Flyx draws a breath to speak, then an alarm blares. He looks at his wrist and I can see his personal. It’s flashing, emitting the sound—all the personals are doing it.
“Gods,” Bel says.
“What’s happening?” I say, completely in the dark about what this means.
“The ASPs breeched the perimeter,” Bel says. “They’re in the private sector.”
I’ve never heard terror in her voice before.
“Bel?” Dietrich asks.
“I don’t know, Mom. I was lying about the spy.”
“But it’s true about the zoo and the colonel being suspicious,” I say. “He must have put it together.”
The alarms are still blaring, panic on each face in the room, including Dietrich’s.
“What do we do?” Sharrow says.
The alarming ceases. The overhead lights shut off, plunging us into complete darkness, except for the lights on the control panel—the machine still has power.
Yellow emergency lights come on, illuminating grim expressions on everyone’s faces.
“Get in the other room—I need you all clear,” Dietrich commands. “I’m destroying the machine.”
“Wait!” I rush to Dietrich, grabbing her arm. “Stop—you don’t have to. Send me back—I can fix this.”
“There’s no time.”
“Allie’s right,” Bel says. “She’s the one who caused this. If she never comes here, this won’t ever happen. We’ve got to change back the timeline.”
“But Sharrow,” Dietrich says.
“It’s okay,” Sharrow says. “We can’t let the ASPs take the Zone.”
“Sharrow, come with us!” I say. “You’ll be a time orphan, but you’ll be alive.”
“She’s not a Jenny,” Dietrich says. “She won’t survive it.”
“You don’t know that. My mom did, twice,” I say. “We won’t take her all the way to 1906. We can drop her someplace close. Please, what do we have to lose?”
Dietrich looks at Sharrow, then back at me. “Okay.”
“Okay?” I say, not believing my ears.
“Mom, you can come, too,” Bel says.
“We can all go,” Flyx says. “There’s a timer setting on the trigger.”
“Can you set the auto-destruct if you use the timer?” Dietrich asks him.
By the look on Flyx’s face, the answer is apparent.
“I’m staying behind,” Dietrich says. “Everyone else get into place.”
“What about the TIC?” Daum says.
I’d forgotten he was here. We all look at him.
“Rot,” Flyx says. “We need to make sure Remo destroys it.” He taps on the face of his personal but nothing happens.
“Comms are down throughout the complex,” Dietrich says. “The only way to reach him is on foot.”
“I’ll go,” Flyx says.
“No,” Dietrich says. “You’ll tolerate travel almost as well as a Jenny. I need you to stay with Sharrow. I’ll trigger the destruct here, then head to the TIC.”
“What if you don’t make it in time?” Flyx says. “Let me go—I’ll blow the TIC.”
“I’m going,” Daum says, already at the door. “Fix the timeline so I’m not dead.” Then he’s gone.
Flyx pulls Sharrow to the center of the room. “Come on. We can’t let his sacrifice be for nothing.”
“Hold on tight,” Bel says, extending her hand to me again.
I take her hand, then grab Sharrow’s free hand with my other.
“Ready to engage,” Dietrich shouts. “In three…”
There’s a frantic pounding on the outer door.
“Two…”
“Is it Daum?” I ask.
“One!”
A vibration starts in the floor, and I hear a low grumble, like the beginning of a quake. Then there’s an explosion—the outer door disappears in a blast and ASPs flood in, pointing guns. The room shakes violently, the floor bucking. I struggle to keep my balance.
The wormhole appears, a tiny floating silver bubble.
But it’s too small. It’s too late.
Chapter Forty-Four
The wormhole is growing, but not fast enough.
The colonel steps forward and we lock eyes across the chaos. He smiles.
“Go now!” Dietrich shouts.
She’s going to destroy the machine.
The wormhole is scarcely a foot across. We’ll never make it.
But then I remember—I pulled Bel through a wormhole that size before. Can I do it with four of us? I’ve got exactly nothing to lose.
I run at it, pulling the others with me as gunshots erupt and muzzle flashes light up the room. Bullets pass through the wormhole. It wavers and distorts, then begins to buckle.
I push off hard, leaping, diving headfirst into the wormhole as it’s collapsing in on itself.
There’s silence as my head enters the wormhole, but I feel my body still in the room, hands gripping tightly to Sharrow’s and Bel’s, holding on with everything I’ve got. I concentrate, willing my body to continue forward, pulling the others in with me.
But it’s too slow.
I can sense bullets flying, the wormhole collapsing. I yank hard on Bel and Sharrow, screaming with the effort, the sound bouncing along the tunnel of mirrors. Then their voices join mine, echoing into the past. Finally, Flyx enters howling in agony, a trail of red flowing behind him. He lets go of Sharrow and grabs his leg, which starts him tumbling.
