Connections...

The crowd on the 3:23 a.m. train was definitely a little different than that to which I was accustomed, and unwarrantedly talkative for that hour. A lingering trace of drink and a surfeit of adrenaline still coursing through my veins, though, I managed more than passably to hold up my end of the conversation my chemically altered seat-mate seemed determined to have with me. He was voicing his largely insubstantial and rhetorical disapproval of one of the reigning political families. The family was actually one whom I had served many times. Not that I felt they were saints, but I’d served worse. I remembered some of the talk I’d overheard while repairing and reprogramming various equipment at their estate. I also recalled a couple timely tidbits from the news capsule I’d perused a few days earlier. It was enough to play an effective devil’s advocate. I was unable to defeat my opponent’s abrasive, dogmatic “logic,” but rather enjoyed the attempt. The exchange served as an outlet to expend the last of my nervous energy and begin the descent toward the exhausted attempt at normalcy that would characterize the next day. My feet hurt so badly I could not bear the thought of walking the extra distance from the “secret,” unaccustomed station to my residence. Everyone I knew would be going to work in a few hours. I gambled I’d be safe enough limping off the train at my own station, and so I seemed to be.

The lock resisted my effort as usual. The third barrel was the worst. I cupped my hand over each hole and clutched the key firmly to further absorb the metallic noise as I battled in slow motion, grimacing in nearly physical pain with each click, clunk and clank. When I finally got inside, I heard Kaitlyn stirring. I went directly to the bathroom and immediately started the shower.

As the steam opaqued the mirrors, I began to replay the evening’s surreal scenes out of someone else’s life in my mind. After thusly staring at the wall for a few minutes, I finally remembered to manipulate my limbs so as to propel my body toward the hot, dancing water…where I stood staring for the next 20 or 30 minutes. I had homework exercises assigned by Cleo. I had to dig out Kathryn’s old case of notes from the attic. I had an impossibly long day of “business as usual” ahead of me. And I had a date with Cleo at another bar NEXT Tuesday.

‘Geez, Dad, I thought you’d never finish in there.’

As I opened the bathroom door, Kaite’s impatient voice snapped me back to reality. I self-consciously tightened and checked my bathrobe as she emerged hurriedly from the dark and pressed past me into the bathroom, shutting the door forcibly behind her, bumping me out into the hall.

‘What are you doing up so early, anyway?’ she called through the door.

‘Oh, um, just couldn’t sleep, so I thought I’d get the day started and get ahead on some work. Sorry if I woke you.’

‘Oh, well. I have a bunch of stuff I should do, too. I’ll make us some blueberry pancakes and chicory coffee and we’ll make the best of it, whaddaya think?’

My strength was somewhat renewed. Whatever insanity I was undertaking, it was for the sake of this beautiful girl. There could have been no reason more worthy in all the universe. And there was stout coffee coming.

***<>***

That night I wanted nothing more than to crawl into my own bed and sleep the sleep of the dead. I felt no particular need that the sun should first set. Sadly, though, early slumber was not in the cards. I had an assignment, one that would have to be performed after dark. I’d like to have postponed it until the next evening, but I feared it might take several attempts, so I felt the need to get started. I mumbled to myself as it crossed my mind that Cleo had probably planted this inconvenient seed of urgency in my mind. I’d have to master some skills fast in order to hold my own against the crafty veteran.

Cleo wanted me to try again with the damned lights. She even thought being excessively tired might help. It was certainly true that stronger impulses disrupted fields more than weaker ones, so I guessed there might be some logic in that also applying to a severely drained human being as, potentially, an extreme negative electrical point. She had told me to pick out a single light, a flickering, obviously weaker one if possible. Although I’d chosen an abandoned section of town at a border between tech and non-tech areas, I could find no weak lights, so I seated myself on a bench, opened the book I’d brought along for cover, and began staring at the first light across from me. Address the light. Embrace the light. Draw it steadily to you. Drink its energy.

I tried. Really, I did. This had been Kathryn’s work, so, foolish as I felt, I took it seriously and grappled against nothing to make some palpable connection with the lamps, or the light itself, or maybe just the sensation of energy. I wasn’t sure, and I’d tried this before without success. I concentrated until my brow hurt, but nothing seemed to be happening. Again. I was unspeakably weary and my patience worn through. In desperation, I finally stood up and pocketed the book. Never taking my eyes of the glowing globe, I began advancing toward the unresponsive torch. Still nothing but my rising anger and frustration. I walked all the way up to the pole, even clasped my hands around its cold metal throat, staring all the while at the bulb. Finally, in absolutely hopeless disgust and defeat, I relented. I released the pole, turned, and began to walk away.

At about the twelfth pace, darkness fell.

This had to be Fate’s cruelest joke, ill-timed coincidence. I just wanted to go home and be done with all of this. Slowly, with a sigh, I turned back toward the light, to stare at the globe once more. A deep breath, a steadying of focus… With a sensation rather like a sighing exhalation of life force, I pushed what I hoped was a wave of re-igniting energy toward the streetlight, in my mind’s eye picturing the cloud of energy flowing from my chest to the base of the pole, traveling up the pole to return the power of illumination to the bulb. As hard as I could, I willed the glow to return. Moments passed. Nothing. Another deep breath. I took a step forward and exerted another purposeful mental push so hard I imagined I felt the drain on my body physically. I stared thusly for several more seconds– and the light returned! I was incredulous, delighted and more than a little unsettled by what I had just done. I spent another half hour or so in this pursuit, trying to act casual as I paced back and forth under the light, scanning for witnesses and turning my new, inanimate, electrical soul-mate on and off several more times.

