Black (56 page)

“Why not?”

“First of all, it's a dream! Listen to you. Even now you're talking of making a difference in a world that doesn't even exist! It's no wonder Michal refused to fuel your dreams with more information from the histories.”

Rachelle stood and crossed her arms. “Second, if you're right, the only way to stop it is to find this Monique woman you seem to have grown somewhat attached to. I won't have it.”

“Please, I hardly know her. It's not romantic. She's a figment of my imagination; you said so yourself.”

“I won't have you dreaming of a beautiful woman named Monique while I'm suckling your child,” Rachelle said.

That stopped him cold.

“So you really do want to bear children?”

“Do you have a better idea?” She paused. “I don't see another man around. And I do love you, Thomas, even if you do dream of another woman.”

“And I love you, Rachelle.” He reached for her hand and kissed it. “I would never dream of another woman. Ever.”

“Unfortunately it seems as though it's beyond your control. If we only had the rhambutan fruit, I would feed it to you every night so that you would never dream again.”

Tom stood.

“What?”

“The boy . . .”

“Yes? What about the boy?”

“He told me at the upper lake that I would always have the choice not to dream.”

She searched his face. “And yet you dreamed last night. Was that your choice?”

“No, but what if there
is
rhambutan fruit?”

“The fruits aren't the same anymore.”

“But maybe he left this one. How else would I not dream? He made me a promise.”

Her eyes lit up. She scanned the edge of the forest.

“Okay, let's bathe.”

They spent several hours searching for rhambutan fruit and, while they were at it, material they could use to build a shelter in the clearing.

By midday their hope of finding any rhambutan in this forest had faded, but then so had Tom's urgency to find it, although he didn't share this with Rachelle. The dreams seemed distant and abstract in the face of their new surroundings. The whole notion that he was dreaming of another woman of whom Rachelle should be jealous seemed absurd.

He watched her walk ahead of him through the forest, and he knew without the smallest shred of doubt that he could never love any woman as he loved her. She had the spirit of an eagle and the heart of a mother. He even liked the way she argued with him, full of mettle.

He loved the way she walked. The way her hair fell over her shoulders. The way her lips moved when she talked. She was beautiful, even with dry skin and gray eyes, though when she first stepped from the pool with smooth skin and green eyes, laughing in the sunlight, she was breathtaking.

The idea that she had anything to fear from a dream was absurd. He suggested that she keep looking while he turned his attention to the shelter they had to build. He had some ideas on how to build one. He might even know how to make metal.

And what ideas are those, she wanted to know.

Something from my dreams, he'd made the mistake of saying.

Maybe the rhambutan was a good idea after all.

Johan had finally returned from his scouting trip and helped Tom with the first lean-to, constructed out of saplings and leaves. Tom knew how it should look, and he knew how to make it.

“How did you know to tie those vines like that?” Johan asked when they'd finished the roof. “I've never seen anything like it.”

“This,” Tom said, rubbing the knots lovingly, “is how they do it in the jungles of the Philippines. We'll strap palm leaves to these—”

“Where's the Philippines?” Johan asked.

“The Philippines? Nowhere, really. Just something I made up.”

And it was true, he thought. But with less conviction now.

Rachelle strode into camp about the time Tom was thinking they should go looking for her.

“How are my men? My, that is a handy-looking thing you have there.” She studied the lean-to. “What on earth is it?”

“This is our first home.” Tom beamed.

“Is it? It looks more like one wall.” She walked around it. “Or a falling roof.”

“No, no, this is more than a wall,” Tom said. “It's the entire structure. It's perfect! You don't like it?”

“Functional enough, I suppose. For a night or two, until you can build me bedrooms and a kitchen with running water.”

Tom wasn't sure how to respond. He rather liked the open feel of the place. She was right, of course. They would eventually have to build a house, and he had some ideas of how to do that as well. But he thought the lean-to was quite smart.

She looked at him and winked. “I think it's very clever,” she said. “Something a great warrior would build.” Then she brought her hand from behind her back and tossed him something. “Catch.”

He caught it with one hand.

It was a rhambutan.

“You found it?”

She smiled. “Eat it.”

“Now?”

“Yes, of course now.”

He bit into the flesh. The nectar tasted like a cross between a banana and an orange but tart. Like a banana-orange-lemon.

“All of it,” she said.

“I need all of it for it to work?” he asked with the one bite stuffed in his cheek.

“No. But I want you to eat all of it.”

He ate all of it.

Rachelle watched Thomas sleep. His chest rose and fell steadily to the sound of deep breathing. A slight gray pallor covered his body, and she knew that if she could see his eyes they would be dull, like her own. But none of this concerned her. The lake would wash them both clean as soon as they bathed.

What did concern her were these dreams of his. Dreams of the histories and dreams of this woman named Monique. She told herself it was more about the histories. After all, an argument could be made that a preoccupation with the histories had gotten Tanis into trouble. But her concern was as much about the woman.

Jealousy had been an element of the Great Romance, and she made no attempt to temper it now. Thomas was her man, and she had no intention of sharing him with anyone, dream woman or not.

