by Simon Hawke
He often wondered if Darkness even had a clue to what he was doing. That the man was a genius on a level beyond anything that anyone had ever known was indisputable, but at the same time, and perhaps because of that, he was also utterly incomprehensible. He often agonized over the ethical implications of his work, yet the rights of individuals meant nothing to him. This was not the time to be concerned about such things, Lucas realized. He was in a dangerous neighborhood and it was getting dark. Somewhere nearby, Andre and Gulliver were being held prisoner by the Network. And Lucas had no weapons.
Where the hell was Darkness?
The shadows lengthened as night fell on the city. This wasn’t the kind of darkness that I had in mind, thought Lucas. Why hadn’t Darkness followed him? He looked up and down the street. . He had absolutely no idea where Andre and Gulliver were being held. There were warehouses and old factory buildings along both sides of the street. They could be in any one of them.
Then he saw a sleek black Cadillac, a stretch limousine, turning slowly into the street. It was definitely not the sort of vehicle one expected to encounter in this area of town. He quickly translocated behind the abandoned car. The limo pulled up in front of an old brick warehouse building with graffiti all over the door; and two men got out, dragging a third between them. The front door on the other side of the car opened and another man got out. Even at that distance, Lucas recognized the massive figure of Nikolai Drakov.
He watched Drakov and the others go into the building. The limousine waited at the curb, its motor running. Lucas gasped, slumping down behind the wrecked car as the pain washed over him again, coming and going, coming and going, like waves crashing on a shore. Everything started to spin around. He sagged against the car and slip down to the street.
“Hey, mah man.”
“He’s wasted.”
“Yo, got any money, my man?”
He felt hands on him, turning him around, patting down his pockets.
“Yo, man, check out the boss threads, man! I gotta get me them threads!”
“Fuck the threads, where the hell’s the money? Hey, dude, where the hell’s the money, dude?”
“Get away …” Lucas said, clumsily pushing at them, desperately trying to focus and ignore the pain.
Something went snik and he felt the sharp point of a switchblade pressed up beneath his chin.
“Awright, muthafucker, where’s the bread? I cut you, man. C’mon, where you got it stashed?”
“Maybe in his boots.”
“Check his belt.”
He felt their hands fumbling at his clothes and he tried to resist, hut the knife blade pressed up against the underside of his chin again. He struggled against the pain and dizziness, trying to focus in on his attacker;. They were little more than just a blur, but he could tell that there were three of them. Slowly, they resolved into distinct figures. One was white, two were black, dressed in tatterdemalion, street-punk style studded and fringed leather, motorcycle jackets with chain mm, patched jeans, engineer boots or brightly colored, hightop sneakers and T-shirts or bright tank tops with printed designs. They had pierced ears, spiked bracelets, chains, studded choker collars. One wore his hair in a short Mohawk, another had a crew cut and the third had shaved his head completely. Lucas felt his boots being pulled off, then his trousers. One of them started opening his shirt.
“Sheeit, man, he ain’t got no money!”
“Ain’t got no damn watch, no rings, nuthin, man! Someone musta already rolled ‘im!”
“I’m gonna do him,” said the one with the knife.
“Shoot, forget it, man. C’mon, least we got the clothes.”
“I wanna cut him.”
Lucas felt hot, stinking breath on his face.
“So cut him and c’mon, man, I ain’t got no time for this shit!”
The one with the knife knelt over him, his eyes glittering wildly.
Lucas suddenly reached out and his fingers closed tightly around the hand holding the knife. He struck out hard with his other hand and smashed the punk’s windpipe. The punk’s eyes went wide with pain and sudden terror as he made gagging, choking noises and sagged down to the sidewalk, gargling on his own blood.
“Hey, what the—”
Lucas came up with the punk’s knife in his hand.
“Son of a bitch!”
