He knew that each piece performed some function, but he’d never worked closely enough with the artifacts all those years ago to know which did what. Still, if that boy could figure it out, why couldn’t he?
Bledsoe closed his fingers around the ring, gripping it with light but even pressure.
He felt something in the back of his head, a prick of sudden pressure above the base of his skull that made him wince. Then the pressure lessened and spread up and into his brain. Bledsoe could sense the connections between his mind and the object forming.
Without realizing he’d done so, Bledsoe found himself staring at Claude’s downturned face. This made him uneasy, but his attention quickly shifted as an object formed in the lower-left corner of his vision. It looked like white crosshairs surrounded by a white circle. As the symbols became clearer, Claude and the world around him began to dim slightly.
Instinctively, Bledsoe reached out with his left hand to grasp at the icon, but his fingers found nothing but emptiness. Stupid. The thing was in his mind, not in front of him. But what was it for? What did he do with it?
Bledsoe moved his head and body to the side, and the icon moved with him. He had worked with technologies like this — augmented reality — only this was clearly done in his mind rather than with glasses or goggles. Bledsoe gestured with one hand, then the other. Nothing.
He imagined grabbing and pulling the crosshairs, and suddenly the world took a blurred, lurching shift into all-consuming movement.
No, that wasn’t true. Part of the world stayed in place. He could still see Claude and the hangar, just as before. But now that vertiginous swirl of motion ran across the world behind Claude. He closed his eyes against the sensation and wanted it desperately to stop.
When Bledsoe opened his eyes, he found Claude and the hangar still in their proper places, but that other element in his vision had become a view of the ocean. Waves undulated all around Bledsoe, illuminated by a moon high overhead peeking out from thin, feathery clouds. Bledsoe didn’t bob with the waves. Instead he seemed to be suspended in midair among them just enough that they failed to touch him. There was no land visible anywhere. For all Bledsoe knew, this place was a thousand miles from anything.
“I remember, Claude,” he muttered. “That time you took us into the future? There was a moment like this, right before you stranded me.”
Bledsoe focused on the icons in the corner of his vision and tried to scrutinize them more closely. The white crosshair had separated into three colored crosshairs arranged in a stack. He mentally reached for them one by one, experimenting with different motions. He discovered how to activate place names and work with elevation to make movements more precise and learned to close his eyes during location shifting to help minimize that intense motion sickness.
“I get it,” he said to Claude’s corpse. “Same time, different place.”
The ramifications of his discovery began to sink in.
“Do you know what this means?” he asked as he continued to experiment with navigating the device’s controls. “I can see anywhere. I could see what Amanda’s doing right now. Ha — I could look into meetings at the Pentagon. Or the Kremlin. Oh, Claude, my friend…”
Bledsoe straightened over the hospital bed and, since it was too large to fit in any pocket, slid the artifact back over his jacket sleeve. As soon as it left his hand, that second place layer vanished, and the hangar returned to its normal brightness.
“I am going to have so much fun with this. It was really nice of your boy to leave it with me.”
Bledsoe heard footsteps behind him — slow, measured steps that tapped the concrete with firm leather soles. Bledsoe turned to meet the newcomer, and his heart sank.
“Mr. Bledsoe,” said the man. “This scene is…unexpected.”
His suit was gray with a subtle plaid pattern and matching vest and tie. Set off by a black dress shirt, the tie in particular caught Bledsoe’s attention. The fabric dimple below its double Windsor knot was perfect. No mere agent was so meticulous, and no agent wore a suit vest and black patent-leather shoes tinged to burnt red around the stitching and edges. Good Lord, those shoes had to cost at least a thousand dollars.
“So are you,” said Bledsoe. “Management promised me forty-eight hours.”
For all the daunting style of the man’s clothes, his face was surprisingly plain and forgettable. Chestnut brown hair, cut short but not to the point of a buzz. Slender cheeks without scars or blemishes. Dark eyes that conveyed neither warmth nor menace.
