Far Beyond the Stars Page 12

  Benny sighed, hard. "Things are going to change." He said. What he didn't say to them, but did to himself was: They have to.

  Jimmy wasn't buying it for a second. "Yeah, you just keep telling yourself that." Jimmy pushed himself off the stool and walked away.

  Benny closed his eyes. Maybe if I wish really hard and really strong, I'll open my eyes and be far away from here. Maybe I can just step into that world in my imagination. And Cassie will be Kasidy Yates, and Jimmy will be Jake Sisko, and I'll be Benjamin Sisko, captain of Deep Space Nine, a man respected and loved by not merely members of all the human race, but a hundred other species as well. Or feared and hated and loathed. Anything. But if they love me, it's because of the fact that I'm me. Or if they hate me, it's because I'm me. Or maybe because I'm a human being. Not because my ancestors came from a tropical continent. Not because my skin is dark. Please not because of that. If I have any more of that, any more at all, I could begin to hate myself, and that would be the same as letting them win.

  Cassie's light touch upon his hand pulled him back to reality. Her face was so filled with compassion that it was impossible for him to take offense at what he knew she was about to say. "Maybe this is happening for a reason."

  "You mean … maybe this is God's way of telling me to quit writing and go into the restaurant business?"

  He meant it facetiously, but Cassie met him head on. "Hey," she said. "It's possible."

  Then she leaned closer and, in full view of the others in the restaurant, kissed him on the lips. That was the first time that she had ever done that. "Baby," she said, "I know we could make this work for us. We could be happy here."

  Benny shook his head slowly, and a bit miserably. "It's not that simple."

  "Yes," Cassie said, with a wisdom as old as the sea. "It is. Or it could be, if you let it."

  Benny looked deeply into her eyes, desperately wishing he could accept what she was saying. What was so wrong with that? What was so awful about living a simple, normal life with a woman who adored him? In most of human history, had people ever possessed, or even aspired to more than that? What was wrong with him, and was it too late to be able to fix it?

  Suddenly, and with perverse timing, a hand dropped onto Benny's shoulder.

  "Hey," a too-familiar voice said jovially. "Hear the game last night?"

  Benny turned, sighing, knowing what he would see, knowing that Willie would be standing there in his finery, a constant and painful reminder of the success which had always eluded him. And—

  But it wasn't Willie. Instead he saw the giant Klingon, Worf, in full battle regalia, his eyes blazing from beneath scarred brows, eyes that had seen a thousand battles, which had exalted in the death of countless foes, that welcomed the possibility of death as a test of his own mettle.

  What was it that Klingon Worf said, that was virtually the credo by which he lived?

  "Today is a good day to die—"?

  Benny hadn't realized how far he had jumped back away from this apparition. His heart raced, thundered. What in the hell was going on—

  Worf (Willie?) looked at him with an expression of concern. "Hey," he said, in Willie's voice, "I didn't mean to frighten you."

  Benny closed his eyes and rubbed his forehead, as if trying to massage his frontal lobes. In the darkness, something red pulsed. It was an irregular shape, but in the moments when it began to coalesce, it looked a bit like an hourglass.

  When he opened his eyes again, Worf had become Willie again. Willie reached over, trying to help Benny back to his seat. "You don't look so good," Willie said. There was no teasing now, nothing but concern, and Benny gained another insight into Willie.

  Willie really liked him. Really … Why? Maybe, just maybe because every time Willie stepped up to bat, a million people were watching and listening. Maybe because every time he did, he put everything he had, everything he was at stake, and that gamble was enough to break most people. Most people just wanted comfort, and a little piece of the world where they could settle in and find respite. Very few wanted to put their butt on the line every day.

  Willie was… a warrior. Yes, that was it. He was one of the ones who took a risk. Willie had to believe that every day, every time he stepped up, might be a good day to die. It was to the Willies of the world that the rewards belonged. It had always been like that, and always would. And Willie, regardless of whether he could show it or not, admired Benny's willingness to sacrifice for his dream.

