“He’ll rest now,” the doctor said. “I’ll stay with him for a while. You two can go back to your stations.” She gave them a sympathetic look. “I know you both must be tired.”
Dina left reluctantly. Earle followed with a cursory nod. Once they had departed, Bismala turned back to the man on the bed. Thermoreactive bedding kept him comfortable, sucking away any body sweat before it could turn clammy. As one of his doctors, she made it her job to attend to such details. Not everyone was allowed such an intimate personal glimpse of the Prophet.
As she watched him in his sleep she noted yet again what an unimpressive physical specimen he was. Not obese, but definitely overweight. Soft from a lifetime that had shunned suitable exercise, he more put her in mind of the corner pharmacist than some biblical herald bestriding the land. Yet it wasn’t his body that drew others to him, but the horrors that materialized in his mind.
When awake, he struggled to manage the organization that had grown up around him. He could be awkward with words, unsure of what to say or how to say it. In contrast, his nightmares possessed a dreadful eloquence. None could deny their veracity, or resist the truth they predicted.
If only he could describe exactly what he sees in his dreams, she mused. Though perhaps it was fortunate he could not. Oh-tee-bee-dee, she recited to herself. That was enough for her. That was enough for every one of his followers.
* * *
She stayed until morning, occasionally drifting and dozing while sitting on the side of the bed. It was large not because Fields indulged in company—his condition rendered him effectively celibate—but to prevent him from hurting himself. Tying him down in a smaller bed would have resulted in him breaking his bonds or breaking himself against them. The larger bed allowed him to thrash about unencumbered without fear of injury.
The arrangement had worked well save for one night when a visiting nurse had leaned too close during one of his dreams and had suffered a broken cheekbone as a result. When told of the incident upon awakening, Fields had apologized profusely even though he hadn’t been responsible for what had happened. The nurse didn’t press the matter. It was hard to blame a nightmare.
They awoke almost simultaneously.
“Dr. Bismala?”
Jerking awake and turning to him, she was instantly alert.
“How do you feel, sir?”
Struggling, pushing down against the mattress with both hands, he winced as he sat up and felt his left arm. “Another injection?”
She nodded apologetically. “I thought it appropriate. You were having a difficult time.”
He smiled humorlessly. “When do I not? Sometimes I think I’d prefer permanent sedation. At least then I would be free of the damned dreams.”
“Ah,” she chided him, “but then we would lose you as our principal motivator. People would leave the cause, and we cannot have that, because… oh-tee-bee-dee.”
“Oh-tee-bee-dee.” He nodded tiredly. “I’ll watch the recording another time. Anything unusual?”
She considered. “Not really. You were suffering the usual nightmares, high intensity, until I dosed you. Nothing coherent.” Her tone turned less professional, more personal. “Are you still unable to describe exactly what it is you see?”
He buried his head in his hands and dragged them down his face, then looked up again. “Monsters. Horrible clawing things. Waiting for me. Waiting for all of us.” With his right hand he waved at the ceiling. “The same as it has been for months, for years. I see them, hear them, smell them. You’re not supposed to be able to smell things in a dream, but I do. It’s unmistakable and sharp and very distinctive.
“They know I am among them, and yet they don’t,” he continued. “When they strike blindly in my direction I instinctively try to dodge. Sometimes I succeed, other times their blows make contact. Make contact yet pass through me. The pain is real, as real as if I were to stick myself with a knife.” He held up both hands, palms upward.
“Yet there are no wounds.” He eyed her imploringly. “Why me, Dr. Bismala? Why are these nightmares foisted on me? If I could, I would gladly pass them onto someone else. Someone stronger and better equipped to fight them back.”
“You’re doing as well as anyone might be expected to do, Duncan.” Her voice was soothing. “A lesser man would have caved long before now.”
“Then you don’t think I’m mad?”
