“Okay, let’s get back to work,” Quinn said. “We’ll keep an eye on it, see if it changes by the end of the day.”
FOUR
50 HOURS
FOR ALL OF his five years Pete Ellison had lived inside a twisted, distorted brain. No longer.
He had destroyed his dying, diseased, fever-racked body.
Poof.
All gone.
And now he was … where? He didn’t have a word for it. He had been freed from the brain that had made colors scream and turned every sound into a hammering cymbal.
He drifted now in a silent, blissful place. No loud noises. No too-bright colors. No brain-frying complexity of overwrought sensation. No blond sister with her bright yellow hair and stabbing blue eyes.
But the Darkness was still there.
Still looking for him.
Still whispering to him. Come to me. Come to me.
Without the cacophony of his brain Pete could see the Darkness more clearly. It was a glowing blob at the bottom of a ball.
Pete’s ball.
That realization surprised him. But yes, now he remembered: such noise, people screaming, his own father in panic, all of it like hot lava poured into Pete’s skull.
He had not understood what was happening, but he could see clearly the cause of all the panic. A green tendril had reached for and touched long glowing rods, caressed them with a greedy, hungry touch. And then that arm of the Darkness had reached for minds—weak, malleable minds—and demanded to be fed the energy that flowed from those rods.
It would have meant a release of every sort of light, and everyone except the Darkness would have been burned up.
Meltdown. That was the word for it. And it had already begun and it was too late to stop it by the time Pete’s father was rushing around and Pete was moaning and rocking.
Too late to stop the reaction and the meltdown. By normal means.
So Pete had made the ball.
Had he known what he was doing? No. He looked back at it now with a feeling of wonder. It had been an impulse, a panic reaction.
He had never meant a lot of things to happen that did happen.
He was like that guy Astrid used to have in the stories she read to him. The one called God. The one who said, “Poof, make everything!”
Pete’s world was full of pain and disease and sadness. But hadn’t the old world been that way, too?
He no longer had his handheld game. He no longer had his body. He no longer had his old, miswired brain. He no longer balanced atop the sheet of glass.
Pete missed his old game. It had been all he had.
He floated in a sort of haze, a world of vapors and disconnected images and dreams. It was quiet, and Pete liked quiet. And in this place no one ever came to tell him it was time to do this or do that or go here or hurry there.
No sister’s loud yellow hair and stabbing blue eyes.
But as time passed—and he was sure it must be passing, somewhere if not here—he could picture his sister without feeling the mere image overwhelming.
It surprised Pete. He could look back at that day in the power plant and almost look on the confusion and screeching sirens and panic without feeling panic himself. It still all seemed like too much, way too much, but no longer so much that he would lose all self-control.
Was it that memories were quieter? Or that something had changed in him?
It had to be that second thing, because Pete’s mind no longer felt the same. For one thing he felt as if he could think about himself for the first time in his jangled life. He could wonder where he was and even who he was.
The one thing he knew was that he was bored with this disconnected existence. For most of his life the only peace and pleasure he had found had been within his handheld game. But he had no game to play here.
He had wished for a game.
He had gone looking for a game, but there was nothing like his old handheld. Just avatars that seemed to drift by. Avatars, symbols with curlicues inside. They formed into groups or clusters. Or sometimes they went off alone.
He sensed there might be a game, but with no controls, how could the game be played? Many times he had watched the shapes, and sometimes it almost seemed they were looking at him.
He peered closer at the avatars. They were interesting. Little geometric shapes but with so much twisted and coiled inside them so that he had the impression that he could fall into any one of those avatars and see a whole world within.
He wondered if it was one of those games you just … touched. It felt wrong and dangerous. But Pete was bored.
So he touched one of the avatars.
His name was Terrel Jones, but no one called him anything but Jonesie. He was just seven, but he was a big seven.
He was a picker working an artichoke field. It was hard, hard work. Jonesie spent six hours a day walking down the rows of chest-high artichoke plants with a knife in his gloved right hand and a backpack on his back.
The larger artichokes were higher up on the plant. Smaller ones lower down. The up-chokes—picker slang for the higher ones—had to be a minimum of five inches across. The ankle-chokes—the lower ones—had to be at least three inches. This was to make sure the pickers didn’t wipe out the whole crop at once.
No one was exactly sure if this rule made sense, but Jonesie didn’t see any reason to argue. He just moved along the row cutting with practiced ease and tossing the chokes over his shoulder to drop into the backpack. Up one row and down the next was all it would take to fill his pack. Then he would sling it off and dump it into the old wagon—a big, ramshackle wooden thing that rested on four bald car tires.
And that was all Jonesie had to worry about. Except that right now he was finding it more and more tiring. He felt as if he couldn’t catch his breath.