Connecting with a human mind turned out to be a similar sensation, the feeling of consciously breathing an energy from one’s own mind into another’s, turning on a light to show you the way through that person’s unique labyrinth. It’s very slow going. When you first find your way in with someone, you’re not really sure if you’re in or not. It’s a haze of brown-gray, quiet darkness hanging over your own consciousness. Then pictures and sounds begin to emerge from the dimness, but almost like holographic projections cast over that which your own physical eyes are already seeing. At least that’s how it was for me.

***<>***

Success with the consciousness work was coming, albeit slowly. It took a great deal of time and energy. Through some stroke of luck, I was also getting a lot of the better paying assignments with the nons just then. Had I been asked before my new work began, I’d have said there was no way I could have accommodated the addition to my load, but I was managing. I was dark-circled and losing weight living on coffee and coded, dosed nutrition packets usually consumed on some train going one way or another, but I was more or less managing. My daughter barely saw me and was becoming quite concerned. The only saving grace was that, on the days I didn’t see her, at least I was spared the tax of having to convince my most knowing critic and supporter that everything was normal.

I had stocked up more than enough credits to get us through the mandatory research sabbatical that lay ahead. All in our community were required to give 2 months of such service each year. Opinions surrounding that fact were mixed. Many would have been less resistant had the term “research” not come to refer most commonly to new product development. The council demanded high potential for financial return on all sabbatical work, and if one’s project submission did not offer that, a more “community-oriented” project was assigned. For many scientists, the time spent on sabbatical projects actually took time away from a regular research routine in which they had achieved their own desired balance between service necessary to pay the bills and intellectual pursuits they found truly compelling. It was a further blow that, inevitably, when one went on sabbatical and the assigned backup or backups began covering the service calls, some clients were lost, inertia being what it is with most humans, especially nons.

Although I was ready and urgently needed what, for me, would constitute something of a break, I was somewhat torn about approaching the council to request an early sabbatical just yet. Cleo’s paranoia was rubbing off on me. She felt there were some highly-placed individuals involved in the corruption of Kathryn’s work and whatever else their greater plan entailed. That possibility rendered the prospect of going before the council somewhat intimidating. My shielding abilities were developing, but weren’t completely reliable yet. Cleo said I was pretty obvious a lot of the time. A few more weeks, perhaps.

Meanwhile, I was gambling on their approval of my request and was making preparations accordingly. The evenings I wasn’t with Cleo were mostly spent with Cavett, my long-time collaborator and oldest friend. I was grateful for the hours with him. Here, at least, was one person I did not have to impress or convince all was well. He’d seen me during worse times, even before the children were born. I had seen him through some very difficult periods as well. Neither of us asked too many questions, but, instead, exuded calm confidence in one-another’s ability to survive and prevail. Similar to my own situation, he had been putting in incredible service hours and was also quite ready for a break. Sabbatical work days would still be long, but we would be spared riding the train, dressing the part and suffering the attitudes of the nons. We got down to the business of writing a project plan without undue ceremony.

Cavett was an interesting individual. He had dark hair, olive skin and very strong, angular features. His appearance could be alternately striking and gruesome, depending upon the light and his mental state. A wardrobe of unrelenting gray added to his intensely solemn aura. He was an exceptionally quiet person. The few words he uttered were in a deep, deliberate tone inviting no argument or other response. In the solitude of our shared industry, he spoke, by necessity, more to me than to any other living soul, summing to just enough exposure to make me aware of his disfluency difficulties, which seemed to be aggravated by exhaustion or excitement, both of which are part and parcel of a Scientist's life.

I admired him. The verbal exchange hurdle wasn’t the only challenge he’d had to overcome. I probably knew him better than anyone else did, and even with me he’d never spoken of his background before his arrival in our community. He arrived at a time when we were painfully short-handed, the submission of timely solutions in digital form buying him entry to our group. No one had had time to ask many questions. We’d put him straight to work. Time passed, as it does, and, as is the way with people, when the dust settled a bit, no one could admit how little they knew of him, or bring themselves to ask what they felt they must have missed earlier on. Ah, Scientific pride in our thoroughness and wisdom will be our downfall!

I had become curious later on and had run a number of searches on Cavett Yurman, yielding no record of his existence prior to the skills certifications he’d tested for and received just a couple months before coming to our community. I checked all the scientific identity thread records, still coming up empty. Perplexed, I thought of one last possibility. I checked the Non identity files. Two years previous: a Cavero Yamamoto, formerly Charles Yves – moving out of a non-tech town over 700 miles away, no forwarding address specified at time of update. There were no photos. For that matter, the integrity of what little info I found was suspect. The maintenance of records in the Non-Tech offices is notoriously shoddy. I guess it was really just the repetition of initials. Seemed like Cavett. Who knows, though...

Someone forsaking the comforts and leisure of non-tech life for the interminable hassles of the scientific world? Rarer than rare, and what a difficult path to choose! Such a person would have little hope of respect among the scientists, and, unlike our own adventurous youth, would have difficulty returning home if his new path didn’t work out well. Some of the more bitter scientists would see to that.

Whatever his background, the man had long been a faithful friend and the best, most gifted, unbelievably tireless research partner I had ever known.