She smiled. “I didn’t say that. From a clinical point of view, no—but there’s no precedent for your condition that I or any of the other medical staff have been able to discover. Everything about your nightmares, the few specifics you’ve been able to describe, is unique. If it weren’t, we wouldn’t be drawn to you and to the cause—as noble and righteous a cause as mankind has known for thousands of years.” She paused to gather her thoughts.
“You’re a living alarm,” she said. “A warning of what may come, of what will happen to us if we go… out there. Something allows you to see the cosmic horrors that are hidden from the rest of us. We owe you, Duncan. The world needs to see what you see, and to understand why we need to remain here, on this world, safely at home. Until we can accomplish that, we have to take whatever steps are necessary to ensure that the actions of fools, interested only in fame and money, don’t cause the death of every human being on the planet.”
“You flatter me,” he mumbled. “What’s left of me, anyway.”
She rose from the side of the bed. “We all bend beneath our burdens, Duncan. Yours is to be a prophet. To foretell what might happen if we dare to stray from our home. From our Earth. Thanks to you, that won’t be allowed to happen.”
“I’m not so sure.”
Looking away, he gazed out a window. There were trees out there, and hedgerows, and small warm-blooded things with fast-beating hearts. There were other people, wind and rain, life. To save what remained of his sanity he had withdrawn from all of that. Because if he were to be caught outside at night and look up to see the stars…
He shuddered, as if reading her thoughts. That would be the end of him. The nightmares would close in around him permanently and he would never wake up again.
“I know that the staff has set in motion a number of plans to stop the departure of the Covenant.” He turned back from the window, downcast. “The first attempt within the ship itself, then the effort to get one of our own onto the ship’s security team, and now the failure of the abduction attempt.” He shook his head. “We’re running out of time.” His gaze met hers. “It may be necessary to actually kill some people. I don’t want to have anyone killed, but Weyland-Yutani may leave us no choice.”
She nodded as she fiddled with her satchel. “Better to sacrifice a few than the entire species.”
He nodded without hesitation, though his expression was still morose. “What if our efforts are doomed to failure?”
“Fear of racial extermination is a powerful motivator. If the authorities would believe you—”
He shook his head sharply. “You know what would happen if recordings of my dreams were shown to them. They’d be shrugged off and shunted aside, because there’s money to be made in colonization. An entire industry has sprung up around it. When that’s set against the ‘nocturnal ravings of a little madman from Hampshire,’ the response is obvious.”
“Not to those of us who believe, Duncan,” she replied. “We know what is at stake. We’ve pledged our lives to put a stop to this dreadfully misguided colonization of deep space.” It was her turn to shudder slightly. “No one knows how you see what you do when you’re asleep. No one understands the cause or the science—if it is science. But for those of us who have gathered around you, for those who see truth in your nightmares, there can be no other choice. What are the lives of a few against the survival of the human race?”
He looked away. “I didn’t ask to be given this burden, you know. This responsibility. It was thrust upon me. I’d abjure it if I could.” He raised his gaze toward the ceiling. For just a moment, sitting
up in bed like that and striving to peer beyond the roof, he did look like a prophet. Mad or sane, it really wasn’t important, she knew. In the end, all that mattered were the nightmares.
She had always considered herself a rationalist, yet she believed—as did hundreds of others. How could she not, once exposed to the horrors innate in Duncan Fields’s dreaming? All of which led to one conclusion, which was encompassed in the simple acronym that had become the hallmark of the organization.
“Oh-tee-bee-dee,” she murmured to herself. Exiting the bedroom, she left him staring at the ceiling.
“Out There Be Demons.”
XIII
Duncan Fields wasn’t present at the meeting of the Earthsavers Council. The Prophet disliked discussing the details of the organization’s more sordid activities. While he approved of the intended results, listening to some of their methods left him distressed.
