Winston Chase and the Theta Factor

by Bodhi St John

  “Don’t eat me,” he whispered through clattering teeth to anything that might be listening in the night. “I taste bad.”

  With Little e’s slow heat creeping into his core, Winston had just enough time to wonder about Shade and whether his friend was now in a blind panic, stranded alone and captured on that freighter. Winston wanted to tell Shade that he would figure this out and make it all right, but before he could form even an inkling of how that might happen, exhaustion overtook him and snatched him into an even darker place.

  After what felt like only a moment, Winston became aware of a different warmth blanketing him. He opened his eyes to find the sky’s black nothingness now blazing with the brilliant, pale blue of midmorning. The sun felt glorious after his frigid soaking, at least until he tried to roll from his side onto his back. His muscles ached as he uncurled himself from around Little e. He stretched his spine and legs, and the tendons in his kinked neck felt as if they’d been filled with concrete. Winston groaned as he slowly forced his body into movement and sat up.

  All around him, thick clumps of river grass rose to shoulder height, and he saw that, in the pitch black of last night, he’d swum into a small inlet, unknowingly adding another thirty or forty yards to his desperate lunge for shore. Adding further sting, he discovered a wide, gravel-covered path running from the water’s edge up the gentle slope on which he now sat. Winston realized that this must be some sort of private water access, possibly a boat launch. That was good. A boat launch probably ruled out the Jurassic period.

  Beyond the grassy slope around him, Winston saw the Columbia sparkling in the morning sun. To each side along the shore, and spanning up the low hill behind him, beech and oak trees rose on broad, stately trunks to cast shade against the summer heat. A low breeze brought cool air from the river and stirred the grass around Winston. He took it as a sign to get moving.

  Winston groaned as his legs and back protested. He tucked the chronojumper torus, as he now thought of it, into a pocket, then willed Little e’s arms to wrap around the chronoviewer, locking it into place. When Winston let go of the device’s crossbar, the tubes froze, holding the ring so tight that it couldn’t even wobble. In a moment, he was free of the grass and striding onto the gravel path by the river’s edge just as his foot caught on something, nearly tripping him. Winston bent down and laughed with recognition. It was a Tonka toy bulldozer, but not the plastic kind he’d played with as a child. This one was made of tough metal with flaking yellow paint.

  The toy set him a bit at ease. He couldn’t have gone that far into the past. And if children had been here recently, perhaps he might find a mom willing to help him.

  Winston set off up the gravel road. Not even a hundred yards from the river, the path bent to the right, and a large house appeared through the trees. As Winston approached, he could see that the two-story home, brown with black trim, was dominated by broad windows and a wraparound deck. To the house’s left, a smaller building with a roll-up door wide enough for two cars sat at the gravel road’s end, no doubt a garage of some sort. A lush lawn blanketed the clearing below the home, dotted with manicured rosebushes and a large, trellised gazebo laced with white-flowered jasmine.

  Winston strode with as much confidence as he could muster, head high, one arm cradling a bunch of alien time machine gear, clothes still damp and droopy, with the left side of his body covered in mud where he’d slept on it.

  He decided to ignore the garage. Someone might think he meant to steal a car. Instead, he cut across the grass and made his way slowly through the rosebushes, admiring the mix of crimson and peach-toned blossoms, unable to stop himself from breathing in their warm sweetness. In fact, the flowers proved so distracting as he moved around the gazebo that he failed to notice the three people laying on lawn chairs on the gazebo’s far side until he was practically standing over them. Stopping abruptly, Winston realized they were sunbathers — young women, possibly teenagers, long and curvy with glistening, bronzed, well-oiled skin and far-too-small bikinis. He stood paralyzed with fear and awkwardness.

  In unison, the trio turned their sunglasses toward Winston.

  ***

  Bledsoe ducked into the first meeting room he came across, a drab little cube dominated by an oval table, six armless chairs, and a whiteboard on one wall. A fresh-faced agent and an older woman sat at the table discussing a report displayed on the notebook computer between them.

