Invictus

by Ryan Graudin

  “Good job on the profile planting.” She nodded back at the hack on his screen. “I’ll be a wraith as far as Corps alarms are concerned. I think it’s best we find a parking spot, so I have solid coordinates to teleport back to.”

  “All of time at our feet and we’re running out of it.” Far marched toward his orange chair, back to mission mode: “Let’s get a move on! Gram, find us a place to land. Priya, get ready to switch out the fuel rods for our next jump when we do. Imogen, give that wardrobe another comb-through. Eliot—”

  The cut in Far’s silence was clean. In it Gram heard how much this bothered his friend, handing this heist to another. He’d never not been on the ground, and the stress of it winched his neck tendons tight—muscled mountains, valley skin.

  “Yes, Far?”

  “What else do you need?”

  “I’m all set.”

  Gram returned to his console and guided the Invictus to a safe landing spot, one of the many islands dotting the flight path from ancient Alexandria to Central. At this hour, both nearby towns would be asleep. Their outcrop was occupied solely by spotted goats, which didn’t even twitch a tail at the invisible TM’s arrival. Once the ship hit earth, the crew rushed against the clock—fuel rods were switched, teleportation coordinates pinned, comm connections confirmed for the third time—until no more details could be finessed and all five of them gathered in the console room.

  Priya was in the doorway, peeling the gloves from her hazard suit. Imogen and Gram sat at their stations, and Far on the edge of his chair. Eliot stood in the center, making adjustments to her wig. The Invictus’s mood was somber and spectacular, everyone a laugh away from tears.

  “Hey, Eliot?” Imogen’s fingers were crossed, as Gram knew they would be. He hoped he’d get a chance to kiss her again.

  “Yes?”

  “What do your eyebrows say? For the record.”

  There were new letters on Eliot’s face, Gram realized. Fresh ink, fully scrawled, a mystery until she said them: “Carpe the hazing mundi!”

  The air swallowed her.

  37

  A HAT AS FINE AS THAT

  JUMPING THROUGH SPACE WAS MUCH WORSE than leaping through time, in Eliot’s opinion. The latter took the world and rearranged it beneath her feet, but teleportation rearranged Eliot. The breakdown of her cells into travel-sized pieces was a painless process, but every time she disappeared from one place and materialized in another she felt the dissonance. A quiver in her bones, intestines knotted, blood thick as mud.

  It was no different when she appeared in the Corps Headquarters restricted server room. The coordinates Gram had given her, the same numbers she’d fed to Vera, placed Eliot in one of the room’s blind spots, so the cameras wouldn’t catch her stepping out of nowhere. Her boots found purchase against the concrete, but it took a moment to settle into herself—elbows and knees rehinging, stomach sloshing with smaller and smaller waves.

  “This teleportation thing is so hashing cool!” I’ve just been kissed GLEE oozed from Imogen’s every word.

  “Sure.” From Eliot: a grunt. She was as thrilled with the pair’s carpe kiss as everyone else, but it was hard to maintain a cheery demeanor with liquefied insides. “Where to?”

  “Start heading south,” Imogen instructed. “You’ll have to walk a ways to get to the twelfth row. Keep an eye out for foot patrols.”

  To call the server room a room was a disservice to its size. The place stretched for blocks, disappearing into its own largeness. Servers glowed through glass-faced racks, a crimson light that cramped the air around it. Everything felt ominous, one slip away from sirens and stunrods. But Eliot’s digital mask held when she began walking down the aisle. No alarms were triggered. She was alone with her footsteps, gliding past rows of hive-hum data. Bzzzzzzzzzzzzzz. So many Recorders’ memories—her teeth rattled with them. It was strange to think of how many datastreams were inside these machines. They cannot be counted, and yet we keep counting. Dr. Ramírez had acknowledged the impossibility of the Multiverse Bureau’s task of numbering infinite universes, but the Corps’ mission fell under the same schlep your boulder up a hill only to watch it tumble down again category. Thousands of Recorders and years of footage could be spent trying to capture a single day and still something would be lost.

  History could not be collected, and yet they kept collecting.

  Worlds could not be saved, and yet…

  TRANSFER OF “YOU RAT YOU BURN” FILE IS 35% COMPLETE.

