Read Deja Blue for Free Online Page B

mid-air. Both adding to the imagery, the symbolic threads—threads as large and racing as rivers, the waters deep and green. Why a busy street? Why hovering over a cityscape? Did it have significance in and of itself? The geography, the locale? Street noises filtered up as if creating a rhythmic tune, like Neil Diamond’s A Beautiful Noise, comin’ off the street…but there remained a strident discord, a note out of sync that sounded like metal scraping metal mixed with the crushing sound of—of what? Hard shelled Beetles being stepped on? Green beetles with eye-like patches on their crusty backs.
     
    The woman is not the walking dead but the floating dead. Dead or dying—hard to say. Each time Aurelia ‘Rae’ Murphy Hiyakawa lifted a hand out to touch the three-dimensional holograph overhead, just out of reach in her bedroom at times--reaching as she did now where she sat contemplating, in deep trance at FBI headquarters where again she was seeing the floating woman wrapped in what seemed a sheet. The sheet tightly wound her thin body mummy fashion.
     
    Then the image vanished in the blue sky—the same sky with the whitest, fluffiest clouds imaginable. A lovely blue it was, too. She’d once been to Hawaii where in real life she’d seen a sky like this, clouds like this, colors this brilliant, like those seen in cartoons.
     
    As it faded this time, she wondered if the Cerebral Remote Viewing & Language Stratagems program or CRAWL had gotten the image, and if so, might she perhaps later isolate it and give it conscious attention and study, as it’d been disturbing her now for weeks.
     
    The CRAWL was a rather miraculous software program designed by the young genius formerly known as Eddy, now Copernicus. The program proved wondrous to say the least, a device that magically transformed her thoughts and visions into images, a device that displayed these images on a screen in the form of symbolic language, objects, full-blown in passionate color, in shapes, forms, blobs, and dream.
     
    Did this recurrent dream image of the floater on air have any true meaning? Or was it mere psychic flotsam. The human mind created a surprising amount of junk-stuff. Junk in the form of useless images that rose out of the psyche all the time—at least as much if not more than it created useful vision. Chaff far more than wheat. Flotsam of the mind.
     
    The mind and subconscious created in the manor of a child’s erector set any image it wanted, quite often independent of its supposed master—one’s self, the self; in fact, the human brain had no master save itself, and the debate over the difference between the three pound human brain and the weightless mind and soul continued unabated as it had since man became a sentient being, having created and conquered language.
     
    Three pounds of pure enigma wrapped in an enigma, parts of which science, neurology, surgery, and psychiatry might never fathom. Random bio-chemical and electrical impulses bombarding one another; synaptic ships at sea in a black inner space man had as yet to set his stamp upon, a universe still unconquered, where flares collided with interior stars, and stars warred with more ships colliding, explaining déjà vu single and déjà vu multiple, explaining normal mood swings, and brain tsunami amounting to polar disorder to the shooting pain of migraines. Maybe.
     
    Even so, still the floating lady seemed so very at peace and not at all what Rae normally dealt with—the victim of violent crime. She seemed not a victim at all; after all, she had a smile on her face. A wide smile. But then said smile could mean she was at peace at this moment, and that she still might well be a victim somewhere out there in the world. But who was she? Where was she? Where was she rising to—her heaven? Rising from noisy, busy street scene below her.
     
    Even more puzzling, why should Rae own the returning feeling of déjà vu inside herself? Why did she feel at once pleased