborg. Who will start the bidding?"
        No one initially responded to the auctioneer's request. The polite crowd was silent; no one was going to bid first. "Come, come. We must admit these are not original documents written in the mystic's own hand, but they should still have a certain historical value, due to their unpublished content.... The currency of exchange will be Pounds; Dollars; Swiss Francs: in that order of preference. Deutchmarks will be converted at the Pound exchange rate. All sales are for cash. This is at the request of the estate executors. Is there a starting bid of £5,000?"
        The mood of the crowd was one of profound reluctance. Thereupon, a solitary arm shot up from the seated area. Clasped in the hand of that arm, was an electric blue-colored Agenda of the Sale, rolled into a tight tube. Five delicate digits held the Agenda firmly aloft. A flash of ruby red, a ring around the delicate little finger of that beautiful hand, drew Jason's eye. That ring, nearly as large as a robin's egg, mesmerized him where he stood.
        Beneath a wide, floppy, ruby-red hat, a woman dressed completely in silk of the same color, cleared her throat distinctively. This was a signal to the auctioneer that she intended to exceed any bid made on the diaries.
        From where Jason was standing, the hat and dark designer sunglasses obscured her face. Jason's entire consciousness suddenly focused on this woman. 'She couldn't be the reason I came in here, could she?' Jason urgently needed to attract her attention, just to see her face. 'Maybe seeing her face can tell me something.' Perhaps it would tell him the reason for his compulsion to seek her out. Without thinking, Jason's arm shot up. Could he get her attention? He waved his hand with as much restraint as he could manage, but he waved it fiercely.
        "Ah ha! I see a bid, there. The bid is now £10,000!" At the time, the auctioneer was staring straight at Jason.
        The red-hatted woman's head snapped around immediately. Her expression screamed her indignation. Who could be bidding against her? Snatching off her sunglasses she glared at Jason with a look that could wilt flowers.
        Passionate brown eyes framed in a cascade of blue-black hair stared back with visible animosity. She had a magnificently sensuous face and was beautiful in an offbeat, European sort of way. Her bearing was aristocratic, but not too much so. She appeared to be in her thirties or very early forties, twenty years older than Jason. 'What could I possibly have to say to her? She looks like some kind of... royalty or something.'
        Red painted lips, generous without being an exaggeration, suddenly parted in a brilliant smile. A flash of pure sunshine bridged the gulf between them. She looked him up and down and cocked her head to the side. Amazingly she began to laugh. Her eyes began to sparkle. Her laser-bright smile warmed Jason down to his bones. Her unabashed fascination stunned him so much, he had to remind himself to breathe. Quickly, she turned to the auctioneer. Gaining his attention with a mere raise of her palm, she snapped her rubied hand at the wrist and waved-off on her bid.
        Surprised, but no less professional, the auctioneer turned again to Jason. "The lady has allowed you the bid, sir. If there are no competing bids, then the lot #48 is yours, Herr?"
        Jason, panicked and confused, rushed forward to tell the man of the stupid misunderstanding. He had been mistaken for a bidder, even though he was not. Whispering breathlessly he moved close to the auctioneer's ear. "Hell no, not me! I-I'm not even an invited guest. Einschuldegung-sie, bitte... this is all a mistake. Verstaen-sie?" Fervently his eyes searched the crowd for the red-hatted woman... but her seat was empty.
        The private policeman, who had stood over the auctioned items for security, now Swiftly stepped over to the podium. He looked Jason up and down as if he suspected some sort of fraud. Poor Jason was in a mess. He was frantically searching for a swift exit. He was also panicked that he had lost track of the red-hatted woman. He hadn't even had a chance to speak to her. 'Why in the hell am I doing this? Who was that woman? Why do I feel like I've screwed up something, something really important?' An avalanche of questions tumbled around and about a brain that was swiftly approaching overload.
        "Please, sir. Have you no intention of paying for this purchase?" The auctioneer inquired politely but he signaled with his eyes to other discretely placed guards to approach the podium. If this were to be an unfortunate incident, then the guards would be needed.
