Brothers of Tomorrow

By Charles Hampton

What if you discovered the FBI was following? 
your every move... but you don't know why?

On a dark San Francisco night, two infants—Michael and Daniel St. James—were left on the steps of Marydale Home for Boys. They were beautiful little boys, but the nun who found them sensed something extraordinary about them. As they grew, strange occurrences—forks dancing, mashed potatoes splatting in faces—set them apart from the other children. Branded as "freaks" by fellow orphans, they formed an unbreakable bond.

Leaving the orphanage, Michael attended college while Daniel sacrificed his dreams to support him. When he knows Michael can go it alone, Daniel leaves home to discover their true identities. He learns the truth in the rural town of Utopia, Arkansas, where he is viciously attacked and left for dead.

Enter Jessica Simms, the Utopia librarian, who had assisted Daniel in his research. Jessica rushes to California to inform Michael about his brother. Together, they journey to Utopia, where they find Daniel in the hospital encased in an eerie blue-violet aura that baffles the doctors. An undercover FBI agent seeks Michael's help against an unknown enemy who wants to take over the country. Michael hesitates—until he realizes saving America means saving Daniel, too.

In this high-speed thriller, truth unfolds, secrets shatter, and lives hang in the balance. Brothers of the Tomorrow delivers 100,000 words of action, mystery, and suspense, with a touch of romance.
 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Charles Hampton
• Release date: Jun 21, 2024
• ISBN: 9798227346377

Book preview

one

AT THE SOUTHWEST CARNER of the White House, sixty yards from the west-wing executive offices, Danny Potts, chief of staff and long-time political advisor to President James Mattson, jerked to a halt when a uniformed figure stepped out of the shadows.

Sorry, Mr. Potts, didn’t mean to surprise you, the security guard said. The President is expecting you, sir.

Danny squared his normally stooped shoulders and nodded thanks as the man opened the door for him. The guard would have to log his visit, so from habit Danny glanced at his calendar watch, noting the date and time. Sunday, April 10, 9:45 P.M.

Two minutes later, he stepped from an elevator into the great hallway on the second floor of the White House. The richly furnished hallway had been designed to impress visitors, but tonight Danny saw none of it; instead, his thoughts focused laser-like on just one thing, the panic the President had projected over the telephone five minutes ago.

Danny, thank God you’re still here! the President had said. Can you come over? I’m in the second-floor study.

Of course, Mr. President. I ...

Hurry, Danny. Click.

Danny Potts had hurried. Now he stopped before the door to the President’s private study and took a deep breath to compose himself. During the day, the President frequently used the hotline, but rarely at night. America was at peace; the war against terrorism had been declared over ten years ago and the country had returned to normal; the Mattson administration’s only real problems were the usual political things, getting appointments or legislation through congress, swapping pork for votes. So, what was this about? Jim Mattson was not a man prone to fear or panic.

Danny lifted his hand and tapped on the door. Almost immediately, the door opened six inches and James Mattson’s handsome, square-jawed face, topped by a beautiful mane of wavy gray hair, peered through.

The President’s dark brown eyes flooded with relief. Danny, come in! He stepped back, allowed Danny to enter, and then quickly closed the door. He shoved a half-full snifter of brandy into Danny’s hand.

Mr. President, I don’t need that.

Take it, Danny. Trust me, you’re going to need it.

Danny accepted the drink. Inside the room, which was lit by one lone Tiffany floor lamp standing in a corner, he halted in front of the President’s great oaken desk and glanced around. A second later, he realized they were not alone. Martha McBride, the President and First Lady’s long-time personal maid and nanny to their children, sat on a plush sofa in one corner, head down, stroking Snoopy Girl, the President’s pretty little tri-colored beagle. The dog had its brown-freckled nose buried under the maid’s arm.

The President wore his favorite royal blue velvet robe trimmed in gold and he was wearing slippers. Clearly, he had been preparing for bed before making the urgent call to Danny. His face was more worried than Danny had ever before seen.

