Winston Chase and the Theta Factor

by Bodhi St John

  Only then did Winston realize he could no longer jump to a new space. The three crosshairs had vanished from his inner field of view, and the Alpha Machine had fallen still. Bledsoe could drop him dead where he stood — but he didn’t. Either the man didn’t yet understand what conditions had changed or he was enjoying watching Winston squirm.

  Or both.

  While Winston took these few seconds when he appeared to be debating whether to cave in, he tried working with the chronoviewer controls. What if he just went back in time five — no, ten minutes? Would he go back to having the geoviewer? Probably not. Either way, it was a moot question. The chrono controls at the corner of his vision flashed red when he slipped the controls back to that time. Not allowed.

  He tried an hour.

  The controls flashed red again.

  And again when he tried two hours. Much beyond that, he knew, he would run into conflict with the time in which he’d been present in this time-space. No two instances of the same user allowed at the same time.

  So, where can I go?!

  Winston wanted to cry out and throw the Alpha Machine against the nearest plane in frustration.

  With what must have been tremendous effort, Claude lifted his slumped head enough to see Winston. His eyes were sad and full of pain, but Winston sensed that the pain was more emotional than physical.

  “Long time,” croaked Claude, and he unsuccessfully tried to smile. “Seems like…decades.”

  Winston wanted nothing more than to run over and throw his arms around that frail, tortured frame. “I’m sorry, Dad. I didn’t know what to do.”

  Claude swallowed and rasped, “You have time.”

  “Oh!” exclaimed Bledsoe. “I get it! It’s a time machine joke, right? This is really growing—”

  At that instant, the static on the main screen flickered once, twice, and then condensed from random static into a coherent pattern. The red readout over the image read 11:58:04.

  Bledsoe beamed with surprised pleasure. “Well, I’ll be. I fixed it! Just like kicking an old TV.”

  The pattern quickly solidified into a woman’s face that Winston instantly recognized as his mother, even though the edges were ragged and jittery. Winston realized that the image must be coming from his father’s memory, extracted somehow by these probes and whatever systems hid within the RV. The face remained clear on the screen for a moment, then dissolved back into static.

  “This machine is a hoot,” Bledsoe told Winston. “Watch this.” He leaned closer toward Claude’s ear. “Picture the bomb you used to nuke Area X.”

  The well-known image of a mushroom cloud formed and billowed upward on the screen, orange with black-tinged bulges of furious destruction.

  “The bomb, Claude,” Bledsoe repeated tiredly. “Just the bomb.”

  The mushroom cloud dissolved into a spray of static that was quickly replaced by a white pill. No, a capsule. It grew to fill the display as a myriad of thick cables ran into connections all over the capsule’s surface. Rivet lines materialized across the object’s surface like scars, and Winston made out a pedestal holding the bomb up. A hand and arm reached out from the edge of the screen. The hand rested flat against the end of the bomb, and with that for a reference, Winston had to guess that the thing was at least ten feet long, possibly fifteen.

  “Why are you showing me this?” Winston asked.

  Bledsoe offered him a little curl of his lips. “So Nurse Hendrix in the RV there can tune in the signal. Looks great, sweetie!” he called toward the vehicle’s open side door.

  With Bledsoe’s eyes turned away, Winston took a slow, sliding step toward his father. Bledsoe’s peripheral vision was better than Winston had hoped. Bledsoe tapped the gun repeatedly against Claude’s abdomen.

  “Ah, ah! You can stay right there. Just push the Alpha Machine to me and step away.”

  Winston had no play in mind, not even a decent way to stall. “Just like that?” he said lamely.

  “Just like that,” Bledsoe repeated. “Oh, sure. I can let you take your dad, and maybe you can find someplace to put his skull back on before he dies. The medication holding him together should wear off soon. But honestly, you handing over the Alpha Machine is the only thing to do. The alternative…” He shook his head with a wry curl of his lips. “Well, it doesn’t end well for you.”

  “Winston…” said Claude weakly.

  Something in Bledsoe’s tone struck him as particularly ominous. “What do you mean?” asked Winston.

