Forty Leap

by Turner, Ivan

  I excused myself from Rogers Clinton’s company and stepped out into the corridor. Unable to control the impulse, I went to Neville’s room and knocked on his door. There was no answer. He wasn’t inside. I felt a little lost then, wondering how best to spend my time. On a whim, I went to the library and began to read through my journal. I kept it with me always and, leafing through the worn pages I was glad of its company. The words reminded me of who I had been when all of this had started. That man, whose name had also been Mathew Cristian, was a very different person. I found that I did not like him all that much. He seemed a bit frail to me, unable to come to grips with his emotions, unable to express himself in the slightest. I was still quiet, still a man who withheld more than he gave out, but I was not that man.

  Toward the later part of the morning, Neville came striding into the library looking all around. When he caught sight of me, his expression went from worry to relief. I had never seen him so agitated. He sat down next to me and motioned to the journal.

  “That your diary?” he asked.

  I nodded.

  “Anything else you care about in this world?”

  It was an odd question but I shook my head in response. There were no material things that had any value to me. Just the book.

  “They’re out there,” he said. “I went for another walk this morning and saw them camping out just where we thought they’d be. They’re clever buggers, and several dozen strong at least. Armed by the government, these GEI blokes won’t be a match for them. They’ve been buzzing around all morning and night while I’ve been looking for a hiding spot.”

  I didn’t understand. Where could we possibly hide that they wouldn’t be able to find? Anyone missing would prompt a thorough search of the facility and the surrounding area. That meant that our hiding place had to be a good one. It had to be someplace that even the staff didn’t know about. I was doubtful that any such place existed, but Neville rebuffed me. He said that every architect and builder in the history of mankind had conspired to build secret rooms into their constructions. It was the child playing the game while the adult was working. In a place like this, it would be easy to indulge such a fantasy. To me that seemed a long shot onto which we should not be pinning our hopes.

  “Well that’s for certain,” he agreed. “Found the place, though. Women’s bathroom just off the staff recreational areas. There’s a vent that’s just too big for the room and not too little for a man. You can follow it to the narrow shafts or deeper into the rock where the builder cut away a small square room.”

  My eyes must have bulged.

  “Don’t get excited. It’s just four cement walls. We’d have to smuggle in food and build a bathroom. Ain’t the time for that, mate.”

  “What do we do then?”

  Neville reached over and plucked a random book from the shelf. “We wait.”

  We didn’t have to wait long, though. A young man in a GEI uniform came into the library at around noon. When he saw us, he pulled out a radio and signaled to someone that he had found us. Neville and I exchanged glances and stood to receive him. Without too much preamble or explanation, he explained that everyone was gathering in the dining room. There were government representatives at the facility and they were coming in to inspect the premises.

  It all sounded very queer, even to me, but we played along because there wasn’t really anything else we could do. Neville made the symbol of a gun with one hand behind our escort’s back, but I didn’t see any weapon. Even if I had, I’m not sure what it was he expected of me. Attacking the man and taking a weapon seemed out of the question. Even if I could have done that, I certainly wouldn’t ever be able to use a gun on someone.

  Wil Lowenburg was standing outside the cafeteria, bouncing nervously on his heels. When he saw me he looked relieved, but only mildly so. He leaned inside and I heard him say That’s the last of them. Sure enough, all twenty of the other patients were gathered inside the dining room with a fair amount of staff. Each of my peers was wearing a GEI uniform of some kind and a badge.

  “What’s going on?” Neville asked.

  Wil explained that the government was looking for us, and others like us. The official news story was that we were a threat, being bred as spies; we had read that. The military didn’t have any interest in eliminating us, however. They wanted to capture us and begin their own research. If we were officially eliminated as a threat, no one would ever come looking for us. I was handed a jumpsuit with a badge. The badge had my picture on it, but the name was Matthew Goldberg. At least I didn’t have to remember a new first name. Neville did. His new name was Ives, which was a good Scottish name. He was given cafeteria clothing and a hair net. He smiled at his disguise and donned it quickly.