Mr. President, I—.

Danny, sit down. Take a drink, relax, listen.

The President waited until Danny sat on the edge of an antique oaken rocking chair and took a sip of brandy. Then he blurted, Danny, Snoopy Girl has been murdered.

Murdered! Danny came out of his chair. His gaze darted to the little beagle lying in Martha McBride’s lap. The woman stopped stroking it and looked up. Her eyes were bloodshot and there were tears hanging on her high cheekbones. The dog didn’t move.

Danny sat down again. Sir, I’m so sorry, he said. I know how you loved her. But you said murdered. Who would hurt Snoopy Girl? Have you called security?

The President cut Danny off with a hand wave. He looked at the maid and said, Tell him what happened, Martha, and don’t leave out a detail. And for God’s sake, don’t start bawling again?

Martha McBride, dressed in a light blue and white maid’s uniform, nodded, snubbed twice, and looked at Danny with glistening blue eyes.

Oh, Mr. Potts, it was awful, it was, she said in a slight Irish brogue. I was making his honor’s bed for the night and, as usual, the wee little darlin’ was nippin’ around my heels, trying to get me to play with her. I ignored her, of course, on account that’s all she ever wants to do. Then suddenly she whimpered right at the back of my head. It startled me, her sounding so close, so I turned and found her little nose six inches from my own.

Martha, you mean the dog was on the bed?

No, sir. I mean, the little one was floatin’ in thin air, big as you please, right before my eyes. Floatin’, sir. I’m telling you; it nearly gave me a heart attack. ‘Oh, my God!’ I say. ‘Snoopy Girl, what on earth?’ I could tell the poor thing was scared to death, so I reached out for her. That’s when she took off flying big circles around the room like she was caught in a whirlwind, if you know what I mean. She was whimpering something terrible, too, poor baby.

Jesus! Danny said. He looked up at the President to see whether he was taking the story seriously. Jim Mattson’s face said he was.

Go on, Martha, finish it, the President ordered.

Yes, sir. Mr. Potts, it took me a minute to get over my fright, as you can understand. And then I had only one thought, to rescue the little dear from whatever had caught her up. So, I chased after her and tried to grab her, but it was impossible. Whenever I got close up, she soared to the ceiling or down almost to the floor. She whirled around the room faster and faster ’til I got dizzy trying to keep my eyes on her. And then suddenly, like she had been shot from a cannon, she smashed head-on into the big mirror over the dresser. She let out a horrible, blood-curdling scream, sir. Then she fell to the dresser, bounced down onto the floor and lay still. I rushed to her crying out, ‘Snoopy Girl, oh, Snoopy Girl!’ but she didn’t move, she was so broken up. I bent down and touched the dear thing’s cheek. She opened her pretty little brown eyes once to look at me. They were so sad, sir. She didn’t understand. She gave my hand one sweet lick with her little pink tongue and then she was gone. Oh, sir, there was nothing I could do for her. Nothing. I ...

That was it for the maid. She broke up, lifted the beagle into her arms, and pressed her cheek against its lifeless body. Oh, Snoopy Girl, I’m so sorry, she wailed. I’m so sorry.

Martha, stop it! The President’s tone was sharp. We had a deal, and I want you to honor it. Leave Snoopy Girl on the sofa and go to your room. Have a nip of that sipping whiskey you keep hidden under your pillow and go to bed.

Have a nip, you say, sir?

The President smiled a tired smile. Have two nips, if you like, Martha. You’ve earned them.

Martha McBride grinned at the President. Well, if his honor says so.

He does.

The old woman rose, placed the dog’s body on the sofa, and then said, I bid you good evenin’, Mr. Potts. I hope you catch the devil what did this, I surely bloody well do.

We’ll try, Martha, good night.

Martha McBride left them, and Danny said, Mr. President, that’s the craziest story I’ve ever heard. You don’t believe any of that, do you?

