“I can reach out—I’m looking for Mommy.”
“Concentrate, Jorgie! Make them take you where you want to go.”
An oil platform in the North Sea. Workers in yellow hardhats battling strong winds and raucous waves—gone in an instant leaving behind empty decks.
“It’s not easy, Father,” the boy pleaded in frustration. “Everything keeps spinning and moving. I reach out for her and then—and then she’s gone and it’s someone else…”
Calmer waters—that same platform off in the distance—dozens of green coffins burst into existence in a different time and sink beneath the waves to a watery grave.
“Father! I killed them! They’re gone—I can’t do this!”
“You already have. Keep trying!”
A magnificent temple dominated by a Kmer-style tower with two sets of steep steps leading to terraces. Four smaller prangs surrounded the main tower, each decorated in seashells and porcelain. Tourists dressed in a variety of colorful, warm-weather clothing swarmed the grounds moving between somber-looking Buddhists. Then, in an instant, they vanished.
“I can grab them, Father, but it’s like scooping sand. What I do grab feels like it’s slipping through my hands.”
Jorgie’s eyes closed and he concentrated his will on the task. Trevor saw fatigue and aggravation battering his son. He wanted to grab him, pull him from the energy field, and comfort him in his arms. But he knew he could not. His son had a role to play; a power that needed to bloom if humanity were to survive the day. No matter how hard—no matter the pain—no matter the number of failures, Trevor knew he must let his son try.
The tourists and worshippers re-appeared along the banks of the Chao Phraya, not far from the temple at a time after the armies of Armageddon had descended upon the Earth. The cluster of emerald sarcophagi appeared in the midst of a pack of monstrous Jaw-Wolves playing with the bones of victims in a riverside park.
“Jorgie—Jorgie listen to me,” Trevor took a deep breath, held his hands palm-up in a calming manner, and spoke to his son in his best father’s voice. “Think of a place first, Jorgie. Don’t worry about time or where to go, think of place. Think about home, JB.”
“I—yes, okay, Father, I understand.”
Trevor understood. Voggoth had created this gateway by enslaving the powers of the Nyx. Jorgie jumped in mid-stream, commandeering the mechanism but without any real control. It amazed him that JB could do so much with no preparation. Yet if history were to be fulfilled, he would need to do more. Trevor could not fathom what would happen if he pulled Jorgie from the energy pool before he completed his task, but he had to believe that the world outside the temple would change drastically. All their success to date might be wiped clean and any chance at saving humanity would vanish as quickly as the ‘ark riders’ had vanished in the days before the invasion.
“You’re starting in the right ‘when’, Jorgie,” Trevor said as he remembered disappearances in Norway and Thailand during those early days. “But you’ve put them back too early.”
“I can’t control this.”
“Yes, you can. The same way you controlled Voggoth’s machines on the island last year. I have confidence in you.”
JB—his eyes still closed—muttered, “I’m in the right when…”
A spinning globe stopped on the savannahs of Africa. An entire village vanished.
“I can’t hold them for long.”
“Can you move them somewhere, Jorgie? Can you take them to a different ‘where’?”
”I’m trying—I’m trying…”
The villagers re-appeared in cases of green in a wooded patch not far from the remains of burned and collapsed huts and buildings; something had come through and destroyed their homes. Before the image changed, Trevor saw a reason for hope: he saw a group of camouflage-wearing African troops riding in Jeeps approach the still-steaming vessels. If this was a scene in the time since Armageddon’s start, then perhaps these soldiers were survivors, too.
“Jorgie! That’s it! You did it! You pulled them forward through time to when they would be safe. But think about places closer to home. Think about your mother.”
Flashes of cities, mountain towns, seaside villas, campgrounds—they came and went in quick succession.
Wrigley field—thousands of fans and two baseball teams ceased to exist in the summer of the invasion—and reappeared in the streets of the Lakeview neighborhood of Chicago; a neighborhood teeming with alien wildlife.
Trevor gasped, “No…” but he already knew The Empire had found those unlucky time travelers torn to shreds.
Any confidence JB felt quickly dissipated with this failure.
“I have to stop—I’m killing them!”
“Listen to me, Jorgie. You can’t stop. You have already done this. You are a link on the chain. Hell, maybe it’s a whole new chain that those son of a bitches didn’t count on, but you’ve got to see it through. Keep trying. You’re in the right time. Don’t give up, son. Please. For your mother’s sake.”
The mention of his mother’s name re-energized the boy. His eyes opened and while Trevor could not see what his son saw, he could see a new sense of determination in his expression.
More images—random places—random buildings—people pulled from their lives days or hours before the onslaught of invaders. With each group, Jorgie’s skill at moving them through time improved. Only a handful arrived too soon. Many more began to appear in places that Trevor immediately recognized from those early years of expansion; places where they had found ark-riders.
As he watched his son work, Trevor had a revelation.
Whenever they had found batches of ark riders they had always found a scientist of some importance, or an engineer, or a brilliant mathematician or a fanatically brave soldier. At the time, Trevor had sensed a purpose behind the ark; as if some force had targeted the best and brightest of humanity and ensured their survival beyond the first days of Armageddon.