“He’s shot!” I let go of Bel and Sharrow, and struggle to reach Flyx, getting nowhere.
“Put pressure on it,” Sharrow tells him.
“Bel, help me,” I shout.
Suddenly everything stops. It’s like she made it stop. Like when we were in the wormhole before.
Bel swims to Sharrow in a graceful dolphin motion. “She’s the medic.” She grabs Sharrow’s shoulders, and propels her to Flyx.
“I need something to make a bandage,” Sharrow says, pressing her hand to the wound on Flyx’s calf.
“On it,” I say, grabbing the sleeve of my shirt at the shoulder and yanking, trying to rip it at the seam.
“Here, try this,” Bel says. She pulls off her headband, handing it to Sharrow.
“Rot everything,” Flyx says, grimacing.
“I think the bullet just grazed you,” Sharrow says, examining the wound. “You’ll be fine if we can get the bleeding to stop.”
She binds his leg with the headband. Flyx groans as she pulls tight on the bandage, securing it. Sharrow wipes her hands on her jumper, then grabs Flyx’s wrist to take his pulse.
In the silence I hear her breathing hard, not him.
“Try to relax,” she tells him.
“Sharrow, are you okay?” I ask.
“Fine,” she says, focusing on Flyx.
But she doesn’t look okay. She’s pale, trembling.
“Bel?” I ask.
“It’s the radiation,” she says. “She’s been here too long already. We need to get her out. Tell me where we’re going?”
“2018. We’ll get them to Sink. Flyx’s tattoo shouldn’t stand out too much in that time.”
“That’s what you’re concerned about? The tattoo?” Bel says, wide-eyed.
“No, it just made sense—Sink helped my mom with radiation sickness—he’ll know what to do. Plus we can sneak into Beck’s house and get Victorian clothes when no one’s there. Then catch the quake to 1906.”
“That’s your plan?” Bel looks at me, incredulous. “What makes you think the house will even be there, much less the clothes? We’re not coming back to how it was in our timeline. Maxen died. The crew was never born. It’s possible Sink doesn’t even exist.”
“He’s there,” Flyx says through clenched teeth. “He might not be alive now, but in this timeline, 2018 is the last place he was.”
“How do you know that?” I ask.
“Doesn’t matter,” he says. “Sharrow’s bad off. We have to do something now.”
Sharrow moans and slumps against him. There’s no time to think it through.
“Do it,” I tell Bel.
“You’d better be right.” The wormhole starts moving again. Or we do—it’s hard to tell.
“How are you doing that?” I ask her.
“My tat.” She touches behind her ear.
“The implant?”
“Can you go faster?” Flyx asks. “She’s unconscious.”
“Almost there,” Bel says, scanning the images zipping by.
“Stop as close to the quake as you can,” I say. “We should only need a couple of hours.”
The images are whipping by so fast, it’s hard to tell for sure, but something doesn’t look right.
“We’re close,” Bel says, as we slow.
“Are you sure we’re in the right time?” I ask, peering at the buildings. “I don’t see the Main.”
“This is right,” Bel says. “See?”
The buildings rock and shake with a quake, then go still. Bel stops the wormhole. It’s nighttime, the buildings dotted with lit windows.
But it’s the wrong buildings.
“This can’t be the right year,” I say.
“It doesn’t matter,” Flyx says. “If we don’t get her out of here now, I don’t know if she’ll make it.”
Sharrow barely looks alive.
Bel loops her arm through the crook of Sharrow’s elbow. “Allie, take her other arm and grab Flyx’s hand. We’re going now.”
Bel reaches for the side of the wormhole with her free hand, and we string out in a line behind her like kids playing train. Her hand breaks the plane, then we’re tumbling through cold, dark air.
We land hard, piling on top of each other. Flyx yelps in pain. Sharrow’s silence is worse.
Bright lights flash on, blinding me. Bells ring, like recess at elementary school, but loud and unceasing. I blink at the stars in my vision and cover my ears.
The room is vast and white with sparse office furniture. Not a single bookcase. I don’t know what this is, but it’s not a library.
The alarm bells stop and a door opens at the far end of the room. A man rushes in pointing a handgun. “Hands up! Don’t move!”
“Which is it?” Bel says in a snotty tone. “Hands up or don’t move?”
“I wouldn’t test him,” a familiar voice calls from behind me. “We don’t get many visitors, and he’s a bit jumpy.”
“Sink!” I scramble upright.
“Get down!” the guard shouts.
“It’s okay—he knows me,” I say, turning to look at Sink. Only it’s not Sink…not exactly.
Standing there is a slender man in blue pajamas. From amidst a cloud of silver dreadlocks, Sink’s lined face stares out at me. As in staring, with eyes.