It didn’t matter. He provided the impetus for what they discussed. His input wasn’t needed, nor would it have been valued for purposes of decision-making. The dreamer had no experience in such matters, and would only have slowed down the process. Fields was not a brilliant man, but he was smart enough to know it, and to keep out of the way of what had to be done.
There were six members on the council, one representing each of the inhabited continents. All of them could have been dropped at a sales conference and they would have blended in just fine with the other attendees. The ruthless and powerful shun publicity and do all they can to insure that their images and activities are kept out of the media. They are never the power behind the throne.
They are the power beside the throne.
All of the council members accepted that Duncan Fields’s visions, nightmares, or whatever they were reflected a galactic order that demanded homo sapiens to remain safely close to home, and not draw attention to itself by sending crewed vessels out among the stars. Recognizing that their opinion was unpopular, they sought ways—both overt and subtle—to educate the public.
As yet they had not succeeded.
The technology to send mankind into deep space was there. Given the damage to the terrestrial environment it had proved easy enough to find volunteers. And there were corporations who stood to make money. Against such a surge of interest and publicity it was difficult for the Earthsavers to make their warnings heard. Nevertheless, the council and the followers of Duncan Fields persisted.
Now a colony ship, the Covenant, was about to embark, traveling all the way to distant Origae-6. A great big flag shouting the presence of humanity and offering a trail back to the vulnerable homeworld. It had to be stopped, by whatever means. Otherwise—the council and the followers were convinced—Fields’s nightmares would manifest themselves in reality.
Brave Eric Sasaki, an Earthsaver volunteer for many years, had given his life in the effort. So had another member, in London, though his companion had thankfully managed to escape. Most recently, of the five members who had embarked on the effort to kidnap the daughter of Hideo Yutani, two had died.
The survivors had argued for making another attempt, were even eager to do so, but they had been turned down by the council. Security around Yutani himself, as well as the core Weyland-Yutani company complexes in Japan, Britain, and elsewhere throughout the world had been tightened to such a degree that it would have been impossible to compromise.
“We could begin sabotaging various offshoot Weyland-Yutani enterprises that are involved with the colonization mission,” one middle-aged woman ventured. “A few well-placed explosives might do the trick.” She looked as if she should have been guiding a pram down a suburban street, and not discussing covert terrorism.
Another woman, of Asian descent, seated across the room from her shook her head. “Not a good idea. Innocent people would die, and if word got out that Earthsavers was involved, they won’t stop until the movement is dead. Besides,” she added as she poured herself a cup of tea, “it’s not a solution. We could blow up half of Weyland-Yutani’s properties and the Covenant would still be able to depart on schedule.”
An elegantly dressed gentleman slouching on a couch nearby spoke while resting two fingers against the side of his head. “At this point, the only way that we stop the ship is to incapacitate it, or force those in charge to halt its departure.”
“There’s no way we can get to the Covenant itself.” The speaker was middle-aged, overweight, in need of a better haircut, and he regarded his colleagues out of small black eyes that were set too close to his small nose, and he wore pants and a shirt that fit too snugly. He worked for the research arm of a large Russian pharmaceutical company specializing in lotions and creams, and was absolutely ruthless. “They’re rechecking the security clearances of everyone on the ship.”
Another man seated nearby was slimmer and indifferently dressed. Selecting a biscuit from the tin in front of him, he gnawed on it nervously, like a squirrel constantly on the lookout for a prowling hawk.
“Impossible to get anyone new on board anyway now. Not given how they’re scanning everyone prior to boarding a shuttle.”
The youngest of the group sat up straighter. “Then we have to stop its departure from here.” He looked around at his colleagues. “What about trying for Jenny Yutani again, or another relative?”
The younger of the two women shrugged resignedly. “You might as well try to abduct a world leader. We might be able to snatch a cousin, or a distant nephew. Knowing Hideo Yutani’s reputation, he’d probably respond by telling us to do whatever we wanted to do, as he has plenty of other cousins and nephews.” She concluded with a curse that was shocking in its cultural currency and utterly at odds with her appearance.