Not so. The groups Jorgie pulled from history were random groups. Yet someone of importance, someone of great value, someone who aided the cause did arrive in each batch because even the most random samples of humanity always produced such persons. The plan existed not in the power behind the ark, but in the nature of mankind.
Jorgie’s face grew drawn and tired. Working from the center of the energy spike—the vortex—put a great strain on his body and no matter how great his powers, he remained a human being.
“Father—something is—something is wrong,” Jorgie’s eyes searched the streams of energy; again seeing things not visible to Trevor. “I feel—I feel like I’m being watched. Like another door has opened.”
Trevor could not decipher what his son meant. He only knew what needed to be accomplished. And from what he could see in the spinning, flashing storm of energy, Jorgie’s skill at fishing the currents of time improved.
Trevor saw West Point along the Hudson. He watched as a cache of summer students and teachers—all across campus—vanished into thin air. Trevor knew General William Hoth—hero of the Wetmore battle—would be among that number. Trevor searched his memory. They had found the ark-riders at West Point less than a year after the Battle of Five Armies but before major expansion. Jon had suggested an expedition to the academy with the hope of finding materials for ‘teaching’ as part of his strategy to improve humanity’s burgeoning citizen-army. They had found much more than that: they had found hundreds of cadets and dozens of instructors; including Hoth.
“Jorgie—put them back in two years. No more.”
“I’ll try, Father,” and the boy grunted and the emerald sarcophagi re-appeared on the academy grounds. Trevor could not tell if the time was exactly right, but from what he saw no predators threatened the ark-riders.
“Father!”
“JB? What?”
Again, the child’s eyes searched the bands of energy, seeing something.
“They’re coming, Father! They’re coming!”
“Hur
ry, Jorgie! Hurry!”
In rapid succession Jorgie guided the Nyx’s energy across the world during the June days just prior to the full force of the invasion. Trevor fed him dates and places, but despite becoming better skilled at manipulating the power, Jorgie still could not be as precise as Trevor wished. Nonetheless, he grabbed thousands of people form the past and, with Trevor’s guidance, deposited them at times when they would awake in lands re-claimed by the expanding Empire.
Again Jorgie warned, “Something is happening—there’s another door open—to someplace different. Father—I’m getting so very tired.”
“Your mother, Jorgie. Find your mother,” Trevor had not pushed to pull Ashley from the past because he wanted his son’s skill to improve as much as possible. Of all the ark-riders, losing Ashley—and, ironically, baby Jorgie in her belly—would prove the most catastrophic. He wondered if his son—standing in the energy field—would simply vanish should Ashley find her green coffin deposited before the battle for Wilkes-Barre; before the Battle of Five Armies; before Northeastern Pennsylvania had been retaken by humanity.
His concern proved unwarranted. Ashley’s entire family and all of her neighbors disappeared from their homes, leaving behind singed clothing and empty rooms.
In the moment before the image changed, Trevor saw a silver Chevrolet Malibu with a badly-damaged passenger side screech to a stop in the half-circle driveway of the Trump’s modular home. He saw a person to whom he shared some similarity; he saw a young man named Richard Stone exit the car and bound up the stairs in search of his fiancé. All this before the Old Man, before New Winnabow, before the journey to a parallel universe.
Trevor gazed at the fading image. The stranger pictured there—could that really be his past self? How he wished for a world where Richard had never become Trevor.
Then the image changed. Ashley and the others from her street rode the ark landing safely in secure territory not far from her home a little more than a year since her disappearance. For her the time past in the quickest of flashes. During that flash, his entire life—his entire person—changed.
Richard became Trevor.
“Father—I am so tired—and they are coming…”
The energy field waned. The image showed the grounds outside the temple. Voggoth’s monsters prepared for one last strike at the Europeans; one last surge to send them running.
“One more, JB. One more time and then you’re done.”
“I can’t…”
“You must! Armand and the others are dying. Send them help, Jorgie.”
The mention of Armand’s name grabbed JB’s attention. No doubt the thought of the gallant Frenchman—someone Jorgie had grown to admire—gave him one last burst of energy.
Trevor saw the scene change to a place he could not identify; an industrial town situated beneath a row of beautiful, towering mountains covered with green and surrounded by serene rolling hills. A formation of soldiers marched along a road outside of town, enjoying the sun of a gorgeous Russian summer day as well as a postcard view.
Trevor realized—Satka, Russia. This place. This very place before the infection of Voggoth came and tore it asunder.
Alexander stood at the open passenger’s door of a Sherpa military vehicle. He used a small flashlight to consult the map unfolded on the seat therein. A Royal Marine watched over the leader with his eyes aimed east at the battlefield raging just below the nearby ridge.
Explosions of red and orange—barrel flashes—streams of fire—and vehicle headlights created a shifting tapestry of light within the mass of combatants. The occasional lightning flash from the cloud-covered heavens revealed a morass of human fighters in close-quarters battle with the alien horde. A smoky haze floated above the slaughter.
Behind Alexander the crews for a pair of small artillery pieces hurriedly hitched their guns to transports. Other workers packed crates with gear and sealed them shut.