The punk with the shaved head reached up and unsnapped the leather epaulet on his motorcycle jacket, pulling down the steel chain he wore around his shoulder. The other one dropped the clothes they took off Lucas and reached into his back pocket. He pulled out a butterfly knife and opened it with a quick flick of the wrist.
They moved apart and came at him from two sides. Lucas hefted the switchblade, found its balance point, shifted his grip and flung it with a quick, underhanded motion. It struck the punk with the butterfly knife, sinking into his torso, right under the rib cage. He grunted with surprise, clutched his chest and collapsed onto the street. The remaining punk snarled and brought the chain down hard. Lucas took the blow on his upraised forearm, wincing as the shock travelled up his arm. He twisted his wrist, grabbed the chain, yanked sharply and smashed the punk in the face before he could regain his balance. The punk lost his grip on the chain and staggered backwards, bleeding from his broken nose. He gave Lucas a terrified look as he scrambled back, then stooped, snatched up the black fatigues and took off down the street at a dead run.
“You bastard! My clothes!” shouted Lucas, throwing the chain after him furiously. Only his boots remained lying on the street. “Great! Just fucking great!”
There he was, alone in one of the worst areas of 20th century New York. Andre and Gulliver were being held prisoner by Nikolai Drakov, and he was standing in the middle of Washington Street in his underwear with two dead bodies at his feet. All be needed now was for a police car to come by. Although that wasn’t very likely. The police knew better than to cruise a neighborhood like this.
Lucas glanced down at the two dead punks. They looked none to clean, but the one with the Mohawk was just about his size. With a grimace of distaste, Lucas stripped off the punk’s clothes. He slipped on the tight-fitting black jeans and the motorcycle jacket, after wiping some of the blood off. He hoped he wouldn’t get lice, but if he did, it wouldn’t be the first time. He walked over to the other corpse, pulled the switchblade free and picked up the butterfly knife the punk had dropped. As serious weapons, they left a lot to be desired, but they were better than nothing.
He glanced back toward the building Drakov had gone into just in time to see him coming out again. The man with him had to be the Network man Darkness had described. He was pushing Andre ahead of him into the limousine. There was no sign of Gulliver.
“Darkness, damn it, where the hell are you?” Lucas said, watching as they got into the car. “Delaney …”
But there was no sign of them. He had to do something. The limo was pulling away from the curb and making a U-turn in the middle of street. His gaze fell on the trunk.
All right, he thought, here goes nothing. Desperately hoping that his telempathic chronocircuitry could compute the time-space co-ordinates and the trajectory from the input of his senses, Lucas stared hard at the trunk of the departing limousine, willing himself into it.
He tached.
Gulliver shook his head, backing away as the two gunmen came toward him. “No, please,” he said. “Don’t. “
The men grinned, aiming their guns. Suddenly, both guns flew out of their hands and disappeared.
The gunmen stared, dumbfounded, and then a voice spoke from behind them.
“Are you gentlemen looking for these?”
Dr. Darkness stood behind them, flickering like a stroboscopic ghost. He held out his hands. A gun rested in each palm.
“Hey!” said Finn Delaney.
Both gunmen spun around to see Delaney, who had materialized within a foot of them. He reached out quickly and slammed their heads together. They both collapsed to the floor.
“That was a little tight there, Doctor,” said Delaney. “Another foot closer and it would’ve gotten messy.”
Darkness shrugged. “How was I to know that they’d be standing there?”
Gulliver shut his eyes and almost sobbed with relief. “Delaney!”
Finn glanced down at the figure sprawled out on the floor. “Well, well,” he said. “Look what we’ve got here. I believe we’ve recaptured an escaped prisoner.”
“Damn you, Delaney, get me loose,” said Hunter.
“You know this man, Delaney?” Darkness said.
“I knew his twin,” Delaney said. “Dr. Darkness, meet Capt. Reese Hunter, of the Counter Insurgency Section of the Special Operations Group.” He bent down over Hunter and cut his bonds with his commando knife.
“You look like hell,” he said.
