I reach into my messenger bag and find the phone-like device she left with me.
“Oh sweet,” Tucket comments as I display it. “Shape-shift cybertech?”
Mym nods. “It’s bio-nano.”
“Righteous,” Tucket replies. “And you can use it off-Grid.” He looks up at me. “Have you let it go green light aware with your timestream signature yet?”
I just stare back at him. “Has it googly-moogly what now?”
Mym intervenes. “Ben is still a new user. Haven’t gotten him up to speed on nano-tech yet. We’re getting there.” She whips her finger around the screen on the device in my hand and activates something. The device starts to wriggle. “Oh shit!” I retract my hand. Mym snatches the device before it falls. She balances the now wiggling glob in her palm. As I watch, the unit morphs from the shape of a phone into the spherical ball of whatever Tucket had been holding. When it’s done changing, she holds it up for my approval, then does something to make it revert to rectangular. She tosses it back to me and by the time I catch it, it has taken the shape of an iPhone. It’s much thinner than any models we had in 2009, but I can tell just from the passersby that it’s what most of the people around this city are using.
“Holy crap. This technology is available in 2017?” I ask.
“No.” Mym holds up her own device. It also now resembles an iPhone. “This technology can look like what’s available in 2017. Helps us to blend in.”
I admire the shiny device in my hand. “Nice. If we go back to 1985 will it turn into a payphone?”
Mym laughs. “No, but even you should be able to figure this version out. Call me as soon as you see anything.”
The three of us take positions in a loose triangle around the lab and I’m left to loiter near a café across the street. My “phone” beeps at me periodically and at first I jump each time, thinking one of the others has spotted the intruders. After the fourth or fifth photo from Tucket with a caption like, “Check out this groovy dog!” I start to tune out the phone and just concentrate on the building. I don’t have a lot of experience with surveillance, but the basics seem pretty simple. Somebody has to break their way in at some point. Or so I thought. After fifteen minutes of nothing but dog photos, Mym chimes in to a group conversation on the phone. I hold it to my ear.
“They’re already inside. I don’t know how they did it, but the interior is already on fire.”
I look up to see the orange glow coming from the third floor windows. Mym sounds frustrated on the phone. “Dad’s gone. The cameras are hardly tracking these guys. Maybe three of them. Can’t quite tell.”
As she’s speaking, the barred metal door I’ve been watching pops open from the inside. A sweatshirt-covered head pokes out and glances both ways down the sidewalk. He stuffs a can of spray paint into his bag before stepping out and closing the door behind him.
“Hey, I think I see one!” I blurt into the phone. “Front entrance, looks like, I don’t know, maybe a teenager.”
“I’ve got one, too,” Tucket interrupts. “Back door.”
“I’m going after mine,” I say. “Gonna follow him and see where he goes.” I don’t hear Mym’s response because I have to take the phone away from my ear as I dodge traffic crossing the street. My quarry is wearing a brown backpack over a black hoodie. He’s slight, maybe 120 pounds and moving in a hurry. He pauses briefly on the corner then, to my consternation, crosses the street and heads back the way I’ve just come. He’s glancing across the street toward the lab, perhaps to see if anyone is trying to follow him. I’m briefly stymied, as I’ve just crossed the street and don’t want to make myself obvious by returning. I wait till he’s beyond a stand selling paella pans before darting back across the street.
The young man pauses again in front of the market. I don’t know what he’s doing. He’s just standing there, so I edge closer, trying to appear casual among the other shoppers and pedestrians. My phone buzzes in my pocket, but I silence it through my jeans. I’m perhaps thirty yards away when the young man turns and stares directly at me. His face is a contemptuous sneer beneath the hood. I’m frozen in place as much by the hate in his expression as I am by how unsure I am about what to do next. The decision is made for me because the boy breaks into a run, headed into the market.
Shit.
I sprint after him.
He’s fast. The market is surprisingly busy for what I would have thought would be work hours. The building is teeming with pedestrians. Inside, the smell of fish and butchered animals is almost overpowering, especially near the door. I plunge after the boy, racing past other better smelling stalls selling salted nuts and chocolates. Then, as quick as thinking, he’s gone. I scramble to the intersection between stalls where I last spotted him and swear under my breath. Where did you go?