  Bledsoe pointed at the blue rim around his ID badge, signifying his status. “Out,” he said.

  The two stood, scooped up the computer, and scowled as they left.

  He flicked his thumb across the screen and raised the handset to his ear.

  “I’m alone,” he said.

  As always, his top-ranking contact at Management, known only as Control One, used voice distortion to give his words a low, metallic sound that struck Bledsoe as excessively melodramatic.

  “Update,” Management ordered.

  “We’re making progress with Majestic One.” Bledsoe used Claude’s code name, preferring it to anything more personal when discussing the man with outsiders. “I’m sure you’ve seen some of the preliminary images we’ve retrieved.”

  “They seem…ambiguous.”

  “Well, we’re scraping the man’s subconscious. It’s not exactly paint by numbers. Compared to the static and nonsense we got when we first hooked him up, I’d say we’re doing pretty good.”

  Bledsoe waited for his boss’s reaction, sensing that he shouldn’t overplay his hand. So far as Management knew, Bledsoe’s only interest here was in QV research. Sure, it was interesting that Claude had aged considerably since 1948 while Amanda had not, but he’d convinced Management that this was due to the QVs giving Amanda the same cellular-level age resistance Bledsoe also enjoyed.

  Management had no idea about the Alpha Machine and that a device for time travel was within their — meaning Bledsoe’s — reach. Bledsoe allegedly needed Winston, the world’s first and only human conceived and born with QVs, for research. He had sold Management on the idea that a native-born QV/human hybrid should exhibit different qualities than people like himself, someone injected with the organisms as an adult. That part might even be true, but Bledsoe didn’t care. He only needed Winston as a tool for recovering the complete Alpha Machine. With that done, nothing else would matter.

  “And Majestic Two?” asked Control One.

  “Well,” Bledsoe replied cautiously. “She’s not happy, but she’ll be useful. I only need a little more time.”

  “We have heard this repeatedly from you, Mr. Bledsoe.”

  “I know, I know.” He lifted the red marker from the whiteboard tray as he passed and clenched it in his fist. “Consider where we started and how much clearer and better the images are now, just a day later. We’re close. As for Majestic Two, I think she’ll be just the trick to get her son back in line.”

  “Back?” asked Control One with mechanical flatness. “You have never had the boy ‘in line,’ Mr. Bledsoe.”

  Bledsoe managed the smallest, briefest laugh. “Point taken. But I’ve also never had both of his parents in hand to use as leverage. Trust me, sir. I’m just getting started.”

  “Perhaps you need help,” said Management.

  That stopped Bledsoe in mid-step. He deliberately misunderstood his boss’s words. “Well, you’ve been very generous with giving me clearance and support, sir. I’m confident that—”

  “We are not,” interrupted Control One. “Perhaps you need more direct supervision.”

  A flash of hot anger whipped through Bledsoe. He wanted to hurl the whiteboard marker against the far wall but worried that the noise of impact would betray him. His next impulse was to crush the object with energy and melt it into oblivion, but that would have been stupid. The QVs helped him to channel and absorb energy, but they didn’t make him impervious to heat. Destroying the pen would also destroy his hand, at least until it healed. All he could do was squeeze the marker in his fist un
til he heard the plastic crack and finally snap.

  “I’m not sure that would be the best use of time and resources at this point,” said Bledsoe. “We’d have to share confidential details with a new person. Consider how distracting it would be for me to get a supervisor up to speed. All those years of background?”

  “We are prepared for such logistical considerations,” said Control One.

  Bledsoe’s first thought was to express skepticism. Even setting aside any consideration of the Alpha Machine, nobody understood the situation like he did. Then he wondered if Management already had a supervisor standing by. Had they been training someone without telling him? It would make sense. If anything happened to Bledsoe, Management would need someone to step immediately into his place. Why hadn’t he considered this before?

