Dark Winter Sight

By Richard W. Kenneth

Yousef’s vision went black as he returned to the delivery skimmer.

“What the frag?” This wasn’t like his prior blackouts. He was fully conscious, but blind. His grasping fingers found the cold mesh shrouding the skimmer’s rear thrust fan. From there, he followed the vehicle’s smooth side forward to the lockpad. After a fingerprint scan, the door slid open. He collapsed into the seat.

Help… me! A girl’s cry echoed in his mind, dreamlike.

“I can’t see! Who are you? What’s going on?”

Sorry! You’re seeing what I’m seeing, a bag over my head. Let me focus on your thoughts.

The blackness retreated, revealing first the dashboard lights before him, then the snow-covered street outside, and finally the distant, rising moons.

Better? Can you still hear me?

“Yes.” He glanced around. “Where are you? How did you do that?”

I’m Nia, a telepath. I’m tied up in the basement of the house where you just delivered food. I woke up as you were leaving.

Telepaths were real, but so were Yousef’s auditory hallucinations and nightmares…

I’m real! I’m Nia Olemmbe from Raydan. I went to a party. Someone gave me a drink. I woke up here. What day is it?

“Laraday, the thirty-fourth of Jorno.”

The party was Shimaday. Two days ago! Where am I?

“The outskirts of Ika, hours from Raydan.” Yousef gazed at the house. It stood alone on a dead-end street, surrounded by fields. Telepaths were sometimes trafficked, but a few were tricksters. “How do I know you’re not a bored telepath, safe at home, pranking the delivery guy?”

I’m not! I’m sure my family’s looking for me. Call someone. Please.

Yousef punched in the comm code for Dispatch and waited for the laser link to find a relay.

“This is Cristos,” said a deep male voice. “What you need, Yousef?”

“Just made the delivery, Cristos. Now there’s a telepath in my head claiming—“

“You’re not just hearing voices again?”

Yousef sighed. “That was eight months ago.”

“I remember. I was training you. Go on.”

“She says she’s in the house, captive, and her name’s Nia Olemmbe, from Raydan.”

“Hmmm. I’m checking the Protectorate’s missing persons list…Olem…Wow. There’s actually a Nia Olemmbe, eighteen, telepath, missing from Raydan two days.”

“Then she is real. So link me to the Protectorate.”

“It’s probably a prank. Remember what happened to Daru?”

Yousef groaned. “Yes.”

“Or someone trying to lure you out of the skimmer and steal it.”

“Call the Protectorate, Cristos.”

“If this is a false alarm, the boss will fire you, brain injury or not, and me for helping you.”

“Better than letting a missing girl vanish.”

“No. I’m done.” The link terminated.

“What? Frag!”

Yousef pounded in the comm code for the Protectorate.

“Protectorate Agent Cora,” said a synthesized female voice. “How can I help?”

“I may have found a missing person, Nia Olemmbe.”

“Connecting you to Missing Persons. One moment.”

Nia interrupted in a panic. Yousef! They’re coming!

Yousef’s vision darkened again. Then bright light, as the bag was jerked off Nia’s head. Now, her vision superimposed itself over his like a holographic game. She stared up at her captor—the bald man who’d accepted the food from Yousef. The man reached for her face. Her vision rocked as he ripped away a tape gag. Ouch!

Yousef was out of the skimmer and nearing the house when he realized the risk. “How many people are holding you, Nia?”

One here, another man upstairs. You’re coming?

“Yes. Can you make their vision go black like you did mine?”

That was an accident. My telepathy is new and I share my sight if I’m not careful.

“I understand. You’re sharing it now.”

Sorry.

“Don’t be. Just close your eyes and share with them instead of me.”

I’ll try. Now?

“When I say.”

Just think it. I’ll hear it.

Like this?

Yes.

Yousef stumbled up the porch steps, struggling with dual vision. He pounded on the door.

The bald man with Nia turned away from her, toward some stairs.

At the same time, in front of Yousef, a short, bearded man opened the door. “You’re still here? What do you want?”

“I’m sorry,” said Yousef. “My skimmer’s not starting. Can I use your comms?”

Now, Nia!

The bearded man grasped at his eyes. “I can’t see!”

Yousef’s vision cleared. He shouldered the door open and steadied the bearded man.

“I’ve got you. Sit down, I’ll use your comms to get help.”

The man sat, let Yousef enter, then shouted, “Jason!”

A door at the end of the hall opened. The bald man who’d been with Nia staggered out. “Zed, I’m blind!”

Yousef ducked into another doorway and let the bald man, Jason, pass, then crept down the basement stairs. Nia was on the floor, arms bound behind her with tape.

“Yousef?” she whispered, eyes still closed.

“Keep them blind,” he whispered back.

She nodded.

Without anything to cut the tape, he lifted her over his shoulder and raced back upstairs.

Jason heard them and turned. “No!” he shouted, his arms flailing.

Nia kicked him in the chest, knocking him aside.

“Good girl,” said Yousef.

“He’s got the girl,” shouted Jason. “Stop him!”

Zed, by the front door, attempted to stand, but Yousef forced him back down. Out the door, Yousef missed the first step. Nia screamed as they plunged downward. Yousef twisted his body to cushion hers, his head and shoulders striking the snowy ground first.

Yousef awoke cold and wet. Nia was gone. Blue lights flashed from Protectorate skimmers. A medic knelt over him, blotting blood from the side of his head. “Be still. You took a fall.”

“Where’s the girl?” asked Yousef. “Nia. She’s real. Please tell me she’s real.”

The medic looked confused, then replied, “She’s very real. And safe, thanks to you. You’ll ride to the medward together.”

Nia approached, wrapped in a blanket. “I’m here, Yousef. No more telepathic voice or visions. Rest. I’m not leaving without you.”

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Richard W. Kenneth is an engineer by day and a writer by night. He enjoys bringing ideas to life both at work and in his writing. His eighth grade English teacher ignited his love for creative writing and he’s been making up characters and stories ever since. He also writes poetry when the mood, or the muse, strikes. He shares life’s adventures with his wife, who also writes.

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