The Floridan aquifer system channels various underground rivers beneath the entire state and supplies most of the major cities with their drinking water. The aquifer is an ecosystem all its own. If you happen to be a crayfish or an albino lobster, you might just hang out down there all the time. If you are a tall, human man who forgot to bring a scuba suit, the environment is less than ideal.
Some things have certainly changed in the century and a half I’ve skipped over. Technology has leapt ahead. I’m viewing this tunnel through digital meta goggles and a super-fancy space elevator looms outside. What hasn’t changed is that rainwater runoff pipes and underground waterways are dark and smelly. I’m sure there is some meta app I could be using to make the tunnels smell like rose petals, but I don’t mess with the settings.
Following Sonia through the labyrinth of pipes and caverns under Port Nyongo makes my skin twitchy. Each new splash in the darkness makes me think of alligators and pythons. Sonia clearly knows where she’s headed, but the odds of her leaving me here alone increase with each passing minute. She doesn’t seem to fear the wildlife, though she does stop us once as an electronic drone goes skimming down one of the perpendicular passages. She waits till the drone is out of sight before moving on.
It seems that we’re not the only ones who find these caverns handy for avoiding the surface traffic, but it’s apparent from Sonia’s caution that not everyone using the space is to be trusted. I feel the same way about Sonia. She’s my own personal Gollum and, like Bilbo, my fingers frequently find the anchor stone in my pocket—my key to vanishing out of this hole if things go badly.
“Are you sure this is the way?” I ask, as I slosh through another algae-covered cavern. “How does anyone get in? They can’t get many clients like this.”
Sonia looks back at me from farther up the cavern. “This isn’t how I got in. It’s how I escaped.”
I muse on her words as I follow her along the tunnel, then she finally reaches a concrete spillway that is above the current water level. A smaller diameter pipe juts from the wall above it. Sonia scrabbles up the dirt beneath the pipe and crawls inside. Her voice echoes faintly as she whispers back at me. “Almost there. Quiet now.”
As I climb onto the concrete spillway, I’m tempted to make a jump forward a few seconds to dry myself off, but realize belatedly that I forgot to ask Rixon if he treated the clothes and gear I’m wearing with gravitites. Having failed to bring the degravitizer, I have no way to check.
“Hey, Rixon. You there?”
The com crackles, but I get no reply.
Debating the situation, I decide I’d rather be soggy than naked. I climb up and scramble through the opening of the pipe. As I do, my vision goes black.
A blinking red light is all that remains of my view in the goggles. I concentrate on it and it opens a text window. Caution: You have entered an area that has not been charted. Return to the meta map to restore navigation functions.
Looks like even future technology has its limits.
I concentrate on the toolbar at the edge of my viewfinder and select the icon for night vision. My view comes back marginally, but not nearly as well as I had been seeing before. This tunnel is close to pitch dark and the sensors barely have enough light to outline the edges of the pipe. The light it does pick up appears to be coming from a bioluminescent algae growing at the bottom of the pipe. I do my best not to squish it all as I squirm my way forward.
I wouldn’t say I’m claustrophobic as a rule. That being said, there is really only so much squirming through a narrow metal pipe that a body can handle. If you are broad-shouldered and incapable of bending very well, that distance is vastly reduced. The space just seems to be getting tighter, and after a while it’s only the fact that I hate the idea of trying to go back that keeps me moving forward. The air is pungent with some oily chemical, so I don my oxygen mask and open the valve as I crawl. It makes me feel slightly better.
The vague light from the tiny bioluminescent algae on the bottom of the pipe is the only thing I can see. It gives me the impression I’m climbing over an abyss of far away stars. The cosmic sensation is disorienting. I can feel my mind wandering, unable to distract it with any other visuals. Images float through my head: the underground tunnels I traveled in Seattle, an arched room with a fire pit in the middle, a shrouded figure deep in meditation. The other me is there. I can feel him. His emotions. He’s scared. Hiding in the darkness. Trapped. Alone.
