by JT Dylan
There was no way in hell he could have calculated where and when Jack had leaped to, even if he had seen the dosage volume. Different people absorbed the blockers differently.
But even so, he did know. He had seen the exact location marked on an electronic map that wouldn't exist for another 446 years. The blip they'd received. The reason the Ox had been sent here in the first place. The only marker Jack had flared up in over 12 months since he'd gone dark. The Ox had memorised it. Had sat up through the night before launch, burning it into his memory so that even after leaping, he wouldn't forget. He could still see the marker's glow in his mind. A slight deviation in the known values of space-time, pinged from the super-data bank and translated into simple schematics on their screens. A white beacon at the point of departure, a green one at the destination.
The Ox had quickly seen what the scientists hadn't. A singular blip of time travel after so long in hiding. It meant a man forced to jump. Perhaps thrown into a situation he hadn't dealt with in a long time. A man taken by surprise. The Ox guessed that no man from 1862 was a match for an Elite of Jack's calibre. But someone from his own time might be. Someone trained as an Elite certainly would be. Someone like the Ox. He had known then that it would be his own early arrival that would cause Jack's sharp exit, with his trail blazing through time and across their future screens like a big neon sign.
He gave the horse a nudge with his heels and felt its muscles powering harder underneath him. Far away on the horizon he could make out the western coastline, the late afternoon sun glistening off the waves. The Ox smiled and re-doubled his grip on the reins, and the horse thundered onwards.
NINE
Klaxons wailed through the space station's corridors. Far, far below, the Earth's scarred remains glinted in the sun's cool light.
In the main lab, President Ben Freeman had torn off his tie and was using it to stem blood loss from a male technician's arm. It was only a graze, but the guy was out cold. The President checked the man's pulse. Stable. Seemed he'd taken a heavy fall during the synthetic's attack. The synthetic. For four years he had called Cal a friend and a trusted colleague. Now she lay burnt out and smouldering on the deck, still clutching the pistol she had meant to kill him with. Hair and skin had burned away revealing the cold steel of her skull. The three neat bullet entry holes in its base charred and smoking. All around them, static crackled and damaged machines sparked in blue bursts. Red emergency lights flung long shadows across the floor. A few smoking electrical conduits added to the effect. General Jim Daniels ran back into the room clutching a rifle and manually closed the entry doors.
'What's the damage?' The President checked his watch as he spoke. Just over two minutes left.
'Levels three and four are clear. We have a lot of personnel down and wounded. Seemed your friend left a hell of a mess on the way in.'
'How long will these blast doors hold?'
'Not long enough. We have to leave. Now.' The General looked like a man on the edge. His old training was at last kicking in but the President could tell he was struggling to accept his new situation.
'Jim, we can't blast our way out with your old service rifle and two hand-guns. Those clear levels won't take us to a hangar and even those will be teeming with SWAT inside of 90 seconds.'
Jim's face darkened. He clenched the rifle tighter.
The President looked him in the eye. 'Jim. There's only one way out of here for us now. How close to Jack can you get us?'
'Christ, Ben!' The General's shoulders visibly sagged.
'How close?'
The General breathed in once then let it out sharply. 'I could get within a couple of years at best.' He turned away with new found determination toward the control panels, rebooting switches and powering up the pods.
'I can live with that.' The President stripped his shirt off and tied it around his upper arm. He kicked open a supply cabinet and grabbed a medi-kit. He took out a needle and feeder tube, flexed his forearm, found a vein and made the insertion. He took two ampules of the concentrated nano-fluid from the kit and fed them into the tube. He held the end of the tube above his head to speed the flow. He threw a kit to the General. 'Better get cracking Jim.'
The General's hands were a blur as he re-activated the pods. 'Just get in Ben, dammit. I'm right behind you.'
Behind a two-way mirror above the launch gallery, a young Asian man in a dark suit closed his eyes. He pinched the bridge of his nose as if willing away a headache. Behind him, in the darkness, a wheelchair whirred forward a few inches.
