YEARS GONE
By Unlikely Hiro
CHAPTER I: HAVE A DREAM TODAY
Sunday, May 16, 2021
"Please do sit down, Mr. Rains."
"Thank you, Professor." Claude sat in an overstuffed, garishly yellow chair. The
Professor had run into the kitchen.
"Call me Nirand, please!" he shouted from the kitchen. He returned quickly bearing a
tray.
"I understand that tea is traditionally served at this time," he said, setting the tray on a
table between his chair and Claude's, "Peter told me that Earl Gray is you favorite."
"Yes, thank you," Claude took a sip, "You needn't've gone to the trouble."
"It was no trouble," Nirand smiled. "It is not everyday one gets to meet a genuine
member of the Yamagato Fellowship."
Claude took another sip, "Thank you. Now, as to the matter at hand."
"Yes, of course," Nirand stared into his tea.
"I was TOLD that you had completed another List."
"Yes, of course."
"I was also told you are harboring a Special who wishes to join Yamagato."
"'Harboring' isn't that accurate a word, considering my nation's rather liberal policies
towards SG's. But yes, I know of one who wishes to join you." Nirand still hadn't
touched his tea.
"I was told he is a 'Dreamwalker'. What does that mean?"
Nirand smiled suddenly, "Well, how is your tea?"
"Excuse me?"
"How is your tea?"
"It is very good, if that satisfies your vanity, but--"
"It is rather interesting that the imagination can be this accurate, sometimes."
Suddenly, Claude was standing on a beach. Red rock formations were just offshore.
Water lapped his toes. The sun was high and the sand was blindingly white. His robe
was also white.
Robe?!
Claude looked down at himself, flexing his hands in amazement.
"He's very good, isn't he?" Claude turned around. Nirand, dressed similarly, was about
a hundred yards downwind.
"What the bloody hell is this?!"
"The work of our Mr. Sanjog Iyer," Nirand called, pointing inland. A young man was
standing about thirty yards inland.
"Hello Mr. Rains!" he shouted.
Claude blinked. Suddenly, Nirand and Sanjog were standing in front of him.
"You are still asleep on the aeroplane," Sanjog said.
"And I am asleep at the airport," Nirand added.
Claude stared at the two of them for a moment. "Impressive," was all he managed. It
sounded like a question.
Sanjog smiled and snapped his fingers. Claude awoke with a start. A flight attendant
was pouring a glass of water.
Claude sipped it and set it back down. He considered literally pinching himself, but
remembered how real the tea at Nirand's office felt.
'Will I ever again know what is real?' he thought, shuddering. A flight attendant saw this
and she brought him a blanket.
Claude checked his watch. He hadn't been asleep for long. So how long was his
dream? Shrugging it off, he opened his suitcase and began reviewing the files he had
brought along with him.
He stared at them for several minutes, as if the mere act of staring would somehow
force them into being less vague. 'No such luck,' he thought with a smile.
Claude closed his briefcase and looked out the window. Land was visible in the
distance, but most of the view was still water. As the plane continued on its flight path,
it became clear that the land was a small island and not India itself. It had a large hill or
mountain, with trees around the base. It was obviously very small.
"Sir?" the flight attendant was prodding him, "You put on your seatbelt, yes?"
"Hm?"
The woman pointed at the seatbelt sign, "We will be landing soon."
"Oh, thank you," Claude flashed a smile and clicked on the seatbelt.
The plane landed about ten minutes later, and was at the gate about fifteen minutes
after that.
Claude tumbled out of the walkway, barely managing to hold onto his suitcase and
remain untrampled. Claude, naturally, went invisible to avoid customs. Though India
was less repressive towards SG's, the entry requirements consisted of a blood test
and a more restrictive visa. Besides, he was a wanted man, and India had an
extradition treaty. So, he slipped through the offices, and also stamped a normal visa
in his fake passport.
Nirand and Sanjog were waiting for him at the airport entrance. Nirand seemed rather
groggy.
"You are VERY well trained," Claude said, shaking Sanjog's hand, "I don’t see what you
need me for."
"Advice," Sanjog said.
Nirand nodded, "We BOTH need advice. There have been...occurrences that merit
discussion."