I don’t hesitate long. I spin the dials on my chronometer for a fifteen second backward jump and squeeze behind one of the vendors to find an area out of the way of traffic. I slap my hand to the wall of the fruit stand beside me and press the pin on my chronometer.
Now fifteen seconds earlier, I poke my head out of my hiding place and watch the intersection between the stalls. I’m just in time to see the young man in the hoodie skid around the corner and duck between the stalls across from me. Gotcha. I dash across the aisle—determined to get out of sight before my earlier self shows up—and plunge after the boy. He’s fled into the aisle on the far side, but I keep him in sight this time as he races back out the same door we came in. Always with the switchbacks, this kid.
It’s the smell of dead hogs and fish again as I tear out the door after him. This time I don’t hold back. Since my cover is blown anyway, I sprint hard for the back of the young man’s covered head. He makes a turn into an alley between buildings. For a moment I fear I might lose him again, but when I race around the corner I find the young man standing stock-still, his back to me. I don’t hesitate to grab hold of his arm and spin him around. “Hey, what’s the—”
I freeze. The boy’s eyes are rolled back in his head. He’s younger than I thought, perhaps only thirteen. The baggy hoodie has been deceptive. His bicep is thin in my grip and he feels like a stiff breeze could knock him over. It’s not his age that gets my attention though. It’s his voice. The sound doesn’t match the face at all. His eyes jitter back and forth as they gaze skyward and a moaning chant is emanating from his throat. I’m shocked by the expression on his face as much at the sound. His mouth is moving but his focus is certainly on nothing in the present. The chant is deep and guttural—otherworldly in the sense that wherever it is coming from inside of him, I get the distinct impression it’s not him speaking. Demonic possession comes to mind and I let go of his arm. I can’t understand the words. It’s not Spanish.
The adrenaline from the chase has turned to fear. I don’t feel in danger, but I’m frightened for this boy, who is starting to convulse and twitch in front of me. I’m scared that somehow our chase brought on some kind of epileptic fit. His arms thrash from side to side and his eyes flit from one imagined scene to another. Then the boy’s head jerks downward abruptly. He fixes me with a stare that still seems out of focus. “You’re too late, Traverssss.” My last name comes out as a hiss. “The Lost Star will return.”
Then it’s over. The convulsions are gone and the boy is left blinking at me. His disorientation at his surroundings turns to defensiveness as he sizes me up. “Cuál es tu pinche pedo?” My Spanish is a little rusty, but I recognize the touch of Mexican street slang in his response. I can tell his attitude is partly a product of his confusion. He wraps his arms across his chest and looks around to figure out his surroundings. I feel bad for him. Whatever just had control over him seems to have left no trace of itself behind.
“¿Estás bien?” I ask.
The boy raises his chin and fixes me with a defiant scowl. “Me cago en tu puta madre.”
I’m not familiar with his last phrase, though I gather enough of it to know it isn’t nice.
The next few
events happen in a blur. Beyond the boy, just a few feet from the nearest brick wall, another person appears. Not just another person, but me. This other me is gasping and out of breath, one hand on his chronometer, but he points to something above me and shouts, “Watch out!”
I look up to see a person dressed in black adhered to the side of the wall above me. The figure is stuck like a spider, fingertips clinging to a narrow window ledge. The spider-person comes loose as soon as I spot him, stepping out from the wall and dropping—something fierce and metallic-looking clutched in one hand.
“Oh shit!”
I barely have time to get one arm up, blocking the hand holding the blade as the person flattens me to the ground. I crumple with the weight of my assailant, but he is more limber on the landing, bouncing upright and back onto his feet in a moment. From my position on the ground, I only get time to notice bushy, masculine eyebrows protruding from the eyeholes of the otherwise masked face. He’s not especially big, whoever he is, but the eyes are angry. I glance past the boy still rigid in the alley, but the other me has already disappeared. The rest is a blur of black fabric as my assailant lunges toward me. His blade thrust catches the outside of my shoulder as I roll away. I kick wildly at my attacker and manage to connect with a knee, sending him sideways in a stagger and giving me enough time to scramble to my feet.
