Shift (39 page)

Then she thought of Nick and the Colonists. He'd put his own life in danger to save hers. He'd deliberately called to the alien. She'd heard him. Now it was her turn. She had to save him and she had to send the pictogram to the Colonists.

She turned at once, aiming for the roof, thinking of the sky and pulling it towards her. Her world exploded in a wash of blue. She stopped, composed herself, summoned the image of the pictogram and held it, fed it, filled it with as much energy as she could muster and willed it to the stars. She turned and repeated the process, again and again, aiming at every point she could imagine, holding the image until it hurt. Wherever the Colonists were they had to see it. They had to!

She sent a prayer with the last pictogram. Wherever you are, hurry.

Then her thoughts turned to Nick. How long could he evade the alien? The Colonist that had pursued her had been relentless.

Nick swung through yet another office block wall and immediately turned right – flying through the skin of the wall itself, trying everything he could to throw his pursuer off. Concrete and metal reinforcing came and went, blurring into a soup of dirty grey. How could the alien follow through all this confusion? They were in a solid wall for Christ's sake! You couldn't see more than a molecule in any direction!

Unless the alien had other methods to track him? Maybe he could see through walls? Maybe he was following Nick's thoughts?

He thought silent, he thought air, he thought blend. He stopped running and willed himself into the cavities between matter, the interstitial gaps between atoms and reality. He spread himself, stretching, merging his essence with the fabric of the building.

Somewhere far away he could hear the alien raging, words muffled by distance and garbled by anger. The sounds came and went as the alien circled and searched. He had to know Nick was close but couldn't see where.

Nick stayed silent, covering his thoughts with layers of down. He was part of the wall, a grain of sand, a spinning electron. He was . . .

"I see you." The words burst inside Nick's head. And he could feel something else too. A wave of elation. No anger at all.

A bluff. It had to be.

"I can reach you, even in there."

The words resonated through the concrete, vibrated through Nick's elongated consciousness, brushed against his mind.

And there was something else. A fizzing, effervescing sound as though . . . acid? He felt a burning sensation. The wall was bubbling, being eaten away. Him with it. He was sure of it. He could feel the wall moving, swaying beneath him.

Out! He had to get out, escape! He drew himself back together, burst out from the wall, zigzagging wildly. Behind him, a section of wall the size of a billboard crumbled and fell like sand to the street below. No stopping to look, he buried himself in another building and another. In and out, twist and turn.

The alien followed, calling to him as the two wheeled and pitched through buildings and then up across the sky in a higher dimensional dogfight. Nick was running out of options; he'd hid, he'd run, what was left? The void? The ocean? The sun?

A pictogram image flashed across Nick's mind. Had the alien implanted it? The image disappeared. Louise? Had she sent the pictogram to the Colonists? Were they on their way?

Another thought; he had to keep the alien in Orlando, close to the pictogram's source. He had to keep the alien there until help came.

But how? The alien was gaining on him, he seemed to know every turn Nick would make before he made them.

An idea; Nick thought left and turned right. The pursuing distortion shot wide. Nick doubled back towards the centre of Orlando, feinting turns with his thoughts, layering his mind – one for show, one for go.

Downtown Orlando gleamed in the winter sun. And something else. Something hovered above the city like a minor sun. A star in daylight?

The star was directly in his path. It hovered above the skyscrapers, a brilliant ball of light so small, so intense. The Colonists? Had they arrived so soon?

Buoyed by hope, he flew straight for it, leading his pursuer towards the light.

"John Bruce!"

The words reverberated inside Nick's head like a cathedral organ with all the stops pulled out. It wasn't the alien's voice. It was . . . higher and multi-layered, more like a choir than a single person.

And was it coming from that star? The one directly in his path? The one he should be veering away from but wasn't?

He tried to turn but the light was blinding, he couldn't focus on anything else. It was sucking him in. "Turn!" he screamed, "Turn now!"

The light flashed by to his side. Somehow he'd managed to miss it. And what the hell was it? He could have sworn it had wings.

"John Bruce!" the radiance boomed again.