Or is that me?
I force myself to concentrate on the physical sensations around me. Corrugated steel. Slimy algae. My own grimy clothes. You are not in the Neverwhere. You are here.
I struggle forward faster, trying to escape the connection to my other self. He’s noticed me too. I can feel him searching for a way through the darkness.
No. Stay where you are.
Finally, when I have just about resigned myself to spending the rest of my short life as a human clog, I reach the end.
Based on the size of the pipe and possibly the effects of the extraneous fumes I’ve been breathing for the past few minutes, I’ve had a delusional fear that Sonia and I might emerge into some enormous toilet, crawling out of the u-bend into a world of Jonathan Swift’s giants. The reality of the situation turns out to be much less Gulliver’s Travels and more Fast and Furious. We’re in a sunken rectangular floor drain, and the drain is at the low point of someone’s garage.
The metal grating Sonia lifts away is located beneath a vehicle. It’s hard to say what it is from just the undercarriage, but it’s got at least two feet of ground clearance. There are a few spray wands hanging on the wall next to it, and I realize the drain we’ve crawled into is part of someone’s personal car wash. Sonia slides the grating aside and shimmies out from under the bumper. I pause with my head still the only bit of me protruding from the rectangular drain. I’m partly cautious and partly in awe. This is a big garage and the vehicles in it are shiny and expensive-looking.
The car nearest me is a black ’67 Camaro with a ski rack on top. Beyond that is a red T-top Ferrari. The cars both look vaguely familiar, but when I slide out from beneath the truck I’m under, I get a strange realization that I’m in more than just someone’s personal garage. It’s a collection, and not just any collection, but one from my generation. The black, Toyota 4x4 with the yellow KC light covers on top is cool, but its counterpart a few cars down is even more iconic, a stainless steel Delorean complete with black vents and a Mister Fusion on the back.
“Who owns all these?” I whisper.
Sonia appears unimpressed. “This is old junk. Nothing even electric.”
“Actually, if you want to get technical,” I jab my thumb toward the Delorean. “Parts of that one—”
“Come on. We’ll see who’s home.”
The garage of this ’80s car enthusiast is attached to an even more enormous house with a circular driveway. Peering out the garage windows I get the sense that—with the exception of the cars—whoever owns this mansion doesn’t have particularly good taste. Besides the ridiculous columns and ostentatious topiaries, there are a half dozen marble angels surrounding a fountain, all with their hands covering their eyes.
I follow Sonia inside the house through an attached hallway. Despite the house being off the metaspace, I have a hard time believing there isn’t some other security system we’re alerting, but if there is, Sonia doesn’t much care.
“Where are they? Where are they?” She mutters to herself as she pushes open doors and makes her way through the silly amount of hallways. We emerge into a kitchen, and my companion pauses long enough to raid the pantry before continuing her search. Her further exploration leaves crumbs of cheese crackers in her wake. I give up trying to avoid them as I follow behind. My boots are leaving just as much of a mess behind us anyway.
I glimpse my reflection in a hallway mirror and have trouble recognizing myself. The goggles are dark and conceal my eyes, and the oxygen mask obscures my other features. The rest of me
is so caked with dirt and grime that I can’t even remember what color my clothes started out. Rounding a corner into a formal dining room, we’re confronted by a fair-haired synth in a red Star Trek uniform.
“You do not have authorization to be in this part of the manor,” the synth declares calmly. “The masters of the house have been alerted to your presence.”
Sonia flips the synth off and barrels past him. “Where are they?” She glances both directions at the end of the hallway and goes right.
The synth hesitates, seeming to debate between watching me or going after Sonia. He must deem her more of a threat to the house because he turns and pursues her down the corridor. I follow at a distance. When I reach the end of the hall, I decide that Sonia may have taken me as far as she’s going to. I go left.
Halfway down the corridor, I hear voices. Vaguely familiar voices.