He passed by the RV and glanced inside its open door. He gave a curt nod, apparently making eye contact with Nurse Hendrix. This motion made Bledsoe wonder if Hendrix had somehow discovered Management’s contact info and gone behind his back. Possible, but unlikely.
The man approached Bledsoe and stopped on the other side of the hospital bed. Curiously, he didn’t study Claude’s body. He showed no interest in the fact that the dead man between them had his skull in his lap and one little finger missing, with only a small bloodstain and unmistakable gunpowder burn marks to show its passing.
“That was forty-eight hours until your on-site authority was superseded,” said the man. “I am only a preliminary associate. I’m here to observe the Theta Factor and report.”
Theta Factor? Did the guy mean theta waves, like what they observed from Claude’s brain scans? Theta could also pertain to temperature or a geometric plane angle.
“What’s the Theta Factor?” Bledsoe asked.
“The unknown variable,” said the man.
“And what’s that?”
The man gazed pensively beyond Bledsoe and into the night. “Many things. Primarily, though, it is you. You are the Theta Factor.”
Bledsoe sensed that this nutcase was staring down a rabbit hole that he had no interest in following.
“Do you have a name?” he asked.
“Yes,” the man replied without elaboration.
Bledsoe fingered the Alpha Machine piece nervously. This was it. Management had given him all the slack he was going to get. His window of opportunity in which to seize the complete Alpha Machine with all of Management’s resources and cooperation easing his way through groups like the FBI was now closed. Apparently, they had even given him his own new code name, which likely meant that he was a target. There was certainly enough evidence. He might be able to explain torturing an old man to death, but how would he explain Claude’s brain surgery and the recordings of Claude’s memories? He was supposed to be pursuing QV breakthroughs, not assembling a time machine.
“So…what?” Bledsoe asked, stalling for time to think. “You’re just going to tag along with me until we have the Chase kid?”
“For the moment,” said the man. “I would assume from the car fires and lack of agents here that you have sent them in pursuit of Majestic Three.”
“I did. Well, technically after his friend, but now it’s two for the price of one.”
This guy had to go. Perhaps Bledsoe could smooth-talk him into returning to Management. When they captured the sidekick, which could happen at any minute, it would show progress. Winston would return to save his friend, just as he’d done with his father.
What if Winston appeared in a flash of white light, though, spinning Alpha Machine in hand? How would Bledsoe explain that? And if they captured Shade Tagaloa, would he know about the Alpha Machine? Of course he would. They were best friends off on some ridiculous adventure. Boys talked. Shade would open his mouth in front of this so-called associate, and Management goons would descend on Bledsoe quicker than he could spit. He’d be locked away for years of interrogation, and all his planning and patience would be for nothing.
He’d come so close. The Alpha Machine had been only feet away. Bledsoe had been so sure that the boy would surrender it for his father. Wouldn’t he have made the sacrifice for his own father at that age?
Maybe, Bledsoe thought. But not now. Nothing else matters now.
Once he had the Alpha M
achine, it would be the ultimate flick of the power switch, a universal reboot. Everything done to Claude, every word exchanged with Amanda, every lie ever told to Management, the FBI, and everyone else — every sin committed since whatever time he returned to fix — erased. There was no need for remorse on this timeline, because every misdeed would soon vanish. By the time people caught up to him in this time, he would be long gone.
“We wait,” said the man. “It will give us a chance to talk. We have a lot to discuss, Mr. Bledsoe.”
“You might,” said Bledsoe as he quickly reached for his gun in its shoulder holster. In one fluid movement, he drew it out, pointed it at the man’s chest, and fired two quick rounds into his heart. “But I don’t.”
***
Even dying, the Management representative seemed strangely placid. His eyes showed shock and pain, but there was no terror. Bledsoe stepped around to him, prepared to fire again, but the man lay utterly still. Only then did he notice Nurse Hendrix’s muted screams from the RV.
