Genevieve and Peter share a nearly imperceptible glance. Genevieve leans forward. “What I want hasn’t changed. I want to get you as far away from the Order as possible.”
“What else do you want? You must have bigger goals than me.”
“Like the ISD, we were formed by a collective of people who had stumbled upon the tunnels. But we’ve been around for much longer. And we know far more about the Order than the ISD has managed to glean. Our goal is to ensure that the tunnels are never abused; that history remains intact.”
“That’s what the ISD does,” I say. I’m gripping my coffee cup tightly and realize for the first time that it is china, and feels absurdly fragile for a train car. I loosen my grip on it.
Peter smiles wryly. “That’s what the ISD pretends to do.”
Genevieve holds up a hand and Peter’s smile disappears.
I glare at Peter. “I need information. Something to prove what you’re saying.”
“Tell me what the ISD believes about the source of the tunnels.”
Genevieve should know this as well as I do, but I comply. “The ISD believes that they were caused by some event,” I say. “It’s like when you throw a rock on ice, the cracks splinter out, but the energy dissipates. We don’t know what ‘the rock’ was—whether it was natural or man-made—but the cracks are the tunnels. The rock hasn’t happened yet, but will happen sometime in the future.”
“That’s partly right,” Genevieve says. “But the important thing you need to know is that Phaedrus—he’s trying to stop the rock from ever being thrown at all.”
I stare at them. “But that’s—”
Ishimwe narrows her eyes. “Insanity? Yes, it is.”
“And Molly,” Genevieve leans forward. “For some reason, he believes he needs you to stop it. That’s why we infiltrated the ISD, why I elected to train you, why the three of us all converged around you at this moment. To stop him from getting you. And it’s why you must listen to us, now more than ever.”
* * *
The Austrian Alps stream by the window. I stand there, peering out at the passing scenery. The evening sun reflects across the peaks, setting the whole landscape aglow. We are running, doing exactly what Genevieve has wanted this whole time. Part of me is screaming out to stop this, stop the train, and keep hunting the Order. Genevieve is taking me back home and there we will part ways. Ishimwe will stay with me for protection while Genevieve and Peter will continue hunting the Order.
I tried to get more information out of Genevieve, but she refused to say anything else. One thing is clear. Even though Genevieve says she is only protecting me, it doesn’t change the fact that I am still being held captive by a group of travelers from an unknown future who are competing for control of the tunnels.
They are also the enemy.
I pick up the tracker from the top of my pack. I need to know for sure that Peter was telling the truth. I turn it on, thumbing the print reader. The display lights up, but it’s blank. The needle doesn’t move. The distance readout remains fixed at 000000.00. Just to be sure, I unload the cartridge. The sample is still there. Either Phaedrus is dead ,or he is no longer in this time period.
The door to my compartment swings open. I look up, half expecting to see Genevieve, but instead Ishimwe enters. She’s carrying her pack and sets it down in the narrow space between the bunk and the wall.
“Ishimwe—” my mind is still reeling from Genevieve’s revelations and I have no idea what to say now.
From her pack, she pulls out something wrapped in a handkerchief. “You were pulling at this when you were sick,” Ishimwe says. She unwraps the handkerchief and hands it to me. My necklace with the ring is lying in her hand.
“I didn’t want you to lose it,” Ishimwe says.
“Thank you,” I say, taking it from her.
“Your husband’s?” Ishimwe asks.
I hold up the necklace, my fingers trembling slightly, because I can’t answer her question. A dim image flashes into my mind. The hint of a name. A handful of faded memories flicker past. But that’s all. I am equally sure that I’ve never had a husband.
“I don’t know,” I whisper.
Ishimwe smiles sadly and I wonder, for the first time, if she has lost someone too. Most agents never see their loved ones again. But Ishimwe isn’t an agent of the ISD, not really. She’s an Elementalist.
Ishimwe suddenly frowns. “Molly?”
I follow her gaze.
I clench the chain with the ring hanging loose below my grip. But the ring isn’t hanging at all. It’s pulled taut, by some unseen force, pointing toward the outside of the train.
The train jerks beneath me, and I grab the edge of the bunk. We’re slowing down. There’s no station platform visible out the window. Instead, I only see a gray hillside covered in frost, and the narrow sliver of a frontage road following the tracks.
“Why are we stopping?” I ask.
“Je ne sais pas,” Ishimwe says, a frown on her face.
I take a step for the door.
“It’s moving,” Ishimwe says.
The direction of the ring is changing, moving slowly through the air until it’s pointing directly down the center of the train.
* * *
I grab my gun from my pack and crack open the door. I don’t see anyone in the empty corridor. The necklace, still pulled taut in my hand, points directly down the center aisle of the train.
Ishimwe steps out behind me. “The Order,” she whispers.
I tuck the gun under my belt and turn opposite the direction that the necklace pulls me.
“What are you doing?” Ishimwe asks.