“I feel like hell,” said Hunter. He got up to his feet and winced. .
“Where’s Andre?” said Delaney, using his laser to burn through Gulliver’s cuffs.
“Drakov took her,” Gulliver said.
“Yeah, you just missed ‘em,” Hunter said.
“Damn! What about Lucas?”
“Lucas?” Hunter said, rubbing his sore wrists. “Lucas Priest? I thought he was dead. “
“It’s a long story,” said Delaney. “I don’t suppose you have any idea where he took her?”
Hunter shook his head. His gaze fell on Darkness and he stared. “Say, pilgrim, am I still punchy or am I actually seeing through that guy?”
“Yeah, well, that’s a long story, too,” Delaney said, taking the two guns from Dr. Darkness. One was a Browning Hi-Power, the other was a Czech CZ-75. “Premium hardware for this time period,” said Delaney, examining the pistols. He glanced at Hunter. “You know how to use these?”
“9-mm semiautos?” Hunter said. “Yeah, I can manage. Why, don’t tell me you’re actually going to arm an escaped prisoner?”
“I’m going to take a chance,” Delaney said, handing rum the Hi-Power. “Now you can shoot me in the back with that thing or you can help. It’s up to you. Drakov isn’t just our enemy. he’s yours as well. I figure any business we’ve got between us can wait till this is finished. What do you say?”
“All right. I’m in. I’ve got a score to settle with that man.” “Truce?” Delaney said, offering his hand.
“Truce,” said Hunter. They shook.
Hunter hefted the Hi-Power in his hand. He jacked out the magazine and checked to see that it was full, then slapped it back in. He tucked the gun into his waistband in the small of his back.
Delaney beckoned to Gulliver. “Lem, come over here. Take this one,” he said, handing him the black CZ.
“I have never seen such a gun,” said Gulliver, dubiously.
“This one’s a lot easier to shoot then anything you might have seen,” Delaney reassured him. “It has two different carry modes, double action or cocked and locked. You’re only going to worry about one, the double action. If you want to shoot, all you do is point the gun and squeeze the trigger, simple as that. You can fire fifteen shots without reloading.”
“Fifteen? Without reloading?”
“As fast as you can pull the trigger,” said Delaney. “But don’t fire all fifteen. It’s better to shoot in groups of three. Now the trigger pull on the first shot is going to be a little stiffer than on the succeeding ones, so be ‘prepared for that. And use two hands, like this.”
Delaney demonstrated a proper combat stance and showed him how to sight.
Gulliver gingerly took the pistol and followed his example.
“Good. It will kick a bit, but don’t let that throw you.” Hunter watched the brief instruction session with curiosity.
“Are you sure he knows what he’s doing? Just what time period is he from, anyway?”
“Well, that’s—”
“Yeah, I know. A long story. Never mind. Forget I asked.”
“Sorry, Hunter, but you’re on a need-to-know basis. You are from the other side, after all.”
“Yeah, sure. It’s just that I’d feel better about this if we had a little more help. “
“We do,” said Delaney. He picked up a leather valise that was sitting on the floor on the spot where he’d clocked in.
“What’s that?” Hunter said.
“A little more help,” Delaney said. “Very little.”
The limousine turned left on the Avenue of the Americas, known to native New Yorkers simply as Sixth Avenue, then headed north towards the fashionable neighborhood of Soho, short for “South of Houston.”
“Where are you taking me?” said Andre.
“Patience, Miss Cross,” said Drakov. “All will become self-evident before too long. “
“Why, Drakov?” she asked. “Why work for the Network? What are you after?”
“I should think that would be obvious, Miss Cross,” said Drakov. “The Network pays me very well and I find their logistics support extremely helpful. They are very well organized, you know. Quite impressive. Not even the Timekeepers operated on such a scale. There is, in addition, a certain delightful irony to being subsidized by what is essentially a branch of my father’s own organization. And in that, regard, we have certain mutual goals in mind, don’t we, Mr. Savino’?”