  Benny, like Willie, bet everything every time he stepped up to the plate. In a quieter, smaller way, perhaps, but they were both kamikazes.

  "I'm fine," Benny said.

  "Want to lie down in the back?" Cassie asked.

  "I just need some air," Benny assured them.

  Cassie looked dubious. "We still on for tonight?"

  He nodded, the vision, and its sudden revelation, retreating into the back of his mind. "I'll pick you up around ten."

  Benny managed to force his mouth into a smile that he didn't really feel, then rose and headed for the door.

  Willie and Cassie watched him leave. As soon as the door closed behind him, Willie leaned over the counter. "So," he asked. "What are you doing until ten?" He smiled brilliantly.

  She leaned close, and lowered her voice to a conspiratorial hush. "Whatever it is," she said, "I'm not doing it with you."

  He laughed and winked at her, completely unfazed as she turned away and returned to her work.

  Benny walked aimlessly down the street, increasingly lost in his own world. He fought to make sense of his hallucination.

  This was becoming frightening. He had always had the ability to lose himself in the world of his imagination. It had been his salvation throughout his childhood, an ability that had accelerated after … that summer. But it had always been under control, had never produced visions as stark as these, almost as if some barrier between his imagination and reality had begun to fray. If that was true, then … he wasn't certain what he could do. Or who, indeed, he was.

  If you can't trust your mind, when your mind is the only thing which has protected you during a long and sometimes painful life, then what do you do?

  "Hello, Brother Benny," the Preacher said.

  Benny was startled out of his reverie, and turned to see the familiar black-suited figure of the Preacher emerging from the shadowed mouth of an alley. "You again?" he said.

  The Preacher spread his arms. "The Good Book says: 'Let us run with perseverance the race marked out for us.' Follow the path of righteousness and you shall be righteous in the eyes of the Prophets."

  Benny wasn't quite tracking. "I don't understand," he said. "What do you want from me?"

  The Preacher's eyes burned. "To follow in your path. The path of the Prophets. Walk with the Prophets, Brother Benny. Show us the way."

  The words added to his confusion rather than subtracting from it. "What way? I don't know what you're talking about."

  Benny turned away from the Preacher and continued walking down the sidewalk. The Preacher stayed where he was, but called out to him: "Write the words, Brother Benny. The words that will lead us out of the darkness—that will lead us to righteousness."

  Benny kept walking, faster and faster—but the Preacher's words kept racing after him. He tried to outpace them, but they kept floating after him, catching up with him, and there was no place to hide.

  Write the words, Brother Benny. Write the words.

  Benny ran, the sound of his feet slapping against the sidewalk, the sound of his own breathing in his lungs, the thunder of his heart drowning out the words reverberating in his mind.

  He ran up the stairs to his apartment, fumbling the door open and then quickly shutting it behind him. He stopped to catch his breath.

  It took a few minutes for his breathing to slow, for his heartbeat to slow. His vision blurred when he walked through the door, began to clear, and finally he was able to orient.

  Walk with the Prophets, Brother Benny. Show us the wa
y.

  Hell. Who could he show anything to? Hell, he couldn't even show himself anything. He should give the whole thing off. He should grab that damned typewriter and—

  He looked at it, and it sat there, a solid metal block, black and impenetrable, calling to him and laughing at him at the exact same time.

  He walked to it, and lay his fingers on it, feeling the tidal force that seemed to project from it, from the metal itself. It flowed from his heart, from his mind, creating a current that was like putting lightning on the page. He waited to feel it, and felt nothing, nothing but the typewriter. Damnably silent, it laughed at him in its stolid metallic way.