        Cold fear now set into Jason's mind. 'Shit! Am I going to jail? Oh shit! Shit! How could I be so damned stupid?' It was at this moment, when Jason's only instinct was to run like hell, a stack of large denomination British Pounds were thrust into his face. Traveling up the arm that held the bills, Jason's eyes collided with the unbelievably brown eyes of the red-hatted woman.
        "Dearest, I am so sorry. I forgot you had intended to bid yourself." From her wondrous face came the sound of a smoky-smooth contralto voice. "Take this. You'll need it to pay for our purchase, of course."
        Jason was relieved she was speaking English, with moist, full, red lips. 'Accent, her accent was American! She's an American? Oh, man and she's playing this whole damned thing off! She's saving my ass--but why?' These questions kept assaulting Jason's confused brain, even as she took the money from him and paid for the books. In his state of shock he was not able to play his role in her little deception.
        She swiftly returned to his side and wrapping her arm through his, half-led, half-dragged him to the exit. Reaching across herself with her other hand, she tilted Jason's chin upward. "Look straight ahead, darling. Don't give the peasants anything to gloat over."
        At that moment, the confusion was inexplicably lifted. Jason was suddenly very much aware of who she was. He had never seen her before, but he knew who she was. She was the one he had been waiting for, all of his life. He knew this as surely as he knew his own name.
        At that exact moment, she turned to him and smiled that unforgettable smile. "Oh, so you finally recognized me? I knew you, from the moment I laid eyes on you." With that remark she hustled him out of the store to the curb and into a blue-black Mercedes parked there. With him installed in the passenger seat, she tossed the costly books into the backseat and drove away.

*****


        "You're an intuitive person, so you know what I'm saying is true!" Celeste propped her head upon a delicately folded fist. "The possibility of communication with those who have left this life could be potentially... an advancement in human evolution. Look at the amount of wisdom accumulated in one lifetime. Add to that: additional wisdom of one's parents, teachers, or holy men who have left this world, and any individual could rise to an unprecedented level of understanding in a single lifetime. Wouldn't that be wonderful?" Her eyes sparkled with passion. She was speaking of her special mission in life. She had vowed to add something significant to human development before she died and according to Celeste, that was next year.
        Jason watched the ruby-red nails of her other hand trace the rim of the expensive crystal goblet. The glass was still half-filled with red wine. He sat in awe of her commitment to life, even in the face of her own imminent death. "I'm just amazed at your calmness, about, well, what is to come. I mean you're...."
        "The word is dying, darling man. Don't let it frighten you." Celeste reassured him as she moved her hand from the goblet to cover his hand. "Death claims us all, many times, before we complete our time on the wheel of life."
        Jason was very unsettled. Meeting Celeste had turned his life upside down. He was elated to have met someone with whom he felt new, only dreamed of emotions. Yet, he was shocked to learn fate had guided him to this experience. He was befuddled by the realization that the woman before him... whom, he was certain, was the love of his life, believed they had been lovers before, in a different lifetime. Yet, her presence here, giving him a look that held the deepest love for him, proved something.
        His own swooning passion for a complete stranger, when he had never felt this for anyone ever, proved something too. His own intuition was something he'd learned to trust a hundred times over. It had brought him directly to her, and was telling him every word she told him was true. "It, it just bothers me, that's all. If a benevolent God, or fate, has brought us together, again, why am I twenty-four and you're over forty and dying? What benevolence is there in giving me happiness, then snatching it away from me?" He slumped backwards from the edge of his seat. He idly stirred the remnants of his meal with his fork. It was only done to disturb the flies that had taken up residence on his plate. Eating in outdoor restaurants had never been one of his favorite things, but Celeste found the cool wet air invigorating.
        "Don't be a Chauvinist-piggy Jason. Plenty of older men carry on with young women, all of the time!" Celeste's voice was full of teasing. "As to my imminent demise? Well, we're all dying from the day we're born. I, just know how and when."
        She clasped Jason's hand, the one she had only recently covered with her own, and squeezed it passionately. His strong thick black fingers contrasted greatly with the pale white pallor she now possessed. All of the ruby jewels, nails, shoes and clothing, that her profound sense of outrageousness compelled her to wear, could not distract Jason's eye from the sickliness of her pallor. He had kissed and suckled that cool rosette of a mouth and those starkly white breasts--breasts that possessed no nipples. Her nipples had swollen, hardened and fallen off over a year ago. "It was an unfortunate reaction to the harshness of Chemotherapy."