I do, Danny, every word. The President tilted his snifter and drained it. Which is why you’re here.

The President glanced at Danny’s snifter, shrugged and walked to a corner cabinet to refill his own glass. When he returned, he pulled a cane-bottomed chair close to Danny’s rocker and sat down.

Danny, what I’m going to tell you may sound crazy, impossible, in fact, he said, but I swear every word is true. And, just so you know, I’m not angling to be the first President in history to be impeached for insanity?

Danny Potts couldn’t help the half laugh that escaped him. He took a sip of brandy to smother the rest of it.

This is not funny, Danny. We’re facing the most serious threat to our national sovereignty we’ve ever confronted, worse than Hitler, worse than Stalin, worse than the terrorist bombings. I called you here because we have to do something about it. Of course, after you hear what I have to say, you can volunteer to help, or you can decline. I leave that up to you, okay?

Of course, Mr. President, but have I ever turned you down?

The President chuckled. As far as I know, never, Danny. You’ve always been loyal to a fault, but this time I’m asking you to undertake what may be the most dangerous mission of your life, so after you’ve heard what I have to say, think carefully about your answer. First, I hope my call interrupted nothing that couldn’t wait. Perhaps before we get started, you’d like to make a call or something?

No, no, Danny said, his normally smooth brow furrowed. I was just trying to decide whom we want to piss off tomorrow. I got three senators, two ambassadors and that prick from the Longevity PAC all vying for the same time slot. Other than that, nothing important.

To hell with them, Danny. In fact, you can cancel all my appointments until further notice.

Sure, but what should I say is the reason?

I don’t care, Danny. Invent something. If we don’t solve this, nothing else will matter anyway.

Good Lord, sir! What on earth is it?

I’ve had a visitor.

Who? From where? Here?

Here, Danny. In my bedroom. It threatened my wife and children. What happened with Snoopy Girl was a demonstration to prove it can do anything it wants to with any of us.

Sir, I don’t understand.

I know you don’t, but I want you to understand. This is a national emergency. I want you to run the show and put our best people on it.

Sir, I’ll do whatever it takes, but… what the hell is it?

The President nodded. Right. He sighed, then said, Tell me, Danny, do you believe in the paranormal?

two

MICHAEL ST. JAMES stood at the edge of the cabin porch, lifted his arms toward the heavens and shouted, Daniel, wherever you are, brother mine, hear me! Your book is finished! This is the one!

A hundred yards below, moonlight rippled like streaks of gold on the surface of Lake Huisache. Michael drew cold air into his lungs and expelled it in a jet stream. Above him, the sky sparkled with a million diamonds, matching his own glowing exhilaration. After months of grueling work, Destiny, Be Damned, his fifth and best novel, was finished and ready for submission. He would do a final detailed edit tomorrow and Friday, then drive home to the San Fernando Valley on Friday night. He would print the manuscript over the weekend, and ship it to Nolly Stein, his New York literary agent on Monday. His two-week cabin rental worked out perfectly.

Ten feet away, nosed into a termite-eaten hitching rail, his aging Ford Mustang waited for him to pack up and head for home. Just two more days. On impulse, he went inside and grabbed his last can of cold beer from a half-size fridge. Back outside, he hopped off the porch and headed down a winding footpath that led to the lake. The trail was dark, but here and there broad splotches of moonlight guided his steps like spotlights on a darkened stage. The pungent odor of rotting humus commingled with the freshness of living, breathing pines filled the air. It was the raw perfume of death and life, a reminder of the real world outside his writing.

At the base of the path, he stopped at an unpainted floating dock jutting thirty feet into the lake. A sign hanging on a chain blocking the entrance warned: Danger! Unsafe. Do not enter! He ducked under the chain and walked halfway out, his footsteps echoing in the night. Under his feet, the dock undulated gently. Low wavelets lapped musically against the bottom of the wooden slats.