She glanced at Savino with contempt. “Steiger said you were a section chief in the 20th Century, but I never made the connection. From the way be talked about you, I never would have believed you were a traitor.”
“A traitor?” said Savino, in that same, curiously unemotional tone. “That’s interesting. To what or to whom am I a traitor? To the country? How? I haven’t sold the country out. To the agency?” He shook his head. “I haven’t sold the agency out, either. In fact, I’ve been instrumental in bringing a considerable amount of revenue into the agency. True, I’m not exactly playing by the rules, but the idea of a clandestine intelligence organization playing by any set of rules is patently absurd. “
“Oh, I see,” said Andre. “I guess I just didn’t understand. And taking part in a plot to assassinate the director of the T.I.A., that’s nothing more than interdepartmental politics, right?”
“Forrester brought it on himself,” Savino said. “I’m sure he never paused to consider the complexities that gave rise to an entity such as the Network or the conditions that make its existence necessary. I doubt he ever gave any thought to the consequences involved in dismantling the Network.”
Andre snorted derisively. “Are you seriously trying to tell me that the Network is a necessary organization?”
“Absolutely,” said Savino. “That’s something your friend and mine, Creed Steiger, will probably never understand. You probably can’t understand it, either. You both seem to share the same delusion. You believe in absolutes. You think there’s such a thing as right and wrong. “
“How foolish of us,” Andre said, sarcastically.
Savino shook his head with resignation. “You people in the First Division always had it easy compared to what we had to do. By the time you got involved, your objectives were clearly delineated. You weren’t sent in unless there was a specific situation to be dealt with and you always knew what the parameters of your missions were, thanks to us and the Observers. We did the scout work. We pinpointed the temporal anomalies. We gathered the intelligence that made it possible for you to do your job. “
“And you feel you didn’t get enough credit or compensation, is that it?” Andre said.
Savino shook his head. “No, not me. Maybe some people in the Network feel that way, I can’t speak for everybody, but I’ve never felt like that. In the old days, when Steiger and I were starting out as field agents, we weren’t after glory or compensation. Doing our duty was enough. Besides, we were young. We got off on the adventure. But as time went on, the thrill wore off. And I began to realize something. That what we were doing was like trying to stop a horde of locusts with a fly swatter.
“It was impossible to do the job that we were being asked
to do and still play by the rules,” Savino continued. “The thing was, nobody really cared when it came right down to it. The legislators gave a lot of lip service to ‘working for the cause of peace’ and ‘bringing the Time Wars to a halt,’ but when it came time for appropriations for funding temporal defense plants in their districts, guess which way they voted? When it came time to make spending cuts so they could say they were trying to balance but the budget, did they cut appropriations that funded jobs in their own districts? Did they maybe refuse to vote themselves their annual salary increase? No, they cut services everywhere they could, instead. And they kept chipping away at our budget every year. But they still wanted us to keep doing the same job, a job that kept on getting more and more impossible to do. And they wanted us to do it by the book. Even that was so much lip service. Most of them didn’t care one way or another, so long as the job got done and nobody got caught.”
“Steiger cares,” she said.
“Yeah, well, he would,” Savino said. “He wound up working with a man named Carnehan after a few years. Name mean anything to you?”
“Col. Jack Carnehan,” she said. “Codename: agent Mongoose. “
Savino nodded. “Yeah. He was the best. A goddamned legend. But crazy. A real danger junkie. And there was one other thing that made him different. He really believed that the good guys always win. “
Savino’s lips twisted into a wry, sad little half smile.
“It was amazing, really. In some ways, Carnehan was like a kid who never grew up. He kept on playing the same games, only at some point, the games started to be played for keeps and he just never noticed. Steiger bought into the whole trip all the way. I suppose I can even understand it. Old Jack had a lot of style. Charisma with a capital C. And Creed was young. He fell under the man’s spell.”