  The Invictus’s memories were much closer, loading through Vera’s interface onto the chip Eliot carried in/on/outside her wrist, joining her own observations of her crew. Could she say that? Her crew? Eliot had brought them together, through chess piece disasters and Gramogen nudges, but the phrase felt true for a different reason.

  There’s a place for you. Maybe it wouldn’t last long, but Far’s offer, spoken through the smoke of a laser she’d aimed to end him with, was enough. Gram, Priya, Imogen—they all knew Eliot as much as she could be known—nothing bigger to add up to, the sum of her shrinking, blank slate, too full. They’d welcomed her. They… trusted her.

  We’re all about to take a fall.

  Could Eliot catch them? She hadn’t even considered the possibility, until Priya knocked on her door. The Medic was determined to move mountains, jaw set and hand steady as she’d held out the chip. “Can you save us in it?”

  “Yes,” Eliot had answered. That part was easy.

  The chip, like Vera’s and most of Eliot’s tools, was standard- issue Bureau equipment. All of them had been manufactured in Agent Ackerman’s universe MB+251418881HTP8, outside of the affected string. The Fade wouldn’t touch the tech, as long as it passed through the pivot point, into a countersignature-free universe. This last detail made Eliot an imperfect messenger: echoes of Far’s wrong existence continued to cling to her, would as long as he lived. How could they transport the chip into the new future?

  “If we could find a way to get this on the Ab Aeterno. Maybe pass it to Empra. Please, Eliot. I want to find Far, in this next life….” Priya’s words had ended with a limp. The silence that followed had made Eliot flex her bandaged fingers and take the chip. Debt without interest; promise without words. Here was a girl who made a way, bloodshot eyes lined with silver sunshine, thank you melting into a smile. Eliot understood why Far loved her, why the chip meant more than memories.

  But, just as she’d told Imogen, she didn’t want to get hopes up. Even if the chip could be transferred, there was no guarantee Far would watch the memories inside, or feel compelled to act on them if he did…. Love was kin to time and infinity, too vast to be contained by men’s machines.

  “Twelve! Gotcha!” Imogen’s shout broke into real time, catching the number etched into the end of the row before Eliot did. “Rack A should be right in front of you.”

  It was. Eliot opened the frosted-glass door, scarlet glow dimming enough to see server 11B. Next she fished the networking cable from her pocket universe. In accordance with the Law of Strings, the cable had tangled itself into three giant knots since being packed. Red light crowded the edges of Eliot’s vision as she wrestled the cord into a functional line.

  “The pointy end goes in the hole,” Imogen said, simply to say something.

  Tempted as she was to point out the phrase’s double entendre, seconds were too precious to spend on banter. Eliot bit her lip and stuck the pointy end into the hole. The not-pointy end connected to a wireless transmitter, which in turn, linked to Vera.

  TRANSFER RECORDINGS FROM THE CTM AB AETERNO ’S 95 AD MISSION, DEPOSITED BY BURGSTROM HAMMOND ON APRIL EIGHTEENTH, 2354 AD? Y/N?

  Eliot’s throat swelled when she saw the name. Burg in this universe, Strom in hers, both burly men with silver crew cuts. How alike had they been? She knew more about Far’s Burg: father figure, smuggler of sweets. He’d be the same in the pivot-point world, if Eliot could make it.

  “Y,” she answered. Definitely Y.

  THIS TR
ANSFER REQUIRES PLATINUM-BLACK CLEARANCE. PLEASE SUBMIT CENTRAL ID NUMBER AND PASSCODE FOR VERIFICATION.

  Eliot sighed. Security protocols. Predicted, but no less annoying. Hacking this would take minutes they might not afford. While she typed, the Fade fed.

  CLEARANCE ACCEPTED. DATASTREAM IS NOW TRANSFERRING.

  Juggling downloads from two different systems only slowed Vera’s transfer times, so Eliot opted to pause “You Rat You Burn.” The sooner she teleported back to the Invictus, the faster they jumped back into the Grid, the better. Eliot shifted from one foot to the other, watching the Ab Aeterno’s recording percentages climb. Imogen hummed an off-key tune into the comm. The server room’s air-conditioning kicked on with an icy wumph. Though Eliot was wearing long sleeves, the draft made her shiver.

  “Cadet McCarthy.”