Michael took a deep breath, more at peace than he could ever recall. His gaze dwelled fondly on the yellow lights of other cabins dotting the lake’s rim. They were pleasant beacons in the darkness of the mountains. He sighed.

He loved this spot. During the past two weeks, whenever he needed inspiration, he came here to enjoy the view and the soothing motion of the dock. Now, though, it was almost time to go home, time to give Destiny Be Damned the birthing it deserved!

He was immensely happy. The world was a wonderful place. He had the best brother possible and the best book ever written. Well, maybe not the best, but up there with the best.

He remembered his beer and popped the tab. The beer hissed. He tilted his head and took a long pull, killing off a third of it. He suddenly had a powerful urge to celebrate, to get drunk, to climb a mountain and proclaim his joy to the universe. But he knew he wouldn’t because he never did. Still, it would be great if Daniel could be there to celebrate with him.

With Daniel, he could relax and tell him what he had tried to do in the book, and how he had created his hero from a composite of both their personalities. He especially wanted Daniel to read the book’s last scene, in which Alex Fulton, the novel’s rags-to-riches hero, had stood atop a high-rise overlooking the glittering night lights of Los Angeles and had shouted out in triumph, Fuck you, destiny! You’re mine!

As he pictured the scene, his favorite daydream flashed into his thoughts. His book had become a runaway bestseller. He was standing before a startled Daniel, holding out a mind-boggling, six-figure check and saying, This doesn’t come close to repaying what I owe you, brother mine, so just consider it a down payment. Then he was beaming and saying, Now, if you must bum around the country seeking our roots, you can do it in style.

Michael’s thumb stroked the silver-gray stainless-steel ring machined by a twelve-year-old Daniel during a metalworking class at Marydale. Daniel had produced two of the rings, one for each of them. Michael smiled as he remembered how grave Daniel had been when he slipped chains holding the rings around their necks.

These rings don’t fit us now, Michael, he had said, but someday they will, and when they do, we’re never to take them off. We’re brothers and brothers must stick together. As long as we have these rings, we’ll always be there for each other. No one can ever conquer us.

During their years at the orphanage, he and Daniel had spent endless hours, taking turns telling each other about their dreams: from him how someday he was going to be a great writer and earn huge sums of money, so he could buy them a mansion with butlers and gorgeous maids with giant tits and a swimming pool; and from Daniel, how money didn’t count for shit if a man didn’t know who he was, and how, someday, he was going to learn their true identities, so they could die with honor and have their real names on their tombstones.

It had taken years of soul-searching through his writing before Michael realized their goals were the same. Daniel was driven outward to roam the country in a quest to find their physical roots; Michael was driven inward, into the often dark recesses of his own mind, seeking another kind of identity. Once, joking, Daniel dubbed himself Mr. Outside and Michael Mr. Inside.

Resisting tears brought on by the memory, Michael hoisted his can toward the stars in a toast. "Destiny, Be Damned is for you, brother, he said, for all the years you sacrificed to put me through school, for all the years you delayed your own life to help me. Now I’m going to repay that sacrifice, I swear it!"

In salute, he drained the can in one long pull and sat it on the dock at his feet. He swung his gaze outward, absorbing the peaceful beauty and quietude of the evening.

Fifty yards out, a bright red globe sparkling with brilliant, short-lived bolts of lightning caught his attention. He strained to bring it into focus. Had it been there all along? No. He would have seen it. It resembled a large red Christmas ornament drifting six feet above the water. A balloon? Or perhaps an oriental lantern loose from its moorings? No, just a glowing ball flashing electrical discharges like a Tesla coil.

Curiosity aroused, Michael walked further out onto the dock, causing waves to slap and slosh beneath the wooden slabs. The globe seemed to move toward him. Had fluorescent gas oozed up from the lake bottom? He once had read an article about glowing marsh gases.

A larger bolt of white lightning stabbed from the sphere into the lake. Michael frowned. The thing definitely was getting closer. Another bolt discharged into the black waters.