  Could there be more to the picture than just replacing him as the project leader? That prospect was bad enough, because Bledsoe didn’t know if he could retrieve the Alpha Machine without Management’s backing. He certainly couldn’t do it with a supervisor standing over him.

  We are prepared for such logistical considerations.

  Prepared…how?

  “Sir, please,” Bledsoe said, doing his best to sound reasonable without resorting to weakness or whining. “I’m incredibly close. If I don’t have this nailed down and done within a week, then yes, I think adding someone to the team would be appropriate.”

  Bledsoe held his breath.

  After a moment, Control One said, “You have forty-eight hours,” then cut the connection.

  This time, Bledsoe did hurl the shattered pen across the room, and its ink stained his palm like blood. He couldn’t help but laugh, though. Forty-eight hours — the same ultimatum he had just given Winston.

  Great minds must think alike, he thought. But I’ll have what I need first.

  4

  Surveillance and the Space Man

  Each time Alyssa reread the message, the crack in her heart felt like it opened a bit wider.

  Dear Alyssa,

  I’m really sorry I missed our study date. I’m sure you’ve heard about the locker room by now, and the news, and whatever else is being said. You probably don’t want to speak to me again. I totally understand. All I can say is that I’m not a terrorist. I haven’t done anything wrong.

  Alyssa would have slammed her laptop shut if she hadn’t been worried about disturbing her parents down the hall. She had tossed and turned all night, and every time she drifted off, it felt like she awoke minutes later, some new excerpt from Winston’s note burning in her memory. Finally, around 5:30 AM, she had given up on sleep and returned to her computer.

  Haven’t done anything wrong, he’d said. What about not calling her or explaining things in person? She’d finally reached out to him, despite her better judgment and the ridicule of her friends, and invited him on a date — well, maybe a pre-date since it was only a study session on Skype — and then he’d stood her up. She’d stuck her neck out, and he’d simply vanished to become America’s Most-Wanted Middle School Fugitive. Alyssa would be the laughingstock of the eighth grade today.

  She wheeled away from her desk and paced her bedroom. Despite her parents’ offers, Alyssa had no bed frame, only a futon mattress on the floor covered in black and white linens. Whereas her friends repainted their walls in everything from canary yellow to pitch black, Alyssa’s room remained the same eggshell white she’d stared at since leaving her crib, only now the walls sported posters of music bands ranging from goth to trance to classic rock — all of them in black and white. The dusky scent of vanilla incense permeated the small room, and while floor lamps stood in three corners, only her black desk lamp was lit, casting a spotlight on her closed computer.

  “Ugh!” she said for probably the tenth time, staring at it. By now, she had all but memorized the note.

  Some things happened with my family. I’m going to be gone for a while. I’m not sure how long, and I might not come back. Right now, I sort of have nothing to lose by saying that I really like you. Actually, I’ve liked you ever since second grade when you told Mrs. Robertson that her choice of “Sneakers, the Seaside Cat” for reading time was stupid and we should do “The Hobbit” instead. But I’ve always been too shy to say anything. Stupid, right? I mean, what was the worst that could happen? You tell me you’re not interested, I get over it, life goes on. Or just maybe, something else happens. Something great.

  “Yes, you’re stupid!” she whispered to Winston through the notebook. “Stupid!”

  Stupid and shy and smart and strange and mysterious. And now missing and apparently in danger.

  Alyssa paced the room a few more times. Why had he waited so long? OK, maybe he’d only gotten interesting this year, but he hadn’t been terrible last year. Yes, he was too skinny. Was that so bad? The white stripes in his hair made up for it. Ever since she’d noticed them at the start of school, Alyssa had wanted to run her fingers through them. She wondered if they felt any different than the rest of his hair.

  The future is a weird thing. I’ve learned over the last couple days that we have a lot more control over the future than we think. If I ever get the chance to come back, I hope you’ll let me fix some of my dumb mistakes. I’d like to know you better, and a future where that doesn’t happen is…not a future I want.