"Such as?"
Nirand looked over his shoulder nervously, "Not here. Let us go to my office."
***
Nirand's car was an old jalopy of local manufacture. The fact that he could even afford a
car--however old--was a testament to Nirand's relative opulence. Gasoline, when
adjusted to pre-Explosion inflation, was $38 a gallon.
India was a land of bicycles and buses.
Madras, properly speaking, was the Portuguese name for the old, old city of
Chennapatnam, commonly shortened to Chennai. At least that was the operating
theory, but many still argued that "madras" was a local coinage. What's even worse for
India's die-hard nationalists , "chennai" may in fact be a foreign word.
In any case, Madras had officially been Chennai since 1996, and one of the things
affected by the name change was the crumbling Chennai University.
That crumbling, Claude learned, was the result of Mohinder's cousin Subhra
Swaminathan and her accidental use of the power of seismic manipulation. He also
learned that Subhra was spirited off to a monastery in the Himalayas somewhere in
2016 to avoid angry mobs and university trustees.
Nirand's office was on one of the upper floors and was rather cramped and spartan. It
was little more than a desk with a window behind it and some filing cabinets along one
wall.
Claude and Sanjog sat down in front of the desk. Nirand began sifting through his file
cabinets. "Sanjog came to Chandra's attention back in '05. In October, four weeks
Before, Sanjog appeared in a few dreams of Mohinder's."
Claude glanced at Sanjog, "Doing what?"
"He needed answers," Sanjog said.
Nirand found his file and sat down at his desk. Most of the file was written in Tamil.
"Sanjog's brain scan during normal function," he said, handing Claude an MRI with
Hindi notation, "And another while he was asleep. Note the--"
"Temporal lobe, yes," The lobes in question were bright white in the sleeping scan,
indicating supernatural brain activity in that lobe. Claude glanced at Sanjog again,
"That would mean you are an immensely powerful telepath. I don’t think that Parkman
had readings like this."
"That was three years ago," Sanjog said.
"Of course," Claude noted as he handed the files back to Nirand, "I can't read the
notation."
"Well, it doesn’t really matter," Nirand said, making a dismissive gesture, "This is just a
primer. There has been a particular...incident recently, and that is why you are here."
"What is the incident?"
Sanjog made a sort of squeaking noise and squirmed in his chair. Claude turned
towards him and he said, "People come to me in their dreams when they need
answers. A man from America has come to me recently," Sanjog shuddered, "He was
obviously a bad man, who had killed many times. He didn’t feel bad for killing." Sanjog
shuddered again.
Claude patted him on the shoulder, "Go on."
"He said he was planning something, a move against Specials and the Reservation."
"What sort of 'move'?" Claude asked.
"Mass murder," Sanjog said.
"Do you know who this man is?"
"His name was never revealed to me."
"Perfect," Claude muttered.
"But he is a member of the American Army, a powerful one," Sanjog continued, "He is
tall, thin, with a...uh...severe face and straight black hair."
Nirand pulled another file out of his desk, "We had a local police sketch artist make
this."
Claude glanced at the picture, "Looks like the Death Star commander, Grand Moff
Tarkin, when he was younger."
Nirand sat back in his chair, "You are not familiar with this man?"
Claude shook his head, "No. But we have a plant in the upper echelons of the Military
who might be. I will need a copy of this."
Nirand handed him the file, "This is it. It is already translated."
"Very good," Claude said. He opened his suitcase and placed the file folder inside,
"What about you, Mr. Iyer?"
"I am supposed to come with you."
"With your ability, is that necessary?"
Sanjog said something to Nirand in Tamil. Nirand appeared to agree, and Sanjog said to
Claude, "My ability is behaving erratic. I need to be trained. We also have no idea what
to do with this information, and I need help."
"I see," Claude stood up, "I will need another clandestine plane ticket."
"Of course," Nirand said, still seated, "Is there anything else?"
"I am not sure. I will have to call the SG City office and organize things. I will probably
be here for several days."
"Then I will take you to a hotel. Hopefully, you can get started on this immediately."
"Of course," Claude said, "A matter as important as this warrants immediate attention.