Michael looked back, checking his escape route. The thing probably was harmless. Still…

The sphere continued its slow approach and then stopped to hover motionless a few yards from him. At this distance, he could see that its glow came from inside the sphere. It appeared to be generated by a darker shadow at its center. About three feet in diameter, it pulsed as if alive. Driven by curiosity, Michael reached toward it, but jerked his hand back as the internal shadow morphed into a twisted, evil likeness of Daniel’s face. The face glared angrily at him for two seconds and then unleashed a lightning bolt straight at Michael’s head. Michael dodged. A section of railing exploded behind him. Michael grabbed a remaining section to keep from falling into the lake.

Tonight you die! A strange facsimile of Daniel’s voice reverberated through Michael’s brain like an echo from a distant canyon.

He stared at his brother’s contorted image. The face morphed into a sphere again and spat another bolt of glowing white lightning at him. Michael’s palm shot up to block it. The bolt struck his hand and rebounded, hitting the floating apparition dead center. The thing flickered wildly for several seconds. Michael was amazed to see Daniel’s face appear again, only this time it was old and contorted with pain. Evil red eyes blazed pure hatred at him from cadaverous sockets. And then, as if someone had flipped a switch, it was gone.

Daniel, wait! Michael cried. His words echoed across the lake.

He stared in disbelief at his right hand and arm; an eerie blue-violet aura engulfed it. He looked down at his trembling legs. They were also encased in the soft aura. His legs trembled; weakness threatened to take him down. He dropped to his knees, fighting for control. What was that thing? The voice sounded like Daniel’s, but his brain rejected the idea.

He had been thinking about Daniel and had hallucinated. Still, the sphere twice tried to kill him. Marsh gas didn’t do that. A quick scan of the lake revealed nothing. Only the cabin lights winked back at him. Trembling, he pushed up from the dock. As he straightened, his legs collapsed. He felt and heard a thump as his head hit the dock. His left hand hit cold lake water. A sense that Daniel was in desperate trouble overwhelmed him. Daniel, hang on! I’m coming. I’m—.

His words were cut short. Pain stabbed through his head as though an ice pick had punctured a hole through his brain. He screamed and rolled onto his back. An even more excruciating pain drilled deep into his right shoulder.

Ahhhhhgh! he screamed. What was happening to him?

Suddenly, all pain in his body vanished, and he was lifting at blistering speed into the night sky. The lake, the rim of dark trees, and the cozy spots of orange cabin lights shrank to mere specks in seconds.

What the hell? he yelled.

And then he was nowhere near the cabin; rather, he was encased in a bubble of softly glowing, phosphorescent blue-violet light plummeting toward planet Earth at meteoric speed. Screaming like a roller-coaster rider, he slammed into the atmosphere, bounced once, twice, and continued plunging toward the southeast coast of North America. Flames generated by the friction of high-speed passage through the ionosphere roared against the protection of his glowing shield. The increasing heat threatened to roast him alive. I’ll die like a falling star.

No! Stop! he shouted. This isn’t real.

His motion stopped. He calmed himself and looked down. He was floating unmoving above a small town divided down the middle by a broad, tree-shaded avenue. On the avenue were stores, a café, a Fox movie theater, and a bank. Branching out on both sides of the avenue were narrower streets rimmed with early twentieth-century residences. There was no motion anywhere. The town was asleep.

This is stupid, he said. I’m dreaming.

He examined himself. No legs, no arms, no body. Hell, nothing. This had to be a dream.

Michael laughed at his predicament, half in fear, half in amusement. He had fallen and slammed his head against the dock. Had he knocked himself cuckoo? Could this be a hallucination brought on by a concussion? Or perhaps he was dead. No, he felt too alive. I’m just dazed, he thought. I’ll wake up soon.