  He picked it up, surprised by how light it felt in his hands. He could do it. Just throw it through the window, send the damned thing hurtling out of the window down into the street below. He could do it, and never look back, be done with it, be through with the pain and the fear and the disappointment. Get on with his life, marry Cassie …

  But then he caught a glimpse of himself in the window, a glimpse of his own image. And he didn't look like Benny Russell. He was Benjamin Sisko, and what he held over his head wasn't a typewriter, it was something that was vaguely hourglass shaped, something that glowed in his hands as if consumed by an internal flame. He looked into the face of the man in the reflection, and knew that somehow, this man was more than just a part of his imagination. Knew that the image floating there would still be there no matter how hard he blinked. That in fact the only way he could force the image to dissipate was if he stopped, if he gave up something that it was not his to abandon.

  He was trapped, and didn't know why or how, knew only that he lowered the typewriter back to the desk, and began to write.

  CHAPTER

  19

  IT WAS NIGHTTIME in Harlem. The cars outside still rolled but now there was a special rhythm to the blare of their horns. The inhabitants seemed to sense that there was freedom in the night. And as they emerged in their night finery, and the streetlights glowed to life, there was a shift in mood, a sense that the nights of New York belonged to them in a way that the days could not.

  Benny lay stretched across his typewriter, asleep. Papers were scattered all about the table, crumpled into balls, some stacked in a ragged pile.

  His eyes opened groggily as the radio clicked on next to him, and began to play some soft, easy jazz. After another few moments, the smoothness of a woman's hand came to rest on his shoulder, and began rubbing his back.

  He grumbled, and moved just slightly, purring to respond to her touch. "Hey, baby," Cassie said. "You forgot all about our date."

  He fought his way up to full wakefulness. Once again, it seemed his dreams had exhausted him. "Date?" he said. "Oh, yeah—that's right. I'm sorry. I was working …"

  Cassie peered over his shoulder, scanning the paper in his typewriter. Benny used the few moments' respite to work himself back to some kind of decent state of wakefulness, finally remembering completely where he was, and what he had been doing before he fell asleep.

  "Ben Sisko?" she asked. "Isn't that your colored captain?"

  He nodded assent.

  "Why are you writing another one of those stories? You couldn't sell the last one. What makes you think that this one will be any different?"

  Benny lowered his eyes, and found the strength within himself to tell the truth. "It probably won't be. Doesn't matter."

  Today is a good day to die . . .

  "It's just what I've got to do," he said.

  Cassie took his face in her hands, and finally leaned forward and kissed him very gently. "Right now, what you've got to do is eat." She held up a paper bag.

  "What's that?"

  She smiled shyly. "I thought that it might save some time if we didn't have to go out for dinner."

  Suddenly, a fascinating portion of his fatigue seemed to lift from his shoulders. "And what were you thinking we could do with the extra time?"

  "It's a little after midnight. I should be in bed soon," she said. He rose, tried to take her in his arms. She held her fingertips out, pushing him back just a little. Just enough. "But first—"

  "First?" he asked, all exhaustion forgotten now.

  She stepped into his arms, and swayed against him slowly. "What do you say we take one spin around the dance floor."

  He closed his eyes and held her close, allowing the pleasure of the moment to distract him from the dreams and the fears.

  "Feels good, doesn't it?" Cassie said.

  "I could stay like this forever," he murmured.

  Cassie raised her head from his shoulder. Benny looked down at her and her eyes were as deep as the oceans, waiting for him to accept, to simply let it be between them.

  Then—

  SHUFFLE

  CHAPTER

  20

  BENNY WAS HOLDING CASSIE. Only it wasn't Cassie, it was Kasidy Yates. He was in Sisko's living quarters, wearing Sisko's clothes.

  "I could dance like this forever," Benny/Sisko heard himself say.

  "Me, too," Kasidy said. "It's times like these that I wish we'd never heard of the Dominion."

  Benny stopped, staring, looking around. Where in the world was he? How did he get here? This was no place he had ever been—and yet it was. That window, with its view out onto a sky filled with impossibly bright stars. Where was he?

  But he never stopped dancing. "The Dominion?" he asked.

  SHUFFLE

  CHAPTER

  21

  " WHAT DO YOU MEAN?" Cassie said. She stared up into Benny's face, confused by his confusion. "You said something about the Dominion."