The man in the suit turned toward his boss and raised an eyebrow. The dark shape in the shadows nodded almost imperceptibly.
The suit clicked a button on his analogue watch and spoke into the device.
'Team B, green-light. Containment only. No casualties. Repeat, no casualties.'
Elsewhere, deep in the bowels of the space station, a double-height set of doors screeched open on their runners and a dozen men in black combat gear spilled out. Ahead of them the long maze of corridors snaked toward the launch facility. They moved quickly and carefully, rifles loaded, safeties off.
TEN
The night lingered on until finally it gave way to red hued clouds in the east and beads of wet grass underfoot. Jack stretched out a crick in his back and automatically patted his pockets for phantom smokes. He'd regained most of his lost memories throughout the night, and most of his cravings too by the looks of things. He could once again feel the whiskey demon gnawing at his brain, like a gargoyle perched on his shoulder. He shrugged it away for now. Moved his mind elsewhere.
He hadn't seen anything that spooked him after the old man had retired. A fox had caught him almost napping, but the dog had woken up the whole damned country with that little visit. Jack had tied the mutt to a post after that.
The hut's door squeaked open and the boy came running out barefoot. He fastened his britches as he ran, a big grin wedged on his face. Like a kid on Christmas morning.
'How does she find you this morning son?' Jack put on his sternest voice.
The boy frowned playfully, but fell into the part naturally enough. 'Fine and dandy so she does. Mister, did you kill all the injuns that snook up on us?'
Jack stifled a chuckle. 'Well son, I guess the last hundred or so got scared after I buried the first hundred, so'n they decided to hot-foot it over that hill instead.'
The boy looked mesmerised and tried his hardest to spot the last of the fictional Indians fleeing over the ridge.
The old man clattered a tin cup with his spoon outside the shack, and both Jack and the boy understood the timeless signal that breakfast was being served. The dog seemed to know it too, and he whimpered and whined on his hind legs to show it. Jack shooed the boy on and smiled to himself as he watched the kid dart through the long grass. That boy could run like a hare. Jack untied the dog, which thanked him by trying to chew off his boot.
'Go on! Get!' he swiped his hat at the dog, which bounced out of the way easily enough and contented himself instead with alternating bounces and orbits around Jack's legs, all the way to the house.
Jack ducked inside and was surprised at how much like home this modest dwelling already felt. Maybe all houses did, when the warm welcome inside promised such protection from the cold.
The old guy had laid out an ugly but wonderful smelling feast. Jack saw the remnants in the cooking pot still burning in the corner. The old man clanged a bowl down each for the three of them. 'This ought to keep you warmed up sir, but mind how she chews. Maybe one or two of them pellets still busy killin' these rabbits.' And with that he folded almost double and went into silent spasms. Jack's heart bumped up into his chest, but the old guy sat up again with tears streaming down his face and he snickered uncontrollably. Jack let out a quick breath. Damned fool was just laughing at his own jokes again.
The boy grinned a toothless grin at Jack. 'You can sit here next to me. I usually save this seat for Barkuss, but he doesn't really need it. He's a d
og.'
Jack looked to the old man who nodded approval. Jack pushed the ever-eager dog's nose out of the way and squeezed onto his assigned seat. It was a block of dried wood of some kind, polished only by years of mealtimes. The old man set about tearing big hunks of rabbit for everyone. It seemed there was also plenty of gristle and bone to keep the dog out of their way. It scarpered off to a corner with what looked like a leg, where he splayed out on the sawdust and tore quietly at it, tail wagging into overdrive. Jack couldn't recall ever feeling as content. Which in itself was enough to snap him straight out of it. He had a long cold road ahead of him, and could afford little time with life's little luxuries.
'I have to leave today.' Jack's statement lingered in the silence. Only the sound of bones scraping tin bowls followed it. The old man's chewing slowly turned to nodding. He raised his head and looked at Jack directly.