  After that we just sat around chatting and looking scared. I tried to catch Rogers Clinton’s eye, but he was across the room and he had this fierce look on his face. Rogers was in his sixties, that much was certain. But I could tell he was spoiling for a fight. Maybe he thought this provided him a glimpse of his path to greatness. Awen Mohammed sat with Samantha Radish, their hands locked tightly together, bloodless knuckles meshed.

  Ultimately, we heard voices in the hallway beyond. Wil moved to the door and stuck his head out. Like a switch, all of his nervousness and concern drained away. That boyish smile returned and he was himself once again, extending a hand to greet someone unseen.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” he said to us as he came back inside. The director of the facility was following and a man in army fatigues following him. “This is Lieutenant Archie McSwain. He’s in charge of conducting the inspection of our facility. He’d like to ask some of you some questions, so please do your best to cooperate.”

  It was a foolish notion that a secret this large could be kept by so many people. The room smelled of nervous sweat and was filled with wide eyes. More to the point, Lieutenant McSwain did not give any indication that he would be a party to any false pretenses. His posture and his expression betrayed a man purely about his business. He already knew who and what we were and procedure was just a tissue paper obstacle. Striding around the room, he spared no one a clear look into the eyes. He harrumphed once when passing Rogers Clinton but didn’t give me a second glance. When he reached Neville, though, he stopped, staring long and hard at the badge on the Scotsman’s chest.

  “What is it that you’re doing here, Mr. Ives?”

  His voice was hard edged and deep. The tonality was slightly forced, generated for effect, but I was given the impression that it came easy to him. He’d used it a million times in the past.

  Neville met him head on. “I’m a cook, sir.”

  “Nice accent. Irish?”

  “Scot, actually.”

  “Really, what’s a good Scot doing all the way out here?”

  “Like I said, sir. I make meals.”

  “Is that all? And what’s for dinner tonight?”

  Neville smiled. “Pineapple chicken. Will you be staying, sir?”

  McSwain nodded. “I don’t doubt it.” Pulling a radio from his belt, he signaled someone named Sergeant Hopper. “You can bring your men in,” he said. “This is the right place.”

  The director came forward. “Lieutenant, I don’t think you can…”

  “I can do whatever I want!” he barked. “You’re all a bunch of criminals. Most of these fools are nobody I’ve ever seen, but you should have at least put a fake beard on him.”

  When the glaze cleared from my eyes, I saw that the Lieutenant was pointing at me.

  Rogers Clinton was laughing. Lieutenant McSwain was the unshakable sort, all business, never sidetracked. But he whipped his head around at the sound of Rogers Clinton’s laughter and a dark scowl crossed his face. I did nothing; it wouldn’t have even occurred to me to do something. But Neville was ready. As soon as the lieutenant’s attention was diverted, Neville charged forward, grabbing his still outstretched hand. It was simple for him to twist it around behind him in a hammer lock, but he
would have never been able to hold him alone. As strong and confident as Neville was, he was hardly a match for McSwain. I wonder if any one of us was. But Rogers, as the laughter died, bounded forward like a man possessed and yanked McSwain away from Neville. As old as Rogers was, he was stronger than any man had a right to be. He stood half a foot taller than McSwain and probably outweighed him by fifty pounds. He flung the lieutenant into a table and followed him, loping across the distance in an instant. McSwain recovered well and was ready for Rogers, but he was favoring his left arm, the one Neville had grabbed, and he was shaken by the attack. Rogers swung at him once, twice, missing both times. McSwain saw an opening and returned the blows. He connected two solid shots with Rogers Clinton’s midsection, but the big man wasn’t fazed. He took them as if they were no more than the wind, closing his hands together and bringing the mighty fist down on McSwain’s head. The lieutenant collapsed to the ground, trying to regain himself.

  “Just hold him!” Neville shouted and Rogers responded by grabbing him up in a bear hug. He grabbed both the lieutenant’s gun and his radio from his belt. Studying the radio for a moment, he held it up. “You tell them to withdraw. You made a mistake.”

  “They’ll never believe it.”