He hoped.

three

He drifted downward, as if pulled gently by a magnet. His descent halted just above a sagging two-story home sitting back from a respectable, tree-lined street. The house, with white paint curled and peeling off everywhere, had a deep, fenced-in porch running across the front and down one side. In a narrow driveway next to the side porch, a white Honda Civic sat under a trellis enshrouded by purple wisteria. A stream of yellow-orange light poured from an upstairs window. Where was this place? It looked too real to be part of a dream.

Michael scanned the street. All the houses were of similar vintage, but only this one showed any sign of life. Was this his destination? Was it even possible for a dreamer to have a destination?

This is crazy! he shouted. Michael, wake up!

He didn’t wake up. Instead, he drifted toward the window and through a dusty orange window shade; he halted six feet above the floor inside a large bedroom with wooden floors.

He laughed again, his fear dissipating, all thoughts of the strange events on the lake forgotten. Whatever this was, dream, hallucination or even death, it was fascinating. If he couldn’t wake himself, he might as well enjoy the ride, see where it led.

Lit by a single bulb screwed into a socket in the ceiling, the room was from another era. It had a dresser and mirror, a wardrobe, an iron-posted bed with covers turned down, and a blue-painted bedside table that had seen better days. A curved-neck lamp sat near the table’s edge to make room for a telephone and a wind-up alarm clock. A book rested on top of a large manila envelope lying face down across one corner of the table. The clock said one-seventeen. This dream was becoming more bizarre by the second.

Michael tried to make out the cover of the book, but it was too far away to read. He drifted toward the bedside table. Within seconds, he recognized it. It was a copy of his first novel, Brother Mine. His own photograph, taken several years earlier, stared up at him from the back cover. He suddenly recalled the pleasant memory of his and Daniel’s excitement the day the book arrived in the mail. He glanced around. Whose room was this? Daniel’s? He studied the bed. On it lay a pair of white bikini panties, a pair of pink pajamas, a hand mirror and a pink-handled hairbrush. On the floor at the foot of the bed lay a puddle of clothes, a crumpled pair of blue jeans, a white blouse, a pair of white socks. Beside the pile sat brown leather loafers. A woman’s room, not Daniel’s.

He heard a thump coming from the other side of the bedroom door. The door creaked open. In a panic, he looked for a place to hide, but too late. The room’s owner stepped inside. Michael soared to the ceiling. The woman ignored him. To her, he didn’t exist.

My God, she’s beautiful!

He gaped at the woman like a moonstruck adolescent. In four published novels, he had created five different women, all of whom in his imagination had been stunning either for their brains or beauty or both. But never in his grandest imaginings, never in his finest prose, had he ever conceived a woman so strikingly lovely as the one now before him.

A large wet bath towel covered her from just above firm, but not-overly large breasts, down to the tops of her thighs. She walked to the bed and retrieved the hairbrush, turned toward the dresser, then changed her mind. She sat on the side of the bed and lifted his book and the envelope. Suddenly, her eyes filled with tears. She wiped at them with her arm and put down the book. She studied the envelope. Her eyes grew even more worried and miserable. What was it about his book and the envelope that could cause such a beautiful woman to feel such misery? The creature on the lake? No. Impossible. That was only a dream.

He had a sudden urge to hold her, to kiss away her tears. He used all his will to move toward her, but he remained frozen in space and time.

Who are you? he screamed. I want to help you!

No response. She didn’t hear him.

After staring at the envelope for a moment, she tossed it on top of his novel, lifted the hair brush and walked to stand before the dresser. There, she began inspecting herself in the mirror.

Unable to take his eyes from her, Michael watched in fascination, trying to understand the power of her attraction. Looked at objectively, she seemed not at all extraordinary. Her body moved with the litheness of youth; her legs were shapely and appealing, but not enough for a magazine ad. Yet, never had he been so drawn to a woman. But was she really as stunning as his response suggested? Or was his reaction caused by something else, something he didn’t understand?