'That's right sir. That you do. From here we'll guide you through the woods. Show you a little something, then you'll be on your way. Heavier of heart, but heavier of wisdom. Heavier of stomach too, Lord willing.' He gave Jack a little wink. The boy only stared down at his food, his mouth an angry line. Jack decided it best to leave the boy be, and steered the conversation elsewhere. Something still gnawed at him.
'I still can't recall where we met. Before yesterday that is.' Jack thought how best to ask the next question. Decided on the direct method. 'It hasn't happened for me yet has it?'
The old man stopped chewing. The boy looked up at Jack, puzzled. The old man glanced at the boy. Looked back at Jack. The early morning sun dipped behind a cloud and in that split second the old man looked as old as time.
'Boy, why don't you take the dog outside and tie him up. I reckon he needs to watch over this old place when we get going.'
'But he always comes with us. Always.'
'Not today son. Today's the day we talked about.'
The boy's eyes went wide. 'Holy shit on horse-back!' Then clamped both hands over his mouth. The old man smiled gently.
'Get to it son. Me and Jack here's got some talking to do, and we could do without little ears listening. We'll fill you in soon enough.'
Jack admired the man's parenting. He was firm but honest. And it had paid off in spades. Jack could see the boy had nothing but respect for the old man. The boy hopped off his seat and tore out of the shack, the dog bouncing at his heels. Then there was nothing but the crackle of embers beneath the cooking pot. The old man tore the meat off his second helping and chewed. A line of fat escaped his mouth and he wiped the back of his hand across his chin. He smiled at Jack.
'How long you been chasing him?'
Jack raised an eyebrow. He absent-mindedly scratched his beard. He couldn't recall when he'd last used a razor. He waited for the old man to finish chewing.
'This Devil of yours. How long? Has it been a year yet?'
Jack studied the old man. There were some things you just didn't speak of. No matter how friendly the conversation.
'As I said, I have to leave. For your safety as much as mine.' Jack stood up and stiffened his hat before putting it on. The old man nodded quietly. Seemed to ponder something in his head. Weighed up his options. When at last he spoke, the friendly drawl had vanished. His trembling hands clenched instead into steady fists on the table. His eyes seemed almost young again.
'That boy and I are one.' He paused, sat back in his chair. 'I've met you before because that boy has. That boy will grow up sooner than any boy should have to. He'll see things, do things no man alive should ever have to do. He'll do them all in your name Jack. For you. And he'd do them all again without a single regret.' A tear trickled down the old man's cheek.
Jack sat down again slowly as he realised what the old man was saying. The old man coughed, perhaps to rid a tremble in his voice. 'When I was a young boy, many years ago, a stranger came calling on our farm. He was butt naked and almost dying of thirst. My old man came out and showed the stranger some hospitality. Seemed he knew him from someplace. In the short time before things got crazy, I came to learn that the stranger was a good man. Better than good. He was pure of heart. I hadn't seen that stranger for many many years Jack. Until yesterday.'
'Does the boy know?' Jack was surprised to hear his own voice.
'That he'll grow up to be his own foster father?' The old man chuckled. 'What do you think?' He scratched the table top with a thumbnail, far away in his own thoughts.
'When will it happen for him? How?' Jack tried to run through scenarios that would allow such a catastrophe.
'That's for you to find out old friend. You have to live your life as I do mine and the boy does his. No one gets to see the future. You know that.'
Jack thought about the implications. How far back did the loop go? Would he be the cause of it?
'But I could stop it. The boy could live his life. You wouldn't need to do this. He wouldn't need to do this. Jesus, this thing could go on ...'