Bledsoe shook his head, trying to clear it. He needed that woman to shut her mouth and let him think. His plan had always been to let her go. The not-so-subtle threat he held over her family had been amply sufficient to keep her cooperative. Now, though…
Everything seemed to be shifting under Bledsoe’s feet like quicksand. That Tagaloa kid was out there wreaking havoc. Claude had died too early. Winston had pulled that cheap stunt, knocking Bledsoe on his back long enough to escape. Just like on the Willamette River, a situation that should have been easily within Bledsoe’s control had slipped away. Now, he was left with a mess of bodies, a shrieking nurse, agents who would come wandering back any time, and Management about to wonder what had happened to their “preliminary associate,” whatever that meant.
Bledsoe cursed. He had all the time in the world if he had the Alpha Machine, but until it was in his hands, each minute lost felt like his blood spilling from an open vein.
He tried to calm himself and think through the problems, but the light seemed impossibly bright. The stench of gunpowder burned his nostrils. And that screaming! Why wouldn’t she stop? Had she finally snapped under the pressure and lost her mind?
Whatever the cause, Bledsoe had to take action. Immediately. He reached down with his left hand and grabbed the associate by his perfectly cinched tie. Bledsoe lifted his head and torso from the floor and dragged him to the RV’s side door. With a heave, he hoisted the corpse over the stairs. The body landed with a thud, half in and half out of the vehicle.
“Nurse!” Bledsoe yelled over the woman’s redoubled screams. “Nurse, would you please shut up?!”
With obvious effort, she ceased her wailing. Peering into the RV’s shadows, he saw her cowering in the front passenger seat. Her eyes were red, swollen, and frantic. Her hands glistened from wiping at her tears and snot. She disgusted him.
“You—” she choked. “You’re a…a monster.”
Bledsoe rolled his head back and gripped the doorway’s rail for support. “Really? I’m trying to save America, and you think I’m the monster?”
“You killed—!” Her gaze flicked to the windows, from which she likely had a view of the hospital bed. “After all that, you just let him… He didn’t—” Fresh sobs bubbled from her face, and Bledsoe worried that she would start shrieking again. “And that other man!”
“Yes,” Bledsoe interrupted. “About him. Would you mind grabbing an arm and pulling him in?”
At first, the nurse only stared at Bledsoe with disbelief. Then a moan slowly built in her throat, building in intensity with each hitching inhalation.
“Please stop that,” Bledsoe said over the din, but his words only made it worse. Nurse Hendrix locked her fists over her eyes, leaned over her lap, and let out a great gush of sound that reminded Bledsoe of gigantic, rusty gears turning after years of being left outside.
So be it. He’d planned on letting her go to wander in the night and spend the next few days deliberating over whether blabbing to authorities was worth losing her family. That would be another loose end, though, and he was desperately tired of those. Especially the loud ones.
He lifted himself into the RV and stepped over the Management man’s body. Nurse Hendrix looked up just in time to see him coming, then he fired a round into her chest. She spun around in her seat and slumped against the dashboard, a groping hand quickly falling still.
Bledsoe rolled his shoulders and sighed. For a few heartbeats, he stood there, eyes closed, content to soak in the complete silence.
“Better. That’s better.”
He finished pulling the adjuster into the cabin and dragged him forward into the driver’s seat. Positioning him was a chore, but not as difficult as it might have been with his old body, with muscles that lacked QV enhancement.
Finally, he lowered the back door and pressed the button to extend its ramp. Generally, these RVs hauled four-wheel ATVs or Jeeps — the sorts of vehicles FBI agents might need in the field. Bledsoe guessed that his impromptu adaptation of the rig was unorthodox. Well, the FBI and Management could piece it together and guess at his motives later. All he had to do was give them a confusing situation to try to puzzle out for a few days. It would help that the agents had seen their cars turned into blazing wrecks by some outside perpetrator. They might believe that the same person had returned to take further action inside the hangar. Mostly, though, Bledsoe was done with stepping on eggshells. He’d done that throughout the last decade of his life, and enough was enough. He needed to burn everything that had gotten in his way to the ground.
Once Bledsoe had Claude and his bed rolled back into the RV, he closed the door and returned to the driver seat. The keys were still in the ignition.