  “They don’t have to, do they?” Neville grinned as he hit the connection on the radio.

  McSwain did as he was told.

  Wil was listening to something on his radio. “They’re coming in through D and G,” he reported.

  “Do we have people there?” the director asked.

  “Just surrender, you fools!” McSwain shouted. “What do you think you’ll accomplish here?”

  Rogers squeezed him tightly and I could see him wince. It was odd to watch these events unfold and know that I was in no way a primary part of it. Neville and Rogers were making the decisions for us while the director and Wil seemed to be attempting to coordinate a defense against the invasion. At least it became clear who was on whose side. Unless the ruse was so elaborate, we could count on the GEI people to stand with us. It was small comfort, but comfort just the same.

  “You’ll never get everyone out,” McSwain pleaded. “Don’t waste lives by fighting.”

  “Shut up!” Neville screamed at him, his face turning read. Then he smiled again and looked at Rogers. “Still bored?”

  Rogers winked at him. “Things are looking up.”

  It was only then that I began to understand what was going on and even my understanding was abstract and filled with gaps. Rogers had always said he was too bored to jump. Maybe he wasn’t just being flip. Maybe boredom really did have something to do with the frequency of jumps. I had never considered it before, but then again my entire life was boring. So what could have excited me enough to start me off on this path?

  “I think we need a bit more action,” Neville said. He looked at all of us, humanity lost in time. “Are you all scared enough? It only gets worse from here.”

  Lieutenant McSwain looked on with an uneasy confusion. As unsure as I was of the situation, my peers knew less than I and he less than they. I imagine he felt almost completely emasculated by the fact that he was no longer in charge of a situation he had moments ago mastered. He almost spoke, like a desperate man asking desperate questions in a desperate attempt to shed his desperation. But he controlled it, years of conditioning taking control.

  Gun held out before him, Neville began to move toward the corridor. The director got in his way, complained that the lieutenant was right. There just weren’t the resources to move everyone out this way.

  “Then I guess it’s come to blows, eh director? Have you got the stomach for it?”

  At that moment, someone must have been making popcorn because we could hear that it was ready. Of course, that’s what I thought until I realized that the sound was too muffled and no one was actually making popcorn. People were shooting. People were being shot. I wished I had not come to this awful place. The tension was filling inside of me, my blood running hot.

  Neville continued out and we followed. Rogers took up step next to him. We marched down the corridor, a disorganized bunch. I had no idea where Neville thought he was going, but the pops of gunfire became louder and less muffled the further we went. Moments later, we ran almost headlong into a unit of six soldiers. Their weapons came up as soon as they saw us, their warnings ringing out sharp and clear.

  But Neville was ready for them. He lifted the gun and pressed it into Lieutenant McSwain’s scalp. “You can’t kill me fast enough,” he shouted, mad with the adrenaline rush. I felt what he felt. “You drop those guns or I shoot your lieutenant.”

  They hesitated. But the problem wasn’t McSwain. Their orders most likely had him dead already. They couldn’t open fire on their prize. Twenty two time jumpers all wrapped up in a nice neat little package.

  I don’t know what the result would have been. For a moment, it seemed like a stalemate, but I doubt that would have lasted long. Regardless, we lost our linchpin at that moment. Neville MacTavish, gun in hand, winked out of existence. It was the most extraordinary thing I had ever seen. One second he was there and the next he wasn’t. Of course, he had jumped. It had happened to me enough times, but I guess no one had ever seen it happen to me. Certainly I had never seen it happen to anyone else. As unnerving as it had been to walk out of K-Mart and into a war-torn New York City, this was worse. An involuntary shudder grabbed hold of me.

  And then they were on us. McSwain reacted first, taking advantage of Rogers Clinton’s distractedness to free himself. He ordered his men to infiltrate and corral us. A couple of us, those who realized that there would be no gunfire, put up a half hearted fight, but we were no match for them. McSwain was shouting into a radio, taken from one of the soldiers because Neville had absconded through time with his. The sound of shooting continued on nearby.