**End of Chapter One**
By Unlikely Hiro
CHAPTER I: HAVE A DREAM TODAY
Sunday, May 16, 2021
"Please do sit down, Mr. Rains."
"Thank you, Professor." Claude sat in an overstuffed, garishly yellow chair. The
Professor had run into the kitchen.
"Call me Nirand, please!" he shouted from the kitchen. He returned quickly bearing a
tray.
"I understand that tea is traditionally served at this time," he said, setting the tray on a
table between his chair and Claude's, "Peter told me that Earl Gray is you favorite."
"Yes, thank you," Claude took a sip, "You needn't've gone to the trouble."
"It was no trouble," Nirand smiled. "It is not everyday one gets to meet a genuine
member of the Yamagato Fellowship."
Claude took another sip, "Thank you. Now, as to the matter at hand."
"Yes, of course," Nirand stared into his tea.
"I was TOLD that you had completed another List."
"Yes, of course."
"I was also told you are harboring a Special who wishes to join Yamagato."
"'Harboring' isn't that accurate a word, considering my nation's rather liberal policies
towards SG's. But yes, I know of one who wishes to join you." Nirand still hadn't
touched his tea.
"I was told he is a 'Dreamwalker'. What does that mean?"
Nirand smiled suddenly, "Well, how is your tea?"
"Excuse me?"
"How is your tea?"
"It is very good, if that satisfies your vanity, but--"
"It is rather interesting that the imagination can be this accurate, sometimes."
Suddenly, Claude was standing on a beach. Red rock formations were just offshore.
Water lapped his toes. The sun was high and the sand was blindingly white. His robe
was also white.
Robe?!
Claude looked down at himself, flexing his hands in amazement.
"He's very good, isn't he?" Claude turned around. Nirand, dressed similarly, was about
a hundred yards downwind.
"What the bloody hell is this?!"
"The work of our Mr. Sanjog Iyer," Nirand called, pointing inland. A young man was
standing about thirty yards inland.
"Hello Mr. Rains!" he shouted.
Claude blinked. Suddenly, Nirand and Sanjog were standing in front of him.
"You are still asleep on the aeroplane," Sanjog said.
"And I am asleep at the airport," Nirand added.
Claude stared at the two of them for a moment. "Impressive," was all he managed. It
sounded like a question.
Sanjog smiled and snapped his fingers. Claude awoke with a start. A flight attendant
was pouring a glass of water.
Claude sipped it and set it back down. He considered literally pinching himself, but
remembered how real the tea at Nirand's office felt.
'Will I ever again know what is real?' he thought, shuddering. A flight attendant saw this
and she brought him a blanket.
Claude checked his watch. He hadn't been asleep for long. So how long was his
dream? Shrugging it off, he opened his suitcase and began reviewing the files he had
brought along with him.
He stared at them for several minutes, as if the mere act of staring would somehow
force them into being less vague. 'No such luck,' he thought with a smile.
Claude closed his briefcase and looked out the window. Land was visible in the
distance, but most of the view was still water. As the plane continued on its flight path,
it became clear that the land was a small island and not India itself. It had a large hill or
mountain, with trees around the base. It was obviously very small.
"Sir?" the flight attendant was prodding him, "You put on your seatbelt, yes?"
"Hm?"
The woman pointed at the seatbelt sign, "We will be landing soon."
"Oh, thank you," Claude flashed a smile and clicked on the seatbelt.
The plane landed about ten minutes later, and was at the gate about fifteen minutes
after that.
Claude tumbled out of the walkway, barely managing to hold onto his suitcase and
remain untrampled. Claude, naturally, went invisible to avoid customs. Though India
was less repressive towards SG's, the entry requirements consisted of a blood test
and a more restrictive visa. Besides, he was a wanted man, and India had an
extradition treaty. So, he slipped through the offices, and also stamped a normal visa
in his fake passport.
Nirand and Sanjog were waiting for him at the airport entrance. Nirand seemed rather
groggy.
"You are VERY well trained," Claude said, shaking Sanjog's hand, "I don’t see what you
need me for."
"Advice," Sanjog said.
Nirand nodded, "We BOTH need advice. There have been...occurrences that merit
discussion."