  Alyssa wanted to yell in frustration. How dare he say something so saccharine and romantic? Didn’t he understand that she wasn’t into all of that Hallmark, Lifetime channel stuff? They were in eighth grade, for crying out loud. You don’t talk about the future like that when you’re fourteen. She could practically hear her mother calling “You’ve got the rest of your life ahead of you!” from down the hall.

  Yet she replayed the words over and over in her mind. I’d like to know you better. It was the sweetest thing anyone had ever said to her. She could feel her heart beat faster at the thought of it, and much as she told herself that was from anger, she knew better.

  If you haven’t deleted this email already, I hope you’ll do one favor for me. I’d like you to find Shade’s mom. Please tell her I’m sorry that Shade got mixed up in this. But Shade is fine. We’re together. I think it’s all going to work out.

  Alyssa thought about telling her parents but decided against it. She would tell them…after she checked things out.

  After wolfing down a bowl of mini-wheats and a handful of grapes, Alyssa threw on her clothes, made a feeble attempt at a respectable ponytail, and kissed her mom goodbye just as she wandered into the kitchen, eyes puffy, still in her bathrobe. Alyssa mentioned needing to compare Life Sciences notes with Rebecca before school, and promised she’d be back soon. Her mom nodded absently as she rested her forehead on the cabinet over the coffee maker.

  With over an hour before she needed to catch the bus, Alyssa had plenty of time to reach Shade’s house, find his mom, and make it back. She grabbed her bike and helmet from the garage and pedaled the twelve blocks to Shade’s house, which she’d visited a couple of times when the Tagaloa girls had thrown parties. Alyssa approached the yellow house slowly, partly because it was dark and partly because Winston had scared the mess out of her with his ambiguous phrasing. Sorry that Shade got mixed up in this? But Shade is fine?

  If this turned out to be some big joke, she was going to gut him like a salmon.

  Alyssa rode down the sidewalk, trying to look casual and bored as she scanned the cars along the curb. She had intended to go up to the Tagaloas’ front door, but an accident saved her. Two houses down from theirs, on the opposite side of the street, waited a black cargo van. No one sat in the driver or passenger seats, but she saw several rows of LED lights and the blue glow of monitors appear deep within the van and then disappear. Someone inside must have opened and closed a door to the cargo area.

  No question. Shade’s house was under surveillance by…someone. She kept pedaling without breaking pace but also without breathing.

  At the end of the block, her cell phone chimed with an incom
ing text. Alyssa rounded the corner until she was out of sight and could read the note from June Martinez.

  “did u c news? amber alert 4 shade!! Winston = nuke terrorist! NOT KIDDING!!”

  I haven’t done anything wrong, he had said.

  Her instincts told her that the news was a lie, that Winston would never do anything remotely like what was being accused of. But if it was a lie, why had he so suddenly and mysteriously disappeared? And where was he now?

  ***

  Taking in Winston’s bedraggled appearance and the strange, possibly menacing device in his hand, all three girls bolted upright. One of them spilled a drink that had been resting in her hand. Another gave a short scream.

  Two of the girls wore brightly colored bikinis with white polka dots, one pink and the other turquoise. The girl who had screamed sported a one-piece covered in a square mesh pattern that made her look like a shapely 3D model wireframe.

  High schoolers, Winston decided. Why did it have to be high schoolers?

  “Hello?” he ventured.

  “Who are you?” one of the bikini girls demanded. “How’d you get here?”

  “I…” Winston had no cover story prepared. “I fell off a boat.”

  In hindsight, it was the most sensible thing he could have said.

  “Are you kidding?” asked the girl in the one-piece.

  “No,” said Winston, holding out the metal devices. “I was fumbling with this and…I guess I tripped. What year is it?”

  The girls gaped at him for a moment and then broke into giggles.

  “What year is it?” one of them echoed, lolling her head on her shoulders as if she were drunk. Come to think of it, as Winston didn’t know what they were drinking, they might be.