“Sorry, I don’t know you,” Sink says. “Billy, put her in lockup. The ginger, too.”
Billy. Is that Cowboy Billy? Oh my God, it is. What the heck is going on?
Billy points with his pistol toward what looks like a glassed-in conference room.
“Sink,” I say, feeling desperate. “It’s me, Allie. The last time I saw you was in 1906. In jail. I told you not to gouge out your eyes, and you obviously didn’t, so you’ve got to remember.”
“I’ve never seen you before,” Sink says.
“Please. I know you. You’re Oscar Sinclair. You were partners with my dad, Maxen, on a mission in 1906.”
“Your friends don’t look too good,” Sink says. “The sooner you get in lockup, the sooner I get them to Med.”
“Sharrow’s hardly breathing,” Flyx says.
“Come on.” Bel drags me into the glass room.
Billy shuts the door. I hear it click, then click again as he locks it.
Sink scoops Sharrow into his arms—he’s strong, far from the frail, crazy homeless man I knew.
I watch as Flyx rises and hobbles after Sink, with Cowboy Billy bringing up the rear, gun pointed.
Flyx looks back, meeting my gaze for a moment before he disappears through the door.
“Great plan.” Bel rolls her eyes.
“You’re blaming me? You’re the one who brought us to the wrong time.”
“I’m not the one who effed up,” Bel says, pointing at a calendar on the wall.
It’s 2018. I made it back to 2018. But it’s some crazy messed-up version of 2018.
And somehow I managed to land back in jail with Bel. Where, once again, no one knows us. And once again, Bel’s blaming me. And rolling her eyes.
The difference this time is I know a quake is coming soon. I can still get back to 1906. I can still make this right.
Acknowledgments
I owe thanks to so many for assisting with this novel.
I have enormous gratitude and appreciation for my family who is a constant source of love, support, and assistance. Always first and foremost, my husband Jody: you make this—and everything—possible. Huge thanks also to my sons Kit, Jack, and Duncan, and to my parents and sisters, for the encouragement, ideas, and unflagging confidence.
I am very fortunate to have an incredible writing community that aids and assists me in this and all my writing endeavors. In particular for Shake, I owe a debt of gratitude to:
Todd Fahnestock, coworker, compatriot, and constant companion: you make my writing life joyful, my stories richer, and my days infinitely more productive and fun.
Mandy Houk, critiquer, editor, proofreader extraordinaire: this book is so much better because of your enthusiasm, sharp wit, and eagle eye.
Barb Nickless, voice coach and critiquer: Allie and I owe you so much.
Marie Whittaker, Queen Bee (who is nothing like Bel): your friendship, encouragement, and assistance are like sunshine.
Kevin Ikenberry, story structure guru: you have opened my eyes to patterns and techniques that improved this story and will impact everything I write from now on.
My life as an author is enriched by my phee Reader’s Group—thank you one and all for your time, support, and enthusiasm. In particular I’d like to thank Nathan Dodge who submitted the idea for the “personal devices” used in this story.
I couldn’t be happier with my cover artist, Rashed AlAkroka (www.artstation.com/artwork/lWnX5) whose artistry, technique, and professionalism are unmatched. Thank you, Rashed, for sharing your talent and friendship.
And finally, this book literally would not exist without my fantastic publisher, Parker Hayden Media. Pam McCutcheon and Laura Hayden, your hard work, insight, and wisdom make my books better and make me a better writer. Plus you’re awesome friends and incredible humans I can always count on.
While it has taken a village to produce the story-world for the In Real Time series, any errors, inaccuracies, or artistic license are mine alone.
About the Author
Chris Mandeville grew up in California, spending lots of time in Allie’s stomping grounds, San Francisco. She now lives in Colorado with her family and her service dog, Finn.
Chris can write anywhere, but her usual spot is a comfy chair at home in the Rocky Mountains where the only sound is the wind in the trees, her coffee cup is in reach, and Finn is snoozing by her feet. She’s not a morning person by any stretch of the imagination, but she wakes up with help from lots of coffee and a little yoga, then writes for the rest of the day. Most evenings, she and her husband take walks in the woods, with Finn frolicking alongside.
Chris writes science fiction and fantasy novels and short stories, as well as nonfiction books for writers, and is the author of five published works. She and Finn can often be found at events for writers and readers along Colorado’s Front Range. To learn more about Chris and her works-in-progress, and to join her Reader’s Group, visit ChrisMandeville.com.
Also by Chris Mandeville
In Real Time Series
Quake
Shake
Break (coming soon)
Other books by Chris:
Seeds: a post-apocalyptic adventure
Unde
rcurrents: an Anthology of What Lies Beneath
52 Ways to Get Unstuck: Exercises to Break Through Writer’s Block
Shake Page 25