  “Call it off,” I whispered and no one heard. I looked around me. We had been forced up against the wall and were standing like statues. At the end of the row, three heads away from me, Wil and the director stood in indecision.

  “Call it off,” I said a bit louder, this time looking down the row. “Wil, call it off!”

  The mad rush I had felt had begun to wane in the wake of Neville’s disappearance, but it was rekindling. So many lives were at stake. So many people were going to die for a cause that was already lost.

  “Please,” I said.

  Wil looked at me and so did the director.

  “You can’t win. You won’t save anyone.” There were tears in my eyes. I was enveloped by an overpowering sadness, thinking that I was getting a glimpse of what was to be. For us, for me, there was no escape. Neville had known. Neville had done it. He’d made himself jump. “Please.”

  Wil and the director nodded to each other and Wil reached for his radio even as he was telling McSwain what he was going to do. A soldier tensed, bringing his rifle to bear, but there was no shooting. Thank goodness there was no shooting. McSwain watched Wil carefully as he gave the GEI personnel orders. He was telling them to cease fire and lay down their arms. As he did so, McSwain gave corresponding orders to his people. Cease fire. Move in. And so it was done. When the sounds of shooting had finally faded, McSwain called for something called a containment team and a unit to take us back to our quarters. The containment team arrived first and began marking the position where Neville had jumped. We were hauled off before we saw anything else, but it was clear that they intended to set a trap for Neville so that when he reappeared he would be caught. Based on what Neville had told me about his last jump, they would have a long time to wait. To them, it didn’t seem to matter.

  As we walked, or I should say marched quickly, through the corridors, Rogers fell into step beside me.

  “Little Mat,” he whispered. “Jump.”

  I looked at him. “I don’t know how.”

  He smiled. “Neville did it. You can do it. You have to do it now, before they lock you in a cell. Then I’ll go.”

  What was he
saying? Would we all arrive at the same place? Was I misreading what he was telling me? “They’ll set a trap for us just like they did for Neville.”

  “No talking!” one of the soldiers shouted back at us.

  Rogers lowered his voice even further so that I could barely hear him. “They’re fools. They don’t know nothin’ about what we do.”

  “I can’t do it.”

  His regular accent fell away. “If they put you in your room, it’s over. You’ll be their guinea pig and they’ll stick you and dissect you until there’s nothing left. Then they’ll move on to someone else. You’re not a person to them. They’ll take away even your dignity. It will be worse than being a slave.” He continued on and each sentence described a more horrible picture, a picture of pure torture and a life that wasn’t worth living. Would my government actually do these things to me? Had I really been so deceived all of my life? But as Rogers spoke, the questions in my mind fell away. They had murdered Morty and Dr. Mason. They had tracked me through time. The question wasn’t what would they do, it was what wouldn’t they do.

  And then I was in darkness. The change was so abrupt that I bumped into something before I stopped walking. I knew instinctively that I had jumped. I hadn’t blacked out and the footsteps of my companions had died away in an instant. I waited in the blackness for my eyes to adjust but they did not. The absence of light was complete. Wherever I was, there was no light filtering in. Cautiously, I began feeling my way around. Boxes. Shelves. A supply closet? I couldn’t find a light switch, but I wondered…

  If I had jumped, then I must have gained several years. Perhaps… “Lights?” I asked the room tentatively.

  Immediately, two strange looking bulbs flared to life. The lighting wasn’t great, but it burned my eyes after such a complete absence of it. I was in a supply closet. The boxes were labeled, some holding cleaning supplies and other such items. There was a rack with what looked like maintenance fatigues hanging on it. Each had an ID badge attached, but the badges had no pictures and I doubted if the stripes had been programmed. I couldn’t know how many years I had skipped, but it had to be considerable enough so that the technology had advanced somewhat beyond my comprehension. Stripping quickly, I put on a set of loose fitting maintenance fatigues. I swapped out the ID badge on the fatigues with the GEI one Wil had given me. They didn’t look exactly the same, but they were close enough that I might get away with it if someone just gave it a passing glance. I camouflaged the GEI logo under a crease of my shirt.