If Thomas was right, eating Teeleh's fruit in the black forest before he'd lost his memory had started his dreams in the first place. Now she desperately prayed that what remained of Elyon's fruit would wash his mind clean of them.

“Thomas.” She leaned over and kissed his lips. “Wake up, my dear.”

He moaned and rolled over. A pleasant smile crossed his face. Deep sleep? Or Monique? But he'd slept like a baby and not once mumbled her name.

Rachelle couldn't extend her patience. She'd been awake for an hour already, waiting for him to wake.

She slapped his side and stood. “Wake up! Time to bathe.”

He sat up with a start. “What?”

“Time to bathe.”

“It's late. I've been sleeping this whole time?”

“Like a rock,” she said.

He rubbed his eyes, stood up, and marched out to the fire. “Today I will begin building your house,” he announced.

“Wonderful.” She watched his face. “Did you dream?”

“Dream?” He seemed to be searching his memory.

“Yes, did you dream?”

“I don't know. Did I?”

“Only you would know.”

“No. The fruit must have worked. That's why I slept so well.”

“You can't remember anything? No phantom trips to Bangkok? No rescuing the beautiful Monique?”

“The
last thing I dreamed about was falling asleep in Bangkok after the meeting. That was two nights ago.” He spread his hands and grinned purposefully. “No dreams.”

She knew he was telling the truth. The fruit did as the boy had promised. “Good,” she said. “Then it works. You will eat this fruit every day.”

“Forever?”

“It's also very healthy and makes a man fertile,” she said. “Yes, forever.”

So Thomas ate the rhambutan fruit every day and not once did he dream of Bangkok. Or of anything.

Weeks passed, then months, then years, then fifteen years, and not once did Thomas dream of Bangkok. Or of anything.

He became a mighty warrior who defended the seven forests against the desert Hoards who marched against them. But not once did he dream. Not of Bangkok, not of anything.

Perhaps Rachelle was right. Maybe he would never dream again. Maybe he would eat the rhambutan fruit every day forever and never again dream of Bangkok.

Or of anything.

37

V
alborg Svensson stood at the head of the table and eyed the gathered dignitaries. All from governments that had been coaxed for three years with promises of power. Until now, none of them knew enough to damage him significantly. And if they did know more than they should, they hadn't damaged him, so the point was moot. There were seven, but they needed only one country from which to build their power base. All seven would be useful, but they needed the keys to one of their kingdoms as a backup. If they only knew.

Carlos was in Bangkok now, only hours away from eliminating Hunter once and for all. Armand Fortier was making the necessary arrangements with the Russians and the Chinese. And he, Valborg Svensson, was dropping the bomb that would make everything possible. So to speak.

He extracted his pointer and tapped off the cities on the wall map to his left. “The Raison Strain has already entered the air space of London, Paris, Moscow, Beijing, New Delhi, Cape Town, Bangkok, Sydney, New York, Washington, D.C., Atlanta, and Los Angeles. These are the first twelve. Within eight hours, we will have twenty-four entry points.”

“Enter the air space—as in . . .”

“As in the virus is airborne. Delivered by couriers over twenty-four commercial aircraft, spreading as we speak. It's highly contagious, more so than any virus we've seen. Fascinating little beast. Most require some kind of assistance to get around. A cough, fluid, touch, high humidity at least. But this pathogen seems to do quite well in adverse environmental conditions. A single virus shell is enough to infect any adult.”

“You've already done it?”

“Naturally. By our most conservative models, three million people will be carriers by day's end. Ninety million within two days. Four billion within one week.”

They sat dumbfounded. Not a single one truly comprehended what he'd just said. Not that he blamed them. The reality was staggering. Too significant to digest in one sitting.

“The virus is gone? There's no way to stop it?”

“Gone? Yes, I suppose it is gone,” Svensson said. “And no, there's no way to stop it.”

They were all jumping into the mix now. “And who will be infected?”

“Everyone. Myself, for example. And you. All of us are infected.” He pointed to a small vial on the counter. “We were infected within minutes of stepping into this room.”

Silence. The yellow liquid sat undisturbed.

Their objections came in a barrage of angry protests. “You have a vaccine; we should be inoculated at once! What kind of sick joke is this?”

“A very sick joke,” Svensson said. “There is no vaccine.”

“Then what, an antivirus?” the man demanded. “I demand to know what you're doing here!”

“You know what we're doing. Unfortunately, we don't have the antivirus quite yet either. But not to worry, we will very soon. We have less than three weeks to perfect one, but I'm confident we'll have it by the end of the week. Maybe sooner.”

They looked at him like a ring of rats frozen by a wedge of cheese.

“And if not?”

“If not, then we will all share the same fate with the rest of the world.”

“Which is what?”

“We aren't precisely sure. An ugly death, we're quite sure of that. But no one has yet died from the Raison Strain, so we can't be sure about the exact nature of that death.”

“Why?” To a man they were incredulous. “This was
not
what we discussed.”