  The shiver became a bristle—no hairs needed.

  Eliot turned.

  “Whyyyy are these missions always getting interrupted?” Imogen’s song became a wail. “Whyyyy him?”

  Him being a porkpie-hat-wearing arse, and a very good reason to curse. Eliot chose a Norwegian one: “Dra meg baklengs inn i fuglekassa!”

  Agent Ackerman was different outside the hologram footage—he wore his third dimension heavily. Jutting shoulders, knuckles clenched. He’d materialized not a meter from Eliot, yet the only alarms going off were the ones in her head. Rack A’s open glass door was interfering with the security camera. Nothing was ruined.

  Yet.

  A lift of the coat, a flash of badge. “I’m Agent August Ackerman. From branch MB+251418881HTP8 of the Multiverse Bureau.”

  “I know who you are,” Eliot said, stiff. This wasn’t their first meeting, or even their fourth, though the Fade had left neither party with in-person memories of the other. For the best, judging by what she’d watched. “You’re my handler for this mission.”

  “So you have been reviewing your footage, which leaves you no excuse whatsoever for creating unauthorized pivot points! I’d have responded to your beacon hours ago if I didn’t have to wade through two half-eaten bastard universes—”

  “What beacon?” Eliot asked.

  “What beacon?” Imogen repeated.

  “What beacon?” It was a wonder Agent Ackerman’s eyes didn’t roll right on out of his head and under the servers. “This is what the Bureau gets for sending a history hopper to do an interdimensional’s job. Though it seems, by some farce of fortune, that you’ve done it. Sloppily. Your interface alerted the Bureau branches that you found the catalyst.”

  “Vera?”

  YES, ELIOT?

  The Bureau agent’s face twisted. “Are you one of those girls who names everything?”

  “One of those girls?” Imogen seethed. “Crux, this guy really is a total jacktail.”

  Eliot was in agreement. “Are you one of those perpetually bitter men who uses his anger as an excuse to shazm on everyone else?”

  “Listen, sweetheart, I’m just here for the cleanup. I already neutralized the catalysts in your pivot-point worlds.” He said this so casually Eliot almost didn’t catch the spatter of blood on his sleeve. Red as the feather in his hat, bright as the light around them. “Take me to Farway McCarthy’s body and we can be done with each other.”

  “Oh Crux…” Imogen noticed the color, too. “He killed them. He killed the other two Farways!”

  And now he was here for the third.

  “You need to get out of there,” Imogen whispered.

  She did, but she couldn’t. Too many things tied Eliot here, the cable among them. Its download wasn’t finished yet, and it was the datastream’s ending they needed most. As per Vera’s updates: TRANSFER OF CTM AB AETERNO 95 AD MISSION RECORDINGS IS 87% COMPLETE.

  Even if she was able to stall 13 percent more, there was the matter of the beacon. Ackerman had tracked her here, would continue to hound her as long as Vera ran. Eliot couldn’t teleport back to the Invictus without bringing a load of trouble with her, and warning Imogen would only tip off this cucurbita…

  89%

  “Shazm,” Imogen breathed. “He can teleport-track you. Time to storm the brain…. Got any ideas, Gram?”

  Eliot couldn’t hear what the Engineer suggested. She was too lost in her own whirlwind thoughts: Stall, just stall. Tangle him up in by-the-book rules, the way Dr. Ramírez did. “If you’re asking me for a report, I’d prefer to give it in person to your authorities in MB+251418881HTP8.”

  “I’m under strict orders not to let you leave this universe until you scan free of countersignature emissions. The Fade must be contained at all costs.” The man’s voice went a shade deeper, his shoulders a notch larger. “I asked you a question, Cadet McCarthy, and as my subordinate you’re required to answer. Where is the catalyst?”

  91%

  “I’m working on the neutralization.”

  “The boy’s still alive?” Agent Ackerman reached past the ellipses of blood on his sleeve, hand vanishing through his wrist. It returned from his pocket universe holding a blaster. “Figures you’d be too softhearted to pull the trigger. Take me to the catalyst and I’ll get the job done.”

  92%

  Eliot didn’t have another eight percent of stalling in her. She held up her palms. “I’m not so sure point-and-shoot is the solution here. The Fade was kicked off by an event, not a person. If we go back in time and alter—”

  “More pivot points are the last thing this mess needs!” the Bureau agent snarled. “Besides, do I look like a history hopper to you?”