I still don’t know if I can trust her. But at the moment, I have no other choice. “Get outside,” I say. “Where we can get a better look.”
Ishimwe nods.
I jog down the length of the sleeper car.
There are a few steps leading to each exit. I limp down them to the outer door, pushing it open. The train has stopped on a bare, snow-dusted slope. In front of it, two canvas-topped trucks are parked on the tracks.
We run in a crouch alongside the train car to hide us from the windows. Frost crunches underfoot. The wind picks up and the cold cuts through the thin fabric of my dress as if it isn’t even there. I shiver. Wrapping the necklace around two of my fingers, I let the necklace pull me. As I run, the necklace’s direction remains fixed on the dining car.
I stop when I reach it. Phaedrus must be inside.
I don’t know how he was able drop off the tracker, and I don’t know how, or when, he got his hands on my necklace. Then I remember my dream. I can see Phaedrus swimming through the water, snatching the necklace from my hand. I thought it was a nightmare, but is it a memory of my changing past? The universe seems to allow for some contradictions, but not for others. Phaedrus could have taken my necklace without it being wiped from my timeline, or it still might be.
I move closer to the car, feeling suddenly apprehensive. Clouds are forming above me. I don’t know what I’m going into, but I hope it’s not another Recursion Event.
I stop. Ishimwe looks at me, questioningly. Phaedrus has my ring as well. Magnets work both ways. Coming at him from the opposite direction may give me at least a small advantage.
“Let’s try to surprise him,” I say.
Ishimwe smiles. “Good.”
I wrap the necklace around the door’s handrail. There’s a plink as the ring sticks to the side of the train-car like any common magnet.
I gesture for Ishimwe to follow. We trudge past the dining car to the second-class car on the other side. The wind blows hard against me. Icy snowflakes cut at my skin.
I check my gun and pull the door open.
I climb up the steps to the second-class car. The high pitched whistling of the wind cuts short as Ishimwe pulls the outer door shut behind us. The second-class compartment consists of facing booths. I see half a dozen or so worried faces peering at me over the tops of the booths. I put my fin
ger to my lips.
The chubby Austrian kid sees my gun. His eyes go wide for a moment, but then he points past me to the dining car. I smile inwardly. How is it that children have such innate understanding of good guys and bad guys?
I give him my most reassuring smile. The door to the dining car is closed. I cross to one side of it and Ishimwe takes her place opposite me. The door has an oval window set in the frame, and I peer through it and into the next car.
Genevieve and Peter are seated at one of the tables. Peter’s face is white. His hair is messy. There’s a bruise on his cheek. Genevieve is next to him, sitting tall in the booth. In the reflection of the glass I can see two of the Interlopers sitting across from Peter and Genevieve. It’s the woman and the fat man that attacked the Listening Station. The Scarecrow is facing Genevieve with a rifle trained on her.
The man in the Fedora that I ran into in my nightgown is in the booth closest to me, wringing his hands. A young European couple huddles in the booth across the aisle from the man. The bar attendant is white as a sheet. In the booth behind Genevieve an overweight man stuffed into a three-piece suit looks ready to faint. His face is pink above his tight collar. An old man in a suit and a black-haired woman in an evening gown are seated across from him, facing away. I don’t see anyone else dressed in the shabby clothes that the Interlopers wear.
“Do you see Phaedrus?” I whisper to Ishimwe.
“No,” she says.
I lock eyes with her. “Let’s deal with the ones in here and try to get the others free. Can you cover me?”
Ishimwe nods.
I pull down on the latch. Quietly as possible, I swing it open. The man in the fedora turns and sees me, his eyes going wide. I hold a finger to my lips and see him stifle a yelp.
I creep forward—the Interlopers are all facing away for the moment—past one booth after another, stopping next to the old man and the black-haired woman. I lock eyes with Genevieve and realize, suddenly, that I am helping the enemy. But maybe five years of friendship will do that. I can’t just abandon her. I’ve already made that choice. I give Ishimwe a nod.
“Drop your weapons,” I say, standing.
A dozen pairs of eyes turn toward me. The Scarecrow keeps his rifle trained on Genevieve. But something in Genevieve’s eyes make me pause. I follow her gaze to the old man in the suit. I see the mass of wrinkles, the halo of white hair.
It’s Henri.
He smiles, an odd, drooping smile, the same way that Phaedrus smiled in the stairwell at the Paris Station, and he says,” Hello Little Mouse.”
“Henri?” I say, dumbly.
He barks out a laugh. It’s both Henri and not Henri.
The world seems to tilt in my mind.
Backwards.
As if I were living in some kind of upside-down reality.
Phaedrus inside Henri smiles. He leans back, and I see Leung sitting next to him.
She smiles and says in flawless, unaccented English, “You ISD agents are far too trusting.”
Leung is the mole.
The thought strikes me with terrible clarity.