His first thought had been to drive some miles down the highway, turn off into the middle of nowhere, and dispense with the vehicle and its contents. That plan no longer satisfied. If he was about to reset everything, he had nothing to lose…except time. Better to make a statement, kick the hornets’ nest, and get going.
Bledsoe cranked up the engine, positioned himself between the driver’s seat and the adjuster. He put the RV in drive and rammed the gas pedal to the floor.
The mammoth rig shot forward. Bledsoe gave it a good twenty yards or so to build speed, then cranked the wheel over to the right. The RV veered sharply, shaved the wing off a P-40 Warhawk, and rammed into the inside hangar wall. The Management man’s body cushioned Bledsoe’s impact. Nurse Hendix lifted from her seat and slammed through the windshield but was prevented from flying through by the wall that now rested right against the RV’s dashboard.
“Thanks,” said Bledsoe as he scooted himself out from under the associate. He was fairly certain that he’d felt several of the corpse’s ribs break against the steering wheel upon impact.
Bledsoe knelt down next to the center console as smoke poured from the engine. Breathing became difficult. He located the quarter-sized button of the cigarette lighter and pressed it into the console, then returned to the main cabin. A lot of data was on the hard drives in these servers — too much. With days to weeks of analysis, a team might make enough sense of Bledsoe’s activities to understand that he had been up to something truly strange, but he was willing to gamble that either he would have the Alpha Machine recovered before that…or he was in for a very short future. Still, he didn’t have to make it easier for them.
Bledsoe understood enough about computers and commands to understand where all his data was located. He quickly logged into the server’s main interface, navigated into the network maintenance area, and initiated a low-level format of his primary data volume. That would do enough damage in the next few minutes to slow down computer forensics teams.
Back in the cabin, the cigarette lighter popped away from its heater coil. Bledsoe bent over and grabbed it as he located a notepad within the console’s storage box. He ripped off several sheets, crumpled them, and stuffed them into the top of a pocket in the driver’s seat’s upholstery. He took o
ne more note sheet and set it against the lighter’s glowing element. The corner of the sheet caught and bloomed into flame. Bledsoe used this to set the wadded-up pages afire, then replaced the lighter into its hole in the console.
As soon as the seat fabric lit into blue and yellow flames, Bledsoe knew his job here was done. With any luck, the RV fire would spread up the hangar wall, and by the time the Tillamook fire department arrived, the damage would be too great for any sort of quick analysis. He would have two agents left to testify that they had seen Winston Chase fleeing the hangar, complete with roasted federal vehicles in the parking area, and some strange man who likely wouldn’t be in any databases behind the RV wheel with two bullets in him.
Bledsoe made his way to the front hangar entrance and stood just within the structure’s cover, gazing out into the blissfully dark night. He tapped briefly at his phone and held the device to his ear. The line connected in two rings.
“Yes, sir,” said Agent Lynch.
“Where are you?” asked Bledsoe.
“Parking under the FBI facility.”
“Good. Grab her, then head back to me ASAP.”
“But—” Lynch cut himself off.
Atta boy, thought Bledsoe. Less thinking, more doing. I need Amanda out of that place before they change the locks.
“I was a bit optimistic in my assessment of how things would play out tonight,” he said. “There’s no time for supplies. We’ll figure that out later. I want you to pick me up about a mile south of the turnoff to the Air Museum from Highway 101. Clear?”
“Clear, sir.”
“We need to have a conversation about our future together, Lynch.” He paused to give emphasis to his next words. “You’ve been a great asset over the last few days, and I’d like that to continue.”
Lynch paused only briefly. “Yes, sir. Thank you.”
Bledsoe hung up, slid the phone back into his pocket, and stepped out into the damp cold. He wrapped his fingers around his new artifact and, for the first time in hours, felt his mind clear. He would figure this out. He had one piece, and from that would come the others. Yes, things were simpler now. He was ready to move onward and upward.
Winston Chase and the Theta Factor Page 24