Armand’s motor bike roared to a stop near the Sherpa. The warrior—a big blood stain on one thigh and a slash cut through the leather sleeve of his outfit—knocked the stand into position with a sharp, frustrated kick. As he approached Alexander he removed his helmet.
“What did you want me for?”
Alexander answered, “Round up your cavalry. I need you to cover our retreat.”
“Retreat?” Armand’s face twisted in disgust as if Alexander had just cursed a dear relative. “Trevor and his son are still inside that temple.”
“I know. I am not happy about this. But the battle has turned against us. Too many of those things coming out of thin air. Already our northern flank has collapsed. As it stands, we may have to leave our wounded behind.”
“Alexander, I have followed you for years without question. Your pragmatism kept us alive and together during those early times. But I do not want to do this thing. If Trevor is right, then this is a battle that must be won. Sometimes it is best to take a chance, even when the odds are against you.”
Alexander shook his head not in disagreement but surprise.
“I did not know you had come to trust him so.”
Armand answered, “He has been right since the moment he came here. I cannot ignore that. And neither should you. We must stay and fight.”
“If we do not leave soon then we may not be able to disengage! Do you know what that means? We will be overrun and cut to pieces. Right now we are a wounded army, but we are still an army. With cover from your riders we can retreat. Soon we will not even have that luxury. The lines of this battle are already disintegrating. Please, Armand, I do not like to—“
“Come!” a shout interrupted Alexander’s argument. “Alexander! Armand! Come and see!”
The voice belonged to the lanky black man named Gaston. The one who had been spying in France for Russian intelligence at the time of the invasion. He stood at the edge of the dead orchard waving frantically.
Both Armand and Alexander knew Gaston not to be a man easily taken to shouting. They reacted by dropping everything and walked quickly toward Gaston. Alexander’s bodyguard joined the group and they pushed through the forest.
“What is it?” Alexander felt time—and a chance to escape—slipping away with every wasted second.
Gaston said, “It is unbelievable. A miracle.”
After the field of dead trees came a small, round valley, the valley they had inspected prior to the battle: the field full of the tanks, guns, equipment, and uniforms of the 276th Motorized Rifle Regiment.
Alexander and Armand stopped at the edge of the orchard. And gaped.
The T-72s, the mobile artillery, the BTRs and the boxes and crates of equipment and ammunition remained. However, hundreds—perhaps thousands—of green blobs the size of coffins now filled the space between the gear.
Rick Hauser and several of Gaston’s men worked among the strange blobs, digging into and peeling away layers of what resembled hardened gelatin. Dozens of strangers stood among them. Alexander squinted as if to ensure his vision worked properly. A bolt of lightning lit the scene and confirmed what he thought he saw: those strangers were naked men.
“We started pulling them out as soon as we found them,” Gaston explained. “They are alive! We focused on freeing the officers. With a little searching they should find their uniforms.” He considered then added. “I suppose any uniform will do for the time being. It is cold, no?”
“I do not understand,” Alexander said. “Who are they?”
By the tone in Armand’s voice it seemed he understood and accepted the situation: “You see, they are alive. Trevor and his son are alive. They did this! They turned Voggoth’s trick and used it to help us. We must keep fighting, Alexander. These men will turn the battle.”
Alexander wanted to say something to Armand, but the Frenchman hurried away from his side and wade among the newcomers, smiling in a fashion Alexander had rarely seen from his friend.
For their part, the naked men huddled in small groups taking pains to shield themselves in
modesty and from the cold air under the cloud-filled night. A few realized their clothing lay nearby and scrambled into uniform. Shock, however, stymied the majority.
Armand aimed to change that. He hurried to the nearest T-72; a dust-covered dinosaur on the verge of resurrection. Gaston realized Armand’s intentions and stood at the base of the vehicle, translating his words.
Despite the sounds of battle from a half-mile away, one burst from Armand’s FAMAS rifle into the air grabbed the attention of the liberated soldiers. A line of naked Russians stood in front of the tank; more spread across the field.
“Listen to me,” he yelled and as he did, Gaston repeated the words in Russian. “You do not know what is going on. I understand. The short way to put it is that you have traveled through time; about eleven years. In that time, Earth has been invaded and we are at war for our survival.”
Armand tried to summon some kind of inspirational speech. He tried to capsulate lots of information into a few sentences as clearly as possible. Alas, the Russian soldiers were neither inspired nor enlightened by his words.
Armand chose a different approach.
“Okay, then let me just put it like this. Now is the time to fight…”
He threw his arm behind him and pointed toward the sounds of battle.
“…and those are the bad guys.”
Jorgie fell to a knee. The energy field buzzing around him flickered. The Nyx seemed to wriggle free of their prison but only for a split second before something stopped them dead again.
Trevor stepped forward but the electricity kept him away as surely as it kept the cloud-things held in place.
“They’re coming, Father. I felt another door open.”
Trevor saw—shapes forming in the energy stream around Jorgie.
Although worn to the point of exhaustion, Trevor heard a measure of awe in his son’s voice as he mumbled, “Something is happening to me—I am seeing things—I feel different.”
Beyond Armageddon V: Fusion Page 42