  Bledsoe patted Claude’s shoulder. “See? I told you he’d ask. I didn’t even need a time machine to figure that one out.” He straightened and said proudly, “Let’s show him, Claude. Show Winston what you saw in all those years of bouncing around. Show Winston how he dies just a few feet away from the last piece. Remember him being in the water, being trapped. Remember what finally happens to Winston.”

  As Claude spoke, the on-screen static faded again. Colors emerged, predominantly green, blue, and black. From the video’s bird’s-eye perspective, Winston could see a tall, skinny figure with two white streaks in his hair thrashing about as he dove repeatedly, groping at a certain spot below him. The floor of the green pool was made of rank upon rank of round metal containers, almost like paint cans, all glowing a brilliant turquoise. Over and over, the figure rose to the surface, took several breaths, then dove again.

  “What is that place?” Winston asked.

  Bledsoe seemed to ponder the question, then shrugged. “I suppose there’s no harm in telling you. Well…not to me. This is one of the spent fuel tanks at Hanford Nuclear Reserve, which—” He tapped his gun against Claude again. “—was part of our very own Manhattan Project, although Hanford was way off in eastern Washington.”

  On-screen Winston struggled down to the radioactive waste containers again. He reached into one of the containers but seemed unable to find or reach what he wanted. His actions grew more sluggish by the second.

  “And he gets weaker,” prompted Bledsoe. “And weaker.”

  The submerged Winston convulsed in pain, clutching at his belly. He turned and thrashed, face turned up to the surface as the rippling pool water obscured the details of his features. Clearly, though, his mouth was open. Bubbles drifted up. His legs spasmed, or perhaps he had attempted a feeble kick. He turned back over.

  Winston made one last attempt to reach inside the canister and succeeded only in getting his hand stuck. A moment later, he lay still and lifeless at the bottom of the pool, drifting with the circulating current of the water, hand still stuck inside the waste container. The image went black.

  It was what Winston had always instinctively feared. Water. Drowning. And now he had seen it. Only the reality was worse than he’d ever imagined. He hadn’t just drowned. He had drowned in agony from intense radiation exposure blasting through his body.

  He wanted this to be some ruse of Bledsoe’s, but he knew it couldn’t be. These images were a memory pulled from his father’s brain.

  The red deadline time showed 11:59:27.

  “That’s what you’re fighting for,” said Bledsoe. “That’s where this all ends for you. Why do you think your pops here went through so much trouble to make sure you could never see it?”

  Claude’s eyes fixed on Winston’s, pleading. “No,” he whispered so faintly that Winston heard it more in his mind. A spasm ran through his body, and his limbs tensed. Struggling against this, never breaking his stare, Claude managed to gasp, “Future… slippery.”

  Bledsoe couldn’t see Claude’s face from where he stood and so missed that something was amiss. “Time’s up,” he said. “It’s midnight, and I never break a promise. Give me the other parts or I’m going to paint this bed with his insides.”

  Winston barely heard Bledsoe’s threat. His father’s body continued to tremble uncontrollably. The left side of his face changed. All the muscles went slack, leaving the corner of his mouth and eye drooping. Drool fell onto his shoulder. His eyes rolled back until only the wh
ites were visible, then his body went limp.

  “Dad?” Winston whispered, already guessing what was happening.

  A woman appeared in the RV’s side door, still dressed in blue scrubs flecked with brown spots and streaks. Her expression was urgent. “Flatline!” she said to Bledsoe. “We need to stabilize him right now!”

  Bledsoe’s eyes narrowed as he glanced from her to Winston. He cocked his head slightly, then said, “No.”

  “Let her do it!” cried Winston.

  “No,” Bledsoe repeated. He enunciated slowly, “Let him die.”

  “You do it,” Winston growled. “You brought Shade back. Now, you bring him back.”

  Bledsoe gave him a smile that looked like a snarl though bared teeth. “You have no idea what he took from me, how he betrayed me. Maybe now you will. Believe me, if I could make this hurt him more, I would.”

  Bledsoe nudged the side of Claude’s head with his free hand. The head rocked to the side, loose and lifeless, and settled as if Claude were staring at the hangar floor.