“You said you wanted more recruits, and we got them. You never said they had to be stable.” The young man’s tone is apathetic and lazy. My brain is struggling to place it.
“These latest additions of yours have been next to worthless.” Another voice replies. “Not one of the last bunch succeeded in relaying their messages.” This other man sounds older, but is unfamiliar. “And as to the time travelers you’ve found for us, hardly any have shown the proper respect for what we’re trying to accomplish. How are we supposed to make contact with His Greatness when—”
“I told you the equipment you got us the first time wasn’t meant for humans. No way you can use that on him. If the portable you say you stole is better, we’ll make more progress.”
I adjust my chronometer settings for a quick exit in case I need it, then place one hand in the pocket with my anchor stone. I creep forward and peer around the corner of the doorway into a greenhouse filled with marijuana plants. The voices are coming from beyond a few rows of planters toward the center of the room. I slip inside and skirt one wall, careful to stay out of sight. It takes me a few attempts to find a spot that lets me view the speakers, but finally they move into the center of the greenhouse where I can see them.
The man standing closest is dressed in loose gray clothing and has his back to me. Despite his deceptively mature voice, he’s young, perhaps early twenties.
“Lord Elgin will be here soon, and we’re expected to have our end of the operation settled. We’ll be taking the remaining candidates we collected today to the temple for final training. When the Lost Star arrives we must be ready. You promised that your services would be effective.”
“Listen, man,” the lazy voice replies. “We’ve got you more applicants than you said you needed. It hasn’t been easy. Most people don’t wanna work that hard and not many people are as eager to try our ‘education’ system now that you guys have been letting the rejects loose. Kinda gives our marketing a bad rap when your leftovers go attacking people on the Skylift and talking to themselves all over town.”
I edge forward till I can make out the second speaker. He’s slouched against a planter and is toying with a gaudy gold ring on his finger. His floppy blonde hair obscures one eye, but the haughty face is just as smug as the last time I saw it. At least he’s sober.
Guy Friday.
How is he involved in this?
Guy’s younger brother, Lawrence, moves into view as well. I have enough reasons to despise both siblings after they robbed my friends and me in the ’80s and made off with one of Doctor Quickly’s chronometers, but I realize after a few moments of observation that I’m looking at a younger version of the despicable duo. Lawrence is easily twenty pounds lighter and both look like they’re little more than high school age.
The young man in gray doesn’t seem placated. “Only twenty percent of your recruits made the cut so far. We were supposed to have access to the upper levels of the Skylift by now. So far all you’ve given us is day laborers and low level work foremen. Good enough for decoys, but we want more security engineers and dock masters.”
“Look, I get it.” Guy waves a hand. “We’ve already got the people you want in place, it’s just going to take an additional investment.”
“Additional investment? We’ve already paid you double from what you originally quoted us. You made promises, and Lord Elgin expects results.”
Guy holds up a hand. “I get you, man, but costs on this job have gone up. We need to—Lawrence, will you see what in the hell is going on inside? Scotty keeps pinging me every five seconds about some security thing he’s dealing with.”
“Where’s the rest of his security team?” Lawrence objects. “They should be able to—”
“Just go check it out, will you?” Guy jerks a thumb toward the house. “Mr. Longcase and I will finish discussing business.”
Lawrence frowns and seems disappointed to be left out of the conversation but obeys his brother and heads inside. Once he’s disappeared, Guy turns back to his companion. “Look, I know you guys are onto something big here. You’ve got plans, and I get that. So maybe, in order to make things go smoother, you cut us in on a little of the action. If we knew what the stakes were, then maybe we could get you better candidates for your project.”
“As much as I appreciate your enthusiasm, Lord Elgin prefers to keep involvement from your kind to a minimum.”
“My kind?” Guy sputters. “What is that supposed to mean?”
