by Steven Gould
Millie was waiting for me in the terminal, my binoculars around her neck. I’d jumped her here before any of the others. She wanted to see the exchange.
A voice on the other end of the phone said, “Metaxos.”
I said, “Gate 27.”
In heavily accented English, the man, Metaxos, said, “I will send them at once.” He hung up.
Five minutes later, two unmarked cars and an ambulance rounded the far end of the terminal building. Millie handed me the binoculars. Four men got out of each car. Matar’s face was compared with a photo and he was put in the back of one of the cars, a man on each side of him. Corseau took pictures, while Cox stood carefully behind him.
Then the body bag was opened and Maria Kalikos’s face compared to another photograph. The ambulance attendants closed the bag, put it—her!—on a stretcher, and loaded the stretcher into the ambulance.
Maria Kalikos, I said to myself. I wanted to remember.
Cox shook hands with one of the Greeks and the three vehicles drove away.
“Do you want me to jump you home first?”
Millie took the binoculars back. “I’ll wait. Take them first.”
I kissed her and jumped back to the tarmac.
“Okay?” I asked Cox.
“Okay.”
Corseau shook his head. “This isn’t enough. I want an interview.”
“Sorry. This is as far as I can go without endangering myself. Look at the bright side—I can be awful handy to know when you need to get someplace in a hurry.”
“All right,” he said, reluctantly. “I won’t push it. But If you ever go public?”
“Sure,” I said. “No question about it. All yours.”
I jumped him back to Heathrow.
“Ready?” I asked Cox, on returning.
“We still need a better way to contact you.” He sounded tired, making the argument because he’d been told to.
I shook my head. “I promised I’d check the New York Times classifieds. That’s the most I can promise. If I see the message, I’ll call. If I can help you out with quick transport, I’ll think about it. But I’m not a spy. I’m not an agent.”
“What’ll you do, then? Hijackings only? Eventually they’ll catch you. Someone may even set up a fake hijacking just for that purpose.”
I shook my head. “I don’t know. Maybe I’ll go to work for the fire department. Maybe I’ll start working my way down Amnesty International’s Prisoner of Conscience list. Maybe I’ll go on vacation.”
“Are you sure you don’t want us to watch Millie?”
I shook my head violently. “You know that you’re more likely to attract attention to her than shield her. I’ll watch her. You guys stay away.”
I jumped him to D.C. and even shook his hand before I left.
I jumped Millie back to the pit. It was midmorning in Texas and the sun slanted down, not touching the water at the bottom of the pit.
“Why did we come here?” she asked.
I raised my arms. “It’s over, but it doesn’t feel over! My dad said he was sorry, but it doesn’t change anything. Matar is in the authorities’ hands, but... it all feels wrong.”
She looked at me. “Did your father acknowledge the damage he did to you?”
I frowned. “Well, he said he was sorry, that he never meant to hurt us.”
She closed her eyes. “That’s not acknowledgment—that’s ‘don’t be mad at me.’ “
I picked up a fire-blackened stone and heaved it out into the water. It splashed just short of the cliff, spraying water on the rock wall.
“Davy, you may never get acknowledgment from him. He may never be capable of it.”
I threw another stone, bigger, pried out of the sand. It only reached halfway. I started to pick up yet a larger rock, then stopped. “I tried so hard!”
She stood there, her mouth turned down at the corners, her eyes bright.
“Is this what you meant? That I couldn’t run away from myself?”
She nodded.
“It hurts. It hurts a lot.”
“I know.”
I went to her and held her, let her hold me, let her squeeze my body to her, let her stroke my back. I felt sad, almost infinitely sad. Finally I pushed away and said, “I’ll talk to somebody—if you’ll help me find a good therapist.”
“Oh, yes.”
I ventured a small smile. It didn’t seem so impossible, just very, very difficult.
I jumped away and returned almost immediately.
“What’s that?”
“It’s a lei,” I said. “A Hawaiian lei made of orchids.” I put it around her neck. “This is part of the custom,” I added, kissing her.
She smiled. “Looks out of place in a Texas sinkhole.”
I picked her up. “Well, let’s go where it fits in. Hold on.”
“You bet,” she said.
We jumped.
Acknowledgements
Teleportation is, I hope, a classic trope of science fiction, and not a cliché. Certainly without Alfred Bester’s The Stars My Destination, Robert Heinlein’s Tunnel in the Sky, Larry Niven’s “Flash Crowd,” Phyllis Eisenstein’s Born to Exile, and even “Star Trek” ‘s hoary old transporter beam, I wouldn’t have asked myself certain questions about teleportation—certain questions that resulted in the novel you now hold. I’ll let you judge whether I’ve perpetrated a cliché or something new, but I freely acknowledge my debt to those who’ve already plowed this particular furrow.
I’d also like to thank Bob Stahl for the original question; Jack Haldeman and Barbara Denz for information on the Adams Cowley Shock Trauma Center in Baltimore; the Authorized Personnel Writers Group: Rory Harper, Martha Wells, Tom Knowles, and Laura J. Mixon, for their support and perceptive comment; and the folks at Tor—particularly, but not exclusively, my editor, Beth Meacham, the best editor in this field.
Books by Steven Gould
The Jumper Series
Jumper
Reflex
Jumper: Griffin's Story
Impulse (forthcoming)
Standalone Novels
Wildside
Helm
Blind Waves
7th Sigma (May 2011)
About the Author
Steven Gould lives in New Mexico with his wife, author Laura J. Mixon, and their two daughters. His short fiction has been nominated for the Hugo and Nebula awards and his novels have been chosen by the American Library Association as “Best Books For Young Adults.” Jumper was one of the hundred most banned books in America between 1990 and 1999 which only goes to show that people should read past page nine. Steven says the secret to teleportation is [THIS PASSAGE CLASSIFIED--REF: NSA-3443-ALPHA-HOTEL-ZEBRA].
Steven says the real secret to teleportation is reading. Be transported, imagine!
For more information about Steven, see his website (http://eatourbrains.com/steve).
Table of Contents
Copyright
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Acknowledgements
Books by Steven Gould
About the Author
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