  “A porkpie hat as fine as that would throw anyone.”

  93%.

  Imogen returned, her suggestion soft: “Get him to step a smidge to your left.”

  Eliot shifted to the side. Agent Ackerman mirrored her, fingers tight around his gun as he moved away from the glass door, into the security camera’s line of sight. The room began to wail from the ground up—throaty sirens, strobe lights slashing every which way. Alert. Intruder. Face not recognized.

  How did adding the Corps to their list of complications help anything? The situation only escalated: blaster barrel rose to meet Eliot’s chest, and Agent Ackerman’s forehead veins filled with squiggly-worm rage, rooting from the brim of his hat. A scream warped his mouth, but Eliot couldn’t hear it for the alarms. 96%. Seconds crawled. Agent Ackerman was turning into a tomato of a man, trigger finger too twitchy for her liking.

  97%. Noise from every source—alarm, comm, the Bureau agent’s mouth—crashed into an incoherent blur.

  98%.

  She could jump soon, but where? Ackerman would only follow her, unless—

  Another brightness joined the strobe lights. Corps security had arrived, along with their highly charged weapons: stunrods. Agent Ackerman’s eyes went white with the voltage, one hit to the neck and another to the side. Eliot—hands lifted high, wearing what passed for a Corps uniform—was spared the onslaught. The closest guard of the four, a man with copper hair whose name tag read J. DYKEMA, held out a hand to steady her.

  “Are you okay?” he mouthed.

  99%.

  Eliot nodded, looking down at Agent Ackerman. His fetal position was halfhearted, porkpie hat flopped feather-side to the floor. No chance he’d be tailing her anytime soon. Both his body and his interface had absorbed too much electricity to function properly. A genius solution. No doubt she had Gram to thank….

  But solving this problem only made way for a dozen more. J. Dykema was doing a double take of her Corps badge—reading Temporem Ullum Homo Non Manet, realizing the Latin didn’t add up with the motto on his own sleeve. His freckled fist tightened around his stunrod.

  “Hey…”

  TRANSFER COMPLETE.

  Eliot vanished, in full view of everyone, leaving the cable, an unconscious Bureau agent, and four shocked security guards in her wake.

  38

  THE LAST DAY

  FAR WATCHED THE OUTCROP GOATS FROM his captain’s chair, taking in their shadows against the growing pulse of Cen
tral time’s dawn. The animals were a poor distraction: The few that weren’t asleep grazed on dew-coated grass, boring and bored. He wanted to move, but with clothes strewn across the floor there was no room for pacing. Instead Far began picking a hole in his armrest’s leather—worrying the orange wider and wider, while the rest of the crew troubleshot behind him. Having never been on this side of a mission, Far had nothing to offer.

  He sat it out in the chair, picking it to pieces, watching goats take shape against the sunrise. Eliot’s landing—and consequent scrambling—made enough noise for the animals to perk up their ears and stare at the empty patch of field. Had their eyes and minds been sharper, they might’ve noticed the seam where the TM’s holo-shield met true air. Being livestock, they just went back to eating.

  The Invictus tore out of Central time, goats giving way to the Grid. Absolute dark stared into Far, and the truth hit him: They weren’t going back. Whether they succeeded or failed, he would never see Central as himself again. It was a smaller good-bye, but even the tiny lasts felt huge stacked up like this.

  “You were right.” He swung his chair toward Eliot. Her comm was still connected to the Invictus’s systems, every breath magnified. It sounded as if she’d just run a marathon. “Agent Ackerman is a total arse.”

  “I forgot”—gulp, gasp—“about Vera’s beacon. It wasn’t in my self-briefing. The zapping was brilliant, though. Even if Ackerman gets his teleportation system back online he won’t find us. Multiverse Bureau agents aren’t equipped to travel through time.”

  “Great clicking, Gram!”

  “Good swirling, Imogen!”

  The two grinned at each other, bridging the space between their consoles with a high five. Far couldn’t shake the feeling that these celebrations were preemptive. They’d only escaped the Multiverse Bureau by poking the dragon that was the Corps, who did possess time-traveling capabilities.