        Her hair had gone the same way. "I am in the winter of my hairline, darling. The 'fall' took less time than an autumn... but the devastation was the same." Now, only an expensive wig served as a stand-in for her once generous natural locks.
        The woman's failing body was far from perfect, and she was pitiably mortal. Still, the profound inner beauty of the woman could not be detracted from by such losses. Celeste was every bit as real and compelling to him as if she were perfect and immortal. "Don't laugh if you hear a sudden crack, it'll be my heart breaking."
        "That makes two of us, Jason."
        The next hour in the Cafe was spent in silence, with hands clasped and the drizzle washing their already wet faces.

*****


        A shy sun peeked insecurely around the edge of a great cloudbank. Streams of light gingerly breached curtains parted by a morning breeze. The light fell across Jason's closed eyelids, arousing him from a fitful sleep. In a moment of extreme awareness Jason appraised his predicament. It was the kind of clarity that comes rarely in life. He was painfully, 'don't give a shit what others think', in love with the sleeping woman next to him.
        She was a white, and he wasn't. That could be cause for serious concern in at least eighteen American States that he was aware of, but surprisingly of little interest to the Europeans. She was wealthy... actually, she lived off a trust fund. And, she was something of a celebrity--having been one of five identical quintuplets. Increase that estimate to thirty-six states. Add to these factors her imminent demise and this unusual relationship became downright unbelievable.
        He sighed heavily, then leaned over her sleeping face and kissed her brow. No eyebrow hair or lashes met the tender brush of his lips. 'Oh, God how I ache for her suffering. I wish I could take some of that pain and sorrow upon myself--if only for a little while.'
        'Oh, but you have already, Darling.' Celeste's mind answered him back.
        'Shit!' "Celeste, I told you I can't get used to you doing that. I-I just can't believe how close we are. Have any two people ever been so close before?"
        Languidly, her deep brown eyes opened to greet him, glistening with both sleep and satisfaction. She responded to his thoughts as well as his kiss. The telepathic connection between them was extraordinarily intimate. She had said the peace she felt with him, was what her life had always lacked. She had never known such joy, or real intimacy with anyone before.
        "The cancer is in me, it was my loneliness and frustration eating away at me for all these years. My need was denied, until I met you, but the damage had already been done." Celeste spoke without the ceremony of a morning greeting. The two rarely said hellos and good-byes. Because of their newfound telepathy they were always inside of each other's minds.
        "Weren't you at all close to your sisters? I'd always read that multiple birth siblings were unusually intimate." He had even read of medical cases in which such siblings shared the same kind of telepathic ability he now shared with her. "Why would five souls be born with each other if there was no shared purpose, or destiny for that birth?"
        "There was a destiny...." Celeste sobbed sadly before she could bring herself to speak again "...and a purpose too, each of us were meant to cooperate with the others in this lifetime, because in another life we... failed to do so. That failure was the cause of our deaths back then, and unfortunately history may have repeated itself."
        Celeste stared off into space for a time as if her mind had returned to her sisters.
        Jason was greatly saddened by the sorrow in her eyes. "If you knew all of that, then why wasn't your life this time around any different?"
        "All of our lives should have worked out much better, I'll admit. Lamentably, none of us got past the terrible resentment we held for each other. It poisoned us, and all those that cared for us. I was the lucky one. I escaped the pollution of the Clery family, I took off to see the world!" Celeste sighed heavily as if her exasperation defied words. "But, even that escape came just too late. The damage was already done."
        She reached over to the night table and retrieved a medicine bottle. Inside were pills designed to take away much of her constant pain. She only used the pills twice each day, instead of the four recommended times. That way, her mental alertness did not suffer. What she did with the pain when she wasn't medicated, was beyond Jason's understanding. "...I send the pain to another place, to a part of my brain I no longer use. It's a Yoga technique I learned in India."
        Celeste was adept at many such mystical disciplines. She had spent a lifetime learning things Jason would have scoffed at before he'd met her: Astrology, palmistry, reincarnation, even UFOs were subjects in which she was well vers