  Benny was still looking around, trying to regain his bearing. His mouth was slightly open. Finally, his gaze met Cassie's and—

  SHUFFLE

  CHAPTER

  22

  THE STARS WERE pinpoints in black velvet suspended over the furnace that birthed the universe.

  "What is it?" Kasidy Yates asked the man in her arms. "What is it, Ben? What's wrong?"

  Benny Russell gazed out at the stellar display. Without warning, there was a flash of light, a swirl of incandescence as the Bajoran wormhole opened, a churning hole through the fabric of reality.

  He gazed at it, lost in wonder as a freighter appeared, a visitor from far light-years, and headed toward the station. The funnel of light closed behind it.

  "I … I don't know," Benny said as sincerely as he had ever said anything in his life. "I think I'm losing my mind."

  SHUFFLE

  CHAPTER

  23

  " WHY?" CASSIE ASKED Benny as they danced in his apartment. "What's wrong?"

  Benny held her slightly away from him, as if afraid that he might somehow infect her. "I'm starting to see things. Things from my story … it's as if I'm becoming Captain Sisko."

  Benny broke off the dance and slumped onto the couch, holding his head in his hands.

  Cassie came to him and put her arm around his shoulders. "Baby," she said. "You need to get some rest."

  She sat next to him on the couch and wrapped her arms around him. "It's all right baby. I'm here. Just take it easy … I'm with you."

  She cradled Benny in her arms, rocking him back and forth, gazing out the window as if, in that moment, she was as confused as he.

  "I'm with you," she said again, as if it was all she could say, all she needed to say.

  And perhaps she was right.

  SHUFFLE

  CHAPTER

  24

  1940

  IT SEEMED TO TAKE forever for Benny Russell to reach Flushing Meadow. The crowds were a little lighter this time—in fact, he heard it rumored that the fair's promoters were worried that it wouldn't make its money back. He had a hard time believing that, seeing all of the many people and the vast throngs—how could anyone lose money? And yet that was what they said. Oh well.

  For him, he was happy to pay his seventy-five cents and be admitted back on the promenade, making his way once again to the Hall of Nations, that humbl
e structure in the shadow of the Perisphere.

  There were fewer Hall of Nations visitors this time, as well. Many of them seemed ethnic types—Serbs, Slavs, Hispanics—people who had come to the exhibit primarily out of loyalty to the homelands they had left far behind in all but heart. Many of the stalls were deserted, but the one from the Mali Republic had four people sitting there, listening to the small dark man named Ajabwe talk about deals made with creatures from another world, and leaders, and dreams. They listened politely, filed past the exhibit, and then went on their way. One of them was an unusually tall and somewhat gangly Negro man. He wore the black cloth of a preacher, and as he rose Benny was certain that he had seen him before, holding forth on biblical topics on street corners all over Harlem.

  As he filed past the gemstone, he reached his hand out—not to touch but to bask in its radiance. He tilted his head back, mouth open, eyes squeezed shut, as if receiving some ecstatic vision. Then he nodded, almost as if concluding a satisfactory conversation with a wise friend, and went on his way.

  As the Preacher passed the curtain concealing Benny he paused, and cocked his head, listening to sounds Benny couldn't detect. He stopped for so long that Benny was certain that the Preacher somehow knew he was there, and was about to flee. Then, a secretive smile on his face, the older man continued on, and was gone.

  Ajabwe waited, and scanned the room, not spotting Benny behind the curtain. He shifted from foot to foot, and then finally drew the curtain across his exhibit, and headed back toward a lavatory that Benny had spotted near the entrance.

  Almost immediately, Benny left his place of hiding, and scampered across to the curtained alcove. He knew that he wasn't supposed to be here, but it seemed to call to him. And it was increasingly difficult to resist the call. With each step, he felt it pulling, with each step it seemed to speak to him of a world beyond this one, and it frightened him.