The boy has come unfrozen now and sprints away, his sneakers slapping the cobblestones and sending echoes dancing down the alley behind him.
The masked man only pauses long enough to draw an extra blade from somewhere in his abundant sleeves. My fingers find my chronometer and I frantically attempt to spin the dials. The second blade is airborne at the same time my attacker charges. I duck the throw and lunge for the wall of the building next to me in the same motion. The thrown knife ricochets off the wall and clatters to the ground, out of reach. I’m about to activate my chronometer, but he’s on me too fast. I have to use both hands to catch the wrist of the man’s outstretched arm, stopping the second wicked-looking blade mere inches from my throat.
Backed against the wall and out of room to maneuver, I aim a kick for his groin, but he blocks it easily with a kick of his own. With a vicious yell, he uses his other hand and strikes the side of my face. I swear at him as he rains blows on me, trying to get me to relinquish my hold on his knife arm. I get the vague sense that the commotion has attracted attention from people out in the street at the end of the alley, but if so, they are doing nothing.
A hard knee to my ribs nearly takes the wind out of me, but I fight back the only way I can, lunging forward and ramming the top of my head into my attacker’s face. I feel a satisfying crunch from the man’s nose hidden somewhere under the mask and his grip on the knife releases. He staggers back a couple of feet and steadies himself, brandishing both fists and uttering a guttural yell that might be as much to motivate himself as to scare me. He actually beats his chest a couple of times—getting himself fired up for the next assault—then leaps for me.
The hell with this.
I have the knife now, but it doesn’t matter. I drop the blade and slap my hand to the wall. My other hand reaches the dials on the side of the chronometer at the same time the man in black grabs hold of my shoulder. He might be trying to grapple me or throw me or God knows what else, but he doesn’t get a chance. I activate the chronometer and blink.
I appear in the alley only thirty seconds before, still staggering from the motion of the attack, but my assailant hasn’t come with me. Thank God. I look up to find my other self staring at me in confusion, the black blob of the spider-ninja lurking just above him on the wall.
“Watch out!” The yell is out of my mouth before I even have time to think, then the attack is happening all over again. Damn it. I allow myself an actual look at my chrononmeter this time and reset it for farther into the past.
A half an hour this time and the alley is clear. It’s a dangerous jump with no knowledge of what might be here, but I’ve gotten lucky and nothing is around to fuse into when I arrive. I scan the walls immediately, but no spider-men adorn the bricks this time. I let myself catch my breath, then stand up and check my shoulder. I’m bleeding pretty freely from the cut, but it isn’t terribly deep. The blade was obviously sharp because it cut cleanly through my shirt and into my shoulder without gashing or gouging—just a neat slice that I now attempt to hold tension on through my bloody sleeve.
I walk farther down the alley, trying to distance myself from this whole event. I’m disoriented in time and it takes me a few moments to gather my thoughts. I steal some napkins from a restaurant’s sidewalk table and hold the wad against my shoulder wound.
Have we arrived on the motorcycle yet? Where is the earlier me right now? I travel with caution, skirting around the areas I’ve been before in order to avoid any more encounters with myself. It’s not difficult to locate Tucket on the far side of the lab. His spangled jumpsuit is a giveaway, but his personality outshines even that. He’s chatting with passersby and laughing, seemingly fascinated by every person around him. The pedestrians he has accosted don’t seem to mind, and they must consider him an equally curious sight, because he has a little cluster of people gathered around. I keep an eye on him from a distance.
My phone lights up with a call. When I put the phone to my ear, I hear Mym again on the group call, explaining that the intruders have already lit the place on fire. The other me responds from the other side of the lab and Tucket chimes in that he sees one too. I check the back of the lab to see what he’s spotted.
A young woman has exited the building. Like the kid I chased, she could easily be a teenager. Her face is more visible than the boy’s was, auburn hair framing a round, cheerful-looking face. She is carrying a bag that she throws over one shoulder before heading down the street away from us. Tucket moves to follow. I run to catch up with him, using my free hand to grab the back of his jumpsuit.