  In that moment, the significance of Claude’s death washed over them both. Not only had Bledsoe taken his old friend’s life, but he now no longer possessed his lead bargaining chip. Pointing that gun at Claude’s belly didn’t matter, and they both realized it at the same time.

  Awareness of this shift in their situation only registered dimly to Winston, though. All he could see was the younger, strong version of his father he’d left in 1969 compared to this mangled husk of a man, the last remainder of what should have been the father who raised him. All those years, all those experiences, all that love stolen away while he and his mother hid in obscurity.

  The swirling confusion and fear Winston had felt moments before catalyzed into raw, explosive rage. Time suddenly collapsed to a crawl in a way that had nothing to do with the Alpha Machine.

  Winston saw Bledsoe slowly raise his gun away from Claude’s body. Bledsoe’s shoulders began to turn toward Winston. The malicious hatred on his face morphed into worry and surprise.

  They both understood that Winston had one second to live.

  Winston couldn’t duck or dodge. This wasn’t The Matrix, and even at this range, if Bledsoe’s first shot missed, the second would not. And besides — ducking was an act of fear, and there was no fear left in Winston.

  He did the first and only thing that came to mind: With the Alpha Machine still gripped between his hands, Winston hurled the device at Bledsoe’s head. However, this wasn’t some paltry push with his scrawny arms. Winston remembered how he had been able to pull the Alpha Machine pieces and Little e back to himself after landing in the Columbia River. He didn’t pause to wonder if the same mechanic could work in reverse. He simply willed it with every cell of his body. A lifetime of moments comprised of missing and loss, all like grains of sand in an hourglass, instantaneously rushed into the nexus of his fury and streamed out in a beam of directed energy. That beam was invisible, but it sent out a shock wave that pounded into every nearby metal object. The medical instruments on their stands rocked away from Winston and crashed to the ground. Claude’s bed jolted and skidded a couple of feet, knocking Little e free from its hook to bang and clatter among the debris. Even the RV and closest planes visibly rocked as if struck by a gust of wind.

  In the split second between when Bledsoe’s gun pointed at Winston’s body and when his brain could send an order to pull the trigger, the Alpha Machine struck Bledsoe in the forehead. Hard. Bledsoe’s shot fired wildly upward into the hangar’s ceiling while the man’s head snapped backward. Droplets of blood arced into the air as the force of the impact knocked Bledsoe off his feet. The sound of Bledsoe’s skull striking the floor was like the thudding echo of the gunshot. His shoulders and body followed close behind.

  The Alpha Machine continued in its trajectory for dozens of feet, almost making it to the main hangar doorway. Still flush with dark rage, Winston willed the pieces back. They obeyed, pausing in midair as whatever force commanded them reversed direction and sent them back to Winston’s waiting right hand. Winston noticed Little e and pulled the device to himself. It obeyed, sliding along the floor before rising and rocketing back into Winston’s left hand. The geoviewer also tried to return to Winston, but it was trapped in the crook of Bledsoe’s elbow.

  Somehow, Bledsoe kept his hold on both the gun and consciousness, although it looked like a close call. He was dazed, eyes blinking but not seeing, as he tried to roll onto his side.

  Winston knew this was his chance to act. For an instant, he thought about launching the Alpha Machine at Bledsoe’s head again and again, but then Bledsoe’s own words returned to his mind: Believe me, if I could make this hurt him more, I would.

  No. Winston would not become Bledsoe. He would not give in to anger and hate and complete his journey to the dark side. Oh, but how he wanted to.

  His next move was obviously to reclaim the geoviewer. Winston made it three steps toward Bledsoe when the man’s vision and coordination seemed to return. He saw Winston rushing toward him and fired again. The shot wasn’t remotely well aimed, but it was enough to make Winston skid to a stop and immediately back away.

  Bledsoe fought to level his gun. He blinked continuously and with deep concentration as blood streamed from the gash in his forehead down his face and into his eyes. The man roared with pain and frustration as he tried to get an elbow underneath himself, then fell back onto his side as his balance failed.

  Winston knew Bledsoe would recover quickly. He couldn’t reach him, and he couldn’t save his father.

  “Hey!”