"Such as?"
Nirand looked over his shoulder nervously, "Not here. Let us go to my office."
***
Nirand's car was an old jalopy of local manufacture. The fact that he could even afford a
car--however old--was a testament to Nirand's relative opulence. Gasoline, when
adjusted to pre-Explosion inflation, was $38 a gallon.
India was a land of bicycles and buses.
Madras, properly speaking, was the Portuguese name for the old, old city of
Chennapatnam, commonly shortened to Chennai. At least that was the operating
theory, but many still argued that "madras" was a local coinage. What's even worse for
India's die-hard nationalists , "chennai" may in fact be a foreign word.
In any case, Madras had officially been Chennai since 1996, and one of the things
affected by the name change was the crumbling Chennai University.
That crumbling, Claude learned, was the result of Mohinder's cousin Subhra
Swaminathan and her accidental use of the power of seismic manipulation. He also
learned that Subhra was spirited off to a monastery in the Himalayas somewhere in
2016 to avoid angry mobs and university trustees.
Nirand's office was on one of the upper floors and was rather cramped and spartan. It
was little more than a desk with a window behind it and some filing cabinets along one
wall.
Claude and Sanjog sat down in front of the desk. Nirand began sifting through his file
cabinets. "Sanjog came to Chandra's attention back in '05. In October, four weeks
Before, Sanjog appeared in a few dreams of Mohinder's."
Claude glanced at Sanjog, "Doing what?"
"He needed answers," Sanjog said.
Nirand found his file and sat down at his desk. Most of the file was written in Tamil.
"Sanjog's brain scan during normal function," he said, handing Claude an MRI with
Hindi notation, "And another while he was asleep. Note the--"
"Temporal lobe, yes," The lobes in question were bright white in the sleeping scan,
indicating supernatural brain activity in that lobe. Claude glanced at Sanjog again,
"That would mean you are an immensely powerful telepath. I don’t think that Parkman
had readings like this."
"That was three years ago," Sanjog said.
"Of course," Claude noted as he handed the files back to Nirand, "I can't read the
notation."
"Well, it doesn’t really matter," Nirand said, making a dismissive gesture, "This is just a
primer. There has been a particular...incident recently, and that is why you are here."
"What is the incident?"
Sanjog made a sort of squeaking noise and squirmed in his chair. Claude turned
towards him and he said, "People come to me in their dreams when they need
answers. A man from America has come to me recently," Sanjog shuddered, "He was
obviously a bad man, who had killed many times. He didn’t feel bad for killing." Sanjog
shuddered again.
Claude patted him on the shoulder, "Go on."
"He said he was planning something, a move against Specials and the Reservation."
"What sort of 'move'?" Claude asked.
"Mass murder," Sanjog said.
"Do you know who this man is?"
"His name was never revealed to me."
"Perfect," Claude muttered.
"But he is a member of the American Army, a powerful one," Sanjog continued, "He is
tall, thin, with a...uh...severe face and straight black hair."
Nirand pulled another file out of his desk, "We had a local police sketch artist make
this."
Claude glanced at the picture, "Looks like the Death Star commander, Grand Moff
Tarkin, when he was younger."
Nirand sat back in his chair, "You are not familiar with this man?"
Claude shook his head, "No. But we have a plant in the upper echelons of the Military
who might be. I will need a copy of this."
Nirand handed him the file, "This is it. It is already translated."
"Very good," Claude said. He opened his suitcase and placed the file folder inside,
"What about you, Mr. Iyer?"
"I am supposed to come with you."
"With your ability, is that necessary?"
Sanjog said something to Nirand in Tamil. Nirand appeared to agree, and Sanjog said to
Claude, "My ability is behaving erratic. I need to be trained. We also have no idea what
to do with this information, and I need help."
"I see," Claude stood up, "I will need another clandestine plane ticket."
"Of course," Nirand said, still seated, "Is there anything else?"
"I am not sure. I will have to call the SG City office and organize things. I will probably
be here for several days."
"Then I will take you to a hotel. Hopefully, you can get started on this immediately."
"Of course," Claude said, "A matter as important as this warrants immediate attention.
**End of Chapter One**
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