'Forever?' The old man smiled. 'Maybe it already has Jack. I always wanted to live forever. Just maybe not like this.' His face grew dark and he massaged his shoulder. 'Damned cold's setting in. We'd best make a move if we're to get you going.' He made a show of getting up and clamped a solid hand on Jack's shoulder. 'It's worth it you know. What you're doing. Never forget that.' he looked Jack directly in the eyes. 'You're not doing it for yourself anymore.' He gave Jack's shoulder a squeeze, offered a crooked smile and brushed past. Jack was surprised to hear him whistle on his way out. The creaking door clapped against the frame as he left.
ELEVEN
The Ox held his hat against the raging winds and knelt at the opening of a cave. Rudimentary efforts had gone into sweeping away a handful of footprints. Inside the cave, dust had recently been disturbed by a human sized inhabitant. The Ox placed his hand on a darker patch of sand and smelled his fingers. Ammonia. Strong urine. Probably severe dehydration. Maybe a day old. Two at most. The Ox got up, wiped his hands and looked around. He saw miles of nothing along the coast. Above him, gulls clamoured and bickered on a grassy cliff top. The Ox placed a foot on the rough outcrop and reached upward for a handhold.
He sensed more than heard the presence somewhere behind him. Without thinking he kicked out with all his strength against the rock and thrust himself toward the weeds on the right, spinning as he crashed into the dune. The arrow's feather clipped his ear, drawing blood in a clean line, before embedding itself into the cliff wall. The Ox used his fists to spring back up and ran toward the point of origin. As he came up out of the weeds he saw four figures coming right at him, natives, all armed to the teeth. The sun reflected off a bow as it was drawn back. The Ox put all he had into the run. Put his head down and powered his legs. He aimed for the big guy up front. Assumed he was the leader. Tried his best to ignore the arrow primed and ready to fire from the guy on the far left. He'd missed once, he could miss again. After that the guy would never miss anything again. The Ox would make sure of it.
He was less than ten yards away when the centre guy screeched. The Ox stopped his legs from moving. Made himself a dead weight and crashed to the floor. The arrow whistled above his head from the side as he smashed into the sand. He used the momentum to roll into a better position then used the inertia to kick himself back up into the run.
They were almost on top of him now, but they were slowing. The dead-fall had surprised them. It had looked like he'd died on his feet. For a second they probably thought the arrow had found its target and they had relaxed, if only for a second or two. It was human nature. Sub-conscious reactions programmed in over thousands of years. No way to bypass it. A second or two was all the Ox needed. He leaped high into the air just before impact. A man of his size and weight had no business leaping anywhere but the nano-cells coursing through his bloodstream gave the Ox access to inner reserves usually only available during extreme adrenalin release.
The big leader had an axe raised above his head and a look of terror in his eyes. The Ox's leap took him directly into the proj
ected arc of the axe's swing. The Ox removed the threat by pile-driving his fist directly into the man's collarbone as he came down. There was a loud crack, and the Ox followed with an elbow to the guy's face, breaking his nose and knocking him out cold.
One of the others screeched in from the right, thrusting forward with a long javelin. The Ox grabbed the tip, felt a white hot pain as the serrated edge cut deep into the fleshy pad at the base of his thumb. He fought an urge to release and clamped down harder on the blade. Put his other hand further along the pole and used it as a pivot point. Jerked that arm high and thrust down on the sharp tip. The native was already stretching forward as far as he could. He had no lateral strength. He was already giving everything he had into the forward thrust, nothing into the downward force. The handle end slipped up out of the native's hands and cracked the guy on the chin. The Ox spun the spear around and put the end through the guy's larynx. The Ox ignored the guy reloading the bow. Looked at the one hollering and waving the blades at him. He tore the spear back out of its owner's throat and wielded it like a baseball bat. Swung it wide and low, sliced the third guy's shins wide open. His jagged blades dropped to the ground and the guy howled like a cut pig. The Ox put him out of his misery with a boot to the groin and a sharp knee to the chin. At least he could sleep as he bled out.
The man with the bow had at last managed to find and load a third arrow and with trembling hands aimed it at the Ox. Damn it. Too far away for any kind of close combat.