The alien stopped, stunned by the beauty of the shining presence that called his name, captivated by its incandescence. It had to be an angel. It had wings, it shone. It looked just like the old paintings. And that voice. The harmonics. It was like the sweetest choir he'd ever heard.

It spoke again, "I bring thee tidings of great joy."

He struggled to compose himself, to find a means of reply. If he'd had a physical form he would have thrown himself to the ground and shielded his eyes.

"Art . . . art thou an Angel?" he stuttered.

"I am the Angel of the Lord, John Bruce."

He knew it! And it had come for him just like he knew it always would. He was special. He'd been right all along. God had chosen him. The powers he'd been given had been a test, just like he'd guessed, a test to see if he was worthy to implement God's plan on Earth. To unite the world under His dominion. One world, one faith, one God. Paradise.

"Thy time has come, John Bruce," sung the angel. "The Lord thy God commands thee to await him here, whereupon thy destiny shall be revealed unto thee."

John was ecstatic. He'd known since the SHIFT flight he wasn't like other men. He could project his soul. He could fly. He could hear the demons that invaded other men's minds. And he could smite them when they moved against him. But he'd still had doubts. God's plan hadn't been easy to discern. There were clues everywhere. Everyone knew that. But some appeared contradictory. And the Devil was everywhere, laying false paths. But now all that would change. God was on his way. God would show him the true path.

"Thank you. Thank you," he said, bowing as best he could in his celestial form. Maybe God would show him how to unite the world without war? He was sure there was another way but all the clues appeared to indicate that war was inevitable. He'd read Revelations so many times his head hurt. But whatever God decided, he was ready. He'd kill, he'd martyr himself, he'd die on a cross if necessary. Anything to serve Him.

"Thank you," he said for a third time.

The Angel flickered for one last time then disappeared in a blur of wings.

Nick was waiting on the hotel roof, spread out along the roof tiles, his senses turned upwards. Where was she? This is where they'd agreed to meet. Had she been killed by the alien? He'd checked Bruce's suite, she wasn't there. Had she got lost?

Minutes ticked by. Had she been taken by the Colonists, that ball of light? And where was the alien? Had the ball of light taken him too?

"Nick?"

He heard her before he saw her, a faint whisper in his head and then there she was, dropping out of the sky, a hazy cloud of sparkling lights.

"Louise!" He burst out of the roof. "Where've you been? How'd you get away? Are you okay?" There was so much to say, so many questions, so much news to recount.

"I'm fine," she said. "But we haven't got much time. I don't know how long I can hold him there."

"Hold who, where?"

"The alien. You flew right past me. Didn't you see?"

"The ball of light?"

"Is that what I looked like? I thought angel, I thought shining, I though brilliant white. Didn't I look like an angel? The alien thought I was."

He couldn't believe it. "That was you? I saw the wings but . . . you were so bright. It was like a minor sun out there. How did you . . . "

He couldn't finish the sentence, so many other thoughts pushing in. How did the process work? Illusion? Suggestion? A real physical transformation? And could he alter his form too? All those times he'd tried he was never sure if it worked or not. "You really did that just by thinking?"

"Desperation helped. I knew there was no way to outrun him so I had to come up with a plan to slow him down. Seeing he was a born again God-fearing alien I thought I'd show him an angel. Did I really look that good?"

Louise sparkled against the deep blue sky, a thousand tiny points of lights dancing in recollection of her finest hour.

"You looked amazing but . . . what did you do to him?"

"Told him to wait there for God. I don't know how long it'll hold though. Long enough for us to get our John reconnected and into hiding, I hope. How long do you think it'll take the Colonists to get here? I sent the pictogram as soon as I could."

"Ah," said Nick. "I'm afraid it's not going to be as easy as that."

"Why not? We've got to do it now. The alien could return at any moment. He's bound to find either John or his body unless we get them away quick."

"It's not that. I forgot to tell you in all the excitement. John's gone. I can't find his body anywhere."

"What do you mean 'his body's gone?' How could it?"

She couldn't believe it. To be so close and then . . . how could you lose a comatose body in a bathroom?