In her late twenties, she was, he guessed, about five-five or five-six. Her hair, thick, almost purple black and still damp, hung to her shoulders. Her face was classic and delicate; cheekbones, high; nose upturned; lips, full, yet determined; her chin and neck and shoulders were soft, white and lovely. Her beautiful dark-brown eyes, glistening with tears, were the most incredible part of all. They were eyes Michael had only dreamed existed, eyes any man could dedicate the rest of his life to making smile.

As he watched, the girl began brushing her hair in long, even strokes, removing the tangles, making it gleam. He knew this was a dream, yet the girl seemed so real. She had to be real. He couldn’t be inventing all this. But if she was real, who was she? Where was this town? Somehow he had to find her again, but would he be able to after he woke? If he woke.

Michael had always been the bashful one around women, especially beautiful women. Daniel had a light, carefree silliness about him that put girls at ease. As a result, he could be talking to them in seconds, as if he had known them for years. The best Michael ever could manage was a stumbled, Uh, how do you do? Uh…

But with this girl, Michael felt like a raging bull, overwhelmed by the desire to move to her, to approach her, to embrace her, to lose himself in her. He willed himself to move, but succeeded only in lowering himself a foot closer to the floor.

Hey! he called. Look up here. My name is Michael. I want to know who you are. Where is this place?

The woman turned and started toward the bed, undoing the tuck she had taken in the towel's top.

No, don’t! You’re not alone!

He blushed, ashamed at being an unwitting voyeur. He didn’t want to see her like this, not while slinking around in a dream.

Unable to take his eyes from her, he watched the towel slide to the floor like the grand unveiling of breathtaking beauty, a picture of glistening dark pubic hair against the whiteness of an incredibly sensuous body, a picture so lovely he wanted to cry for all he had missed in his life.

Then the towel hit the floor, and he became engulfed in a brilliant fireball that obliterated the scene before him. Frightened, confused, he struggled to orient himself, but to no avail. The fireball vanished, and once again he was in the glowing sphere, floating amid a vast universe of stars.

The bedroom, the town, the beautiful sensuous woman… gone.

four

MICHAEL WAS NOT SURE how long he continued drifting in space, watching the brilliant, twinkling stars around him. But his senses told him that, despite the apparent tranquility of his current situation, he was in extreme danger. He was a tethered goat awaiting a hungry tiger. His strange dream was no longer an interesting adventure, but a sinister nightmare.

Michael, run! Run! Remember the ankh!

Daniel’s voice filled with terror.

Daniel, what? Remember what?

Michael opened his eyes; he was back on the dock. Pain throbbed like jackhammers drilling holes in his forehead just above his nose. He jerked his hand out of the water and pushed up on one elbow, trying to assess what had happened. The night sky was still a brilliant umbrella of winking stars. He glanced around for the sphere. Nothing.

He tried to remember what had just happened, but the effort yielded a blank. He had an irrepressible sense that he had dreamed, though that was unlikely. For as long as he could remember, neither he nor Daniel had ever dreamed, or if they had, they never remembered them. But if he had dreamed, what was it about? Why couldn’t he recall it?

His stomach lurched. He rolled onto his knees and leaned over the edge of the dock just as the remains of his dinner spewed into the darkness. He gasped for air until his heaving slowed and stopped.

After a moment, he climbed to his feet and glanced up the mountain toward the cabin. A splash of yellow light streamed from its front window, cutting a stark rectangular beam in the darkness.

His entire body trembled as an overwhelming desire to remember something washed over him. It was something important, something about Daniel. But what? What?

Remember the ankh . . .

Daniel’s verce again. Michael looked left and right. He was alone. Just an echo from... what? He strained again to remember, but nothing came except a dim fog.

His brain functioning, he left the dock and trudged back up the mountain trail to the cabin. At the cabin door, he glanced again toward the lake. The shadowy black figures of the tall trees still rose toward the stars. It was the same peaceful scene he had enjoyed every evening for the past