“If only we could get to Yutani himself,” declared Pavel, the overweight councilor. “But that’s impossible.”
“Perhaps not, dearie.”
Everyone turned to the matronly woman who had proposed blowing up company buildings. Her younger colleague set aside her tea to offer dissent.
“Do you have an actual idea, or are you just being blindly optimistic? We’re all aware of the increased security around every important member of the Yutani family. They’re not going to exclude the old man himself.”
The other woman nodded. “It is true that there’s no possibility for our organization to reach him. That doesn’t rule out others who might.”
The casually attired young man let out a derisive snort. “What ‘others’?” Pierre snapped. “Who else could penetrate that ring of steel?”
She looked across at him. “The one outside entity with enough local knowledge, clout, and indifference to authority. I refer to the Neoyakuza.”
The younger woman eyed her senior counterpart questioningly. “Why would the Neoyakuza want to get involved?”
“For the same reason such groups always get involved.” Sipping her tea, the matron peered over the rim of her porcelain cup. “Money.”
“Do we possess the necessary funds?” Choma, the representative from Africa, chewed on his lower lip. “This isn’t like asking them to muscle a ramen shop.”
Everyone looked at the overweight man. He considered a moment, then pushed out his lower lip and nodded.
“It can be managed.”
“We are agreed, then?” the matron said. When no one voiced any further dissention, she turned to the woman across from her. “Yukiko?”
“I will initiate the necessary connections and handle the follow-up negotiations myself.” She hesitated. “Regardless of whatever amount we offer, it is entirely possible they will turn us down.” She eyed her colleagues. “We have in our favor the fact that we don’t want the old man killed. Only ‘vacationed’… and then persuaded.”
The only man who had not yet spoken raised his gaze from his glass, which was filled with an odd concoction no one else would approach, let alone consume. He downed half of it in one long swallow. The fat man flinched at the sight.
“There are ways the Covenant can be permanently disabled. Once that is do
ne to our satisfaction, the old man can be released.”
“What’s to keep him and the company from repairing the ship,” the slim man said, “and sending it out later?”
The latest speaker turned to him. “As you know, the company I work for manufactures—among other products—a wide range of medical implants.” He did not smile. “A device can be modified so that a simple signal could cause it to release a lethal toxin. We wouldn’t need to inform the old man of the specifics. Only that if he fails to comply with our demands, we can kill him in an instant.”
“Excellent notion.” The matron might as easily have been chatting with the local greengrocer. “Then we’ll put it to a vote.” She gestured at the smaller woman seated. “Yukiko will commence negotiations with the Neoyakuza, and Pierre will see to it that a device is prepared that can be surgically inserted into Hideo Yutani’s body.” She offered a smile that was half maternal, half cobra. “I don’t know about the rest of you, but I see this latest approach as very promising.
“Are we agreed?”
A show of hands was taken. The council voted unanimously. Then, with nothing else of note to discuss, they finished their tea.
XIV
Nobody paid any attention to the elderly man with the sawara cane. As befitted his age he moved slowly, keeping away from the wet, busy Tokyo street packed with mostly silent autonomous vehicles.
Couples and clusters of friends laughed and chatted as they flowed around him. He was a slowly tumbling rock in a swift moving stream. No one bumped him or tried to nudge him out of the way. While he was largely ignored, other pedestrians were conscious of his presence and deferred to his infirmity. Though many things had changed in Japan, respect for the elderly remained.
Though it was raining, he carried no umbrella and disdained the use of a personal hydrophobic projector. It was almost as if he preferred to be wet. Long and lined like a portrait lifted from an ukiyo-e woodblock print, his face was framed by the upturned collar of his plain gray overcoat. His oversized hat drooped down both behind him and in front, providing some protection for his exposed neck and face. Dark eyes concentrated on the pavement lest he trip or step in a deeper puddle.