Longcase turns my direction, and I get a better look at him. He’s lean and pale with a sharp jawline. His short, black hair stabs a sharp peak down his forehead, reminding me of an older Eddie Munster. “You were a student at the Academy of Temporal Sciences, weren’t you? You’re a time traveler with a clear connection to the central governing—”
“You think I’d report you to ASCOTT?” Guy replies. “You must not have done your research very well. Last place in the world we’d be going with this is back to the Academy or to some ASCOTT official, especially after all this.” He gestures to the mansion around us. “You probably noticed that this place is completely off-Grid and isn’t meta-mapped. We’ve gone to a lot of effort to stay apart.”
“And it has been your discretion that permitted us to do business in the first place. Even so, the mandate of Lord Gnomon requires that we employ as few time travelers as possible. The liability is just too great. If one of you were to involve yourselves, it may complicate millennia worth of work.”
“Millennia? How long have you been planning this thing? I thought this had to do with the future?”
“That’s our matter to worry about. Your business is delivering on your promises.” The man sizes up Guy and seems to make a decision. “How much more money? Time is getting short, and we have to gain access now. If you get us the ship, we’ll pay you what you ask.”
Guy’s eyes glisten brighter at the prospect. “Triple. We could do it for triple.”
“Be sure you can. We will only have one opportunity for success.”
At that moment, a pair of red-shirted synths come trooping through the door, carrying the struggling form of Sonia with them. They are followed by the smaller synth we met in the hallway. Sonia is writhing in the grip of her captors and spitting. When she sees the man in gray, she freezes. “You! You did this to me, you son of a bitch!”
Mr. Longcase frowns at her. “Miss Davis. I see you continue to ignore even the most basic of our principles. It was your lack of mental calm that was your downfall. I had nothing to do with it.”
“You’re a bunch of liars!” Sonia screams. “You said I’d be smarter. That I’d be able to learn to be a foreman. You said you’d help me!”
“We said nothing of the sort,” Mr. Longcase replies. “We merely said that you would be receiving knowledge. An opportunity to meld your thoughts with those of your own future. It is not our fault that your future is less than bright in Port Nyongo. And you have met your future self now, haven’t you?”
“She’s a fucking bitch!” Sonia screams. “I want her out of my head!”
“How did she get loose in the house?”
Guy asks. “I thought you were supposed to have transferred all the candidates by now. ”
“This one got away from us, sir.” The synth we first encountered in the hallway speaks up. “Seems she exploited a vulnerability in the garage. Wasn’t gone long though. She came back with another man. Another worker.”
“Another one? And where is he? Please don’t tell me you’re letting him roam around the house unmonitored too.”
“No, sir. He’s here. He’s standing behind those planters.” The synth points directly at me.
Shit.
Guy reaches behind his back and pulls a pistol from the waistband of his pants. He flips off the safety and aims it at the bushes. He can’t see me, so his aim is off, but it’s close enough to make me nervous. I keep low behind the planter and pull my anchor stone from my pocket, making adjustments to my chronometer for my escape.
“Come out of there,” Guy calls. “Out where I can see you.”
Nope.
I set the stone on the end of the planter and put my fingertip to it. One hand on my chronometer. Here I go.
“Come out or she dies.”
I hesitate.
Peering through the pot leaves, I assess the situation. Sonia has gone still in her captors’ arms. Guy has the pistol pressed against her temple.
Damn it. I don’t know Guy well enough to guess if he’ll really shoot her. He’s an asshole to be sure. While I doubt he’d pull the trigger, I don’t want Sonia’s life hanging on that assumption. I pocket my anchor stone again, tug my sleeve back over my chronometer, and step cautiously out from behind the planter. I keep my free hand near my chronometer arm just in case.
I can sense the synths analyzing my meta identity as I step into the center of the walkway. They won’t see much, just the fake ID Rixon set up for me. The gun in Guy’s hand swings away from Sonia and toward me.
“Who are you?” he demands.
“Just wanted work.” My voice is muffled inside the oxygen mask, and I have to speak loudly to be heard.
In Times Like These Boxed Set Page 147