“Let her go, Tucket.”
Tucket spins in surprise. “Ben! She’s just a kid, we can probably track her—”
“She’s not alone. They’ve got help, and they’re dangerous.”
Tucket registers the blood around my shoulder that I’m still keeping pressure on.
“Oh no! Did you get capped?”
I frown at him. “No. It wasn’t gang bangers. Look, we need to get to Mym, make sure she doesn’t go after these guys.”
Tucket lifts the ball device from his pocket and speaks to seemingly nothing. “Lone Avocado to Eagle Eye. I’ve got Ben. He says to disengage the hostiles. REPEAT. DISENGAGE THE—”
I grab Tucket’s arm to silence him, then hold my own phone up to my face. “Mym, where are you?”
“Still on the roof. Are you okay?”
“Yeah. I’m fine. Just don’t chase any of these guys. They have some kind of secondary ninja backup.”
“What happened?”
“We’ll come up and I can explain. Be there in a minute.” I lower the phone and give Tucket an appraising stare. “Eagle Eye?”
Tucket grins. “Yeah, I figured if we are doing recon we should have cool code names for the radio. I’m Lone Avocado ’cause my favorite band is AP and you know, I’m like the—”
“I gotcha.” I start moving toward the building, but stop when Tucket doesn’t immediately follow. He’s still back on the sidewalk where I left him. He looks a little disappointed that I haven’t let him finish his explanation. I swear at myself inwardly and turn back around. “Hey, I’m definitely ready to catch an Avocado Problems concert one of these days myself, Tuck.”
Tucket nods. “They’re the best.”
I wait for him to catch up. “Lone Avocado is pretty cool. Did you think of one for me?”
Tucket smiles and follows me across the street to the building next to Quickly’s lab. “You might think it’s stupid, but I was thinking about something super impressive like, ‘The Time King,’ ’cause obviously Time Lord is already taken. Or maybe something more mysterious like, ‘The Slippe
ry Giraffe.’” He waves his fingers to make the name seem more mysterious.
I hold the door to the stairwell open for him. “Slippery Giraffe?”
“Yeah, because you’re pretty tall and you, like, slip through time and everything. It’s cool, right?”
I let Tucket go ahead of me and follow him into the stairwell. “Let’s maybe work on that some more.”
“Okay. No problem. I have lots of ideas.” He begins to ramble off more potential code names for me as we climb. I sigh and follow him upwards. As I tune him out, the other voice comes back to mind. The boy hissing my name. “You’re too late, Travers. The Lost Star will return.”
The Lost Star reference is opaque to me. Like always, I’m out of my depth. But the someone who was speaking clearly knows me, so if I don’t recognize them, they are either from another timestream or from somewhere in my future. We will meet. That much is certain. It’s not an appealing prospect. I fiddle with the dials on my chronometer as I climb the stairwell. The memory of the condescending voice just makes me all the more determined to prove them wrong. Don’t try to tell a time traveler he’s too late. There’s no such thing.
8
“Each day, the future offers newer and more convincing illusions. It’s easy to get lost in them. The ability to see what isn’t there does not mean we should lose the ability to focus on what is.” -Journal of Dr. Harold Quickly, 2170
The Neverwhere
I have bad aim. That’s my current hypothesis. I’m sitting cross-legged on the floor of my apartment staring into the hole I’ve made in reality. A hole that is supposed to be letting me view my apartment in 2009. All the signs were looking good, but now I’m very confused.
My elation at finally getting the portal open and then managing to keep it open was the highlight of my experience in this place so far. At least until I realized I screwed it up somehow. Maybe.
The television is on in the version of my apartment I’m looking into. I could have sworn I heard a commercial say that it was having a sale on 2009 model cars until Independence Day, meaning that I ought to be in June or maybe early July, but the situation got complicated from there. My brain could be addled from the joy of simply hearing another human being’s voice—one in the real world—because the rest of this doesn’t make sense.
In Times Like These Boxed Set Page 122