  A woman’s voice. To his right. Winston looked in her direction and saw Nurse Hendrix standing in the RV’s doorway, the gleam of tears evident on her face. She mouthed a word to Winston and pleaded with her outstretched hand: “Run!”

  Winston took one more step back, then another. His father was gone. All that work, everything he had endured to follow his father’s trail for the Alpha Machine. For nothing. All for nothing.

  Bledsoe made another attempt to rise, failed, and contented himself with trying to focus on Winston while on his back.

  “See?” Bledsoe called, his speech somewhat weak and mushy. “See the camera? In the window?”

  Winston didn’t see a camera anywhere, but he suspected there must be at least one or two surveillance cameras running. There was probably one inside the RV capturing all of this.

  “Your mom had a front row seat,” Bledsoe said.

  He squinted and again fired in Winston’s vague direction. So far, he wasn’t able to keep the muzzle steady, but that would change soon.

  “She saw it all,” he said. “Can’t wait to…review it with her. Hell, I’ll loop it on twenty-four-hour big-screen playback.”

  “We are not done,” Winston growled as he backed out of the central hangar lighting and into the shadows.

  The two agents who had been assigned to patrol the perimeter ran around the corner of the massive hangar door.

  “We heard shots and—” one started to say, then both realized that Bledsoe was on the floor and bleeding from a head wound. They took in the fallen and scattered medical equipment, then spotted Winston’s movement in the distance.

  “Twenty-four hours for your mom!” called Bledsoe. “I made you a promise!”

  Both agents raised their guns toward Winston. He spun on his heel and sprinted for the museum lobby doorway as shots erupted behind him and bullets ricocheted off the floor and walls about him.

  Winston tore past the stands of clothing and hurled himself at the exit. Fortunately, it opened easily. He launched into the cold, misty midnight and sprinted as fast as he could through the parking lot, Alpha Machine still clutched in his hand, backpack pounding against his spine.

  His father was gone, and four federal agents were well on their way to capturing Shade. He had come here to gain the Alpha Machine piece, then to save his father, and succeeded only in losing a piece and failing to do anything to change his father’s grisl
y fate. All the hope Claude had placed in him in 1969 had been entirely misplaced.

  Claude’s final word had been “slippery.” As shots continued to ring out behind him, Winston knew the terrible truth: If the future were slippery, then that slick, treacherous footing only led to the cliff of defeat and death over which Winston had just leaped.

  30

  Discussion Denied

  After the intensity of his encounter with the Chase boy, Bledsoe found that the hangar’s immense emptiness and near-silence only deepened his sense of isolation. He could make out the far-away patter of rain on the hangar’s walls and, almost as quiet, the muffled sobs of Nurse Hendrix from within the RV. Most of all, though, he couldn’t get over Claude’s absolute stillness. The veins in his exposed brain no longer pulsed. His sunken chest no longer rose and fell with shallow, shaky breaths. His EEG readout, somehow still attached and operational from its position on the floor, registered a never-ending flatline.

  Bledsoe had no idea there were tears in his eyes until one fell from his lashes onto Claude’s bare arm. It traced its way into the crook of his elbow and vanished into the sheets below.

  “Damn you,” said Bledsoe quietly as he gripped one bed rail and wiped at his eyes. “Why couldn’t you have cooperated? None of this was necessary, Claude. None of it. I would have made sure you were happy.”

  He straightened and stepped slowly around the foot of the bed.

  “What am I thinking? You still can be. We all can. As soon as I have the other pieces, I’ll set things right at Area X. You’ll see.” Bledsoe gave a small laugh. “I’ll need a head scientist. You’ll have your own team. And if you betray me again…” He gripped Claude’s thigh through the thin gown until his fingers dug into the stringy flesh. “We’ll just start over. And over. Until we get it right.”

  The futility of punishing a dead man struck Bledsoe, and he let go of the leg.

  Talk of using the Alpha Machine reminded him of the piece he’d reclaimed from Winston. Bledsoe lifted the small object and examined it. High floodlights gleamed from its dark surface. Despite being made of some metal, the artifact felt surprisingly light, no more than three or four ounces.