"I don't know. I was looking for you at the time . . ."

"And our John? Is he still in the closet?"

"Ah . . . let's check."

He dived into the roof. Louise followed. Could John have reconnected by himself? Some arcane sense that told him his body was close by and drew him towards it?

And wasn't that good news?

Nick dropped into the corridor, raced along the wall and dived through a door.

"In here," he said.

Louise followed. She could barely see a thing. The closet was small and unlit.

"Where is he?" she said.

"At the back by the shelves. 'Switch Frequency,' John. Can you hear me?"

"I hear you, wing leader."

Louise was confused. If John was here, where was his body? And was John here? She couldn't see him. She could hear his voice but that could be coming from anywhere up to eight, ten metres away. He could be in another room.

"Get John into the light. I need to see him."

"Come on, John," said Nick. "Time to follow the wing leader again."

Louise watched from the closet. Was that something moving in the shadows? She drifted back into the corridor. Two clouds of hazy lights hovered above the lush carpet. It was John. But . . . how? How could he be here and his body . . .

Could he have moved his body and then returned to the closet?

"Switching to radio encryption again, John," said Nick. "Same as before—follow me wherever I go but until you hear me say 'switch frequency,' you won't be able to understand a word. Now, Lou, why on Earth would John connect with his body, move it somewhere else, disconnect and run back to the closet?"

She didn't know. But who else could have moved the body? The alien?

"He didn't have time," said Nick. "He was either chasing me or talking to you the whole time."

"Where's the bodyguard?" She'd only just noticed. The corridor was empty. The bodyguard should have been standing guard outside Bruce's room.

"He's not here, is he?" she continued, excited. "Which proves John came this way. The bodyguard wouldn't have left his post unless John left his suite."

"Uh, yes," said Nick. "I think we'd already established that. Unless you think John might have left via a window."

This was not a time for levity. She was angry and flustered. And Nick's cavalier attitude didn't help. He should be panicking too. They'd lost John and any second an enraged alien could burst through the ceiling.

"Calm down, Lou. There's a very simple way the body could have been moved without invoking anything nasty at all."

"How?"

"Think about it. John Bruce has got a major speech to make in—what do you reckon—about an hour or less by now? What's more natural than someone knocking on his bedroom door to see if he's ready?"

"So?"

"Well, what would they do? There's no answer so they open the door. The room's empty so they check the bathrooms and—voila—there he is, comatose on the floor. He's breathing but they can't wake him, so they call an ambulance. Off goes John Bruce on a stretcher and away go the security guards with him."

Relief! What had happened to her grip on reality? Someone goes missing and all she can see are little green body-snatchers dropping out of the sky in waves. Was this a taste of things to come? Normality in a sling until some future date when her brain readjusted?

"Come on, Lou. It's nearly over. All we've got to do is find that ambulance and make the reconnection."

Arnie Fredericks paced the small room. They'd had twenty minutes to rewrite John's speech. Half of that had already gone.

"No, Ricky," he said. "It's still not there. Yes, we mention Suarez but we can't be seen to be making capital. John's got to come off as shocked but statesmanlike. Everyone'll know he's the frontrunner now, we don't have to rub it in."

Ricky Benitez, John's speechwriter, marked the passage and moved on.

"What about China?" he asked. "Should I cut that section? We can hardly blame China for Suarez glassing Zinger."

Arnie pushed his hair back, running his fingers through his short, wiry hair. Could they backtrack on China? After making such an issue of it?

"No," he said. "We stay on message. China's a threat and we need strong leadership."

"But what if Suarez confesses to having McKinley killed? We need to be ready to back-peddle or John's going to be vulnerable to claims he's a warmonger."

"No." Fredericks was adamant. "We've got to keep America thinking about security. That's where the Democrats are at their most vulnerable and that's where John's going to win in November. Even if China didn't have McKinley killed, they could have. So, we push that." He threw up his hands. "Who knows, the Chinese might have got to Suarez and brainwashed him or tampered with his water. Where there's doubt, there's votes."