When Leung had been attacked by Phaedrus in the hotel, he hadn’t surprised her. Leung had been meeting with Phaedrus and Ishimwe found them. Leung really had been hurt, but that was to keep up the ruse.
I can’t take any more betrayal. Anger wells up inside of me and, before I know it, I turn my gun toward Henri.
My finger tightens around the trigger.
But I stop
I can’t.
It’s Henri, after all.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see the Scarecrow swinging his rifle toward me.
Someone shoves me out of the way. I fall and Ishimwe rushes past me, gun drawn.
I crawl backward and duck behind the nearest booth just as Ishimwe opens fire. There are screams and shouts. The sound of bullets firing fills the dining car. Wood splinters over my head. But at least these bullets aren’t bending toward me.
There’s a lull in the firing, and I hazard a glance around the booth. The Scarecrow is reloading his gun. Genevieve is crouched behind him. She looks unharmed.
“Time to come out, Little Mouse!” Henri, who is no longer Henri, shouts at me.
I press my head back against the booth.
“You’re going to want to see this!” he shouts again.
A trap, almost certainly. But what kind of trap? I won’t know unless I look, but if I look I’ll be revealing myself to Henri.
No, not Henri. Phaedrus.
“Molly, don’t—!” Genevieve'’ voice is cut short with a muffled cry.
They have Genevieve.
I wonder briefly, and not for the first time, why they could possibly be after me. Yes, I am an agent of the ISD. If they merely wanted intel of the tunnels, I could certainly give them valuable information. But so could Genevieve. And so could Peter and Ishimwe. So why do they want me? It must be something in my future. Something I haven’t yet done.
I grab the edge of the booth with one hand and the table with the other. I pull myself up and run.
* * *
I push through the dining car’s door. A bullet explodes through the door. Screams erupt in the second-class compartment. I stumble down the stairs toward the exit, crash through the door, and fall out the train into a pure white expanse.
I crumple onto the ground, my wounded leg giving way beneath me. All around me is white, billowing snow. In the few brief minutes that I had been inside the train, the snow flurries had turned into a storm. The ground is already covered in a thin layer of ice. Snow streaks down, carried by a howling wind. The afternoon sun glances off the flakes, turning everything into a blazing white expanse with no separation between ground and sky.
I rise shakily to my feet, biting my lip against the cold and the pain in my thigh, and I run.
Before the ISD, whenever I traveled any distance, I almost always flew. I would always stare out the window at the huge stretches of uninhabited land. Bow, being even twenty miles from a village could mean death for me in this snow.
My mind races in a blind panic, trying to make sense of everything from the last few days. Has everyone betrayed me? Genevieve, Peter, and Ishimwe are part of some other group of travelers that I’ve never heard of. It doesn’t matter that Genevieve says we are after the same thing. They’re still not ISD. Now Leung and—Henri.
God, even Henri. How could they have taken him too? The only one left to trust is Vic, but he’s gone. I feel a pang of worry for Vic. If he survived the blast, then he would be looking for me. We could have waited for him longer at Genevieve’s—I can’t worry about that now.
The snow crunches under my feet. The cold air burns my exposed skin. I’m wearing only the wool dress, stockings, ballet flats, and my thin wool coat. The cold cuts straight through me and into my bones. I’m running through a snowstorm in the Austrian Alps with nothing but my gun; I feel so weak that if they find me, I doubt I’ll even be able to shoot straight.
My feet drag in the snow, and I wrap my arms around my body to maintain as much warmth as possible. I try to get my bearings. But all I see is the infinite white expanse.
Behind me, I see a figure in the snow. A man, tall and slim, but younger than Henri and with dark hair. It looks a little like—I can’t place his name. But I know he’s important. He’s someone who is close to me. Or was close to me. James? I think I had a husband. Was James my husband? But if he is, then he can’t be here. That’s impossible.
As impossible as Phaedrus invading Henri’s body?
The thought makes me shudder
The figure grows closer. I turn back, walking faster. The air burns in my lungs as I suck it in. I gasp with every inhalation. Something warm and wet runs down the side of my leg. My bandage has completely soaked through.
I look back again. The man is gone. I spin. The white presses in around me. I stumble as my feet slip on a rock and then I am bouncing, tumbling down a steep slope. The snow does little to cushion my
descent. It feels like untold years of pain go by in an instant, and then I’ve slowed, coming to a stop in a crumpled heap.
I hear a voice in perfect English say, “Hello?”
My eyes crack open. A young girl stares down at me. She’s wearing a heavy coat and underneath it, a long dress, thick leggings and black boots.
“They’re right behind you” she says.
The girl seems oddly familiar. “Who are you?” I ask.
The girl raises a hand and points. “I said, they’re right behind you!”
I turn. Phaedrus coalesces from out of the storm. He adjusts a metal glove on his hand, and then he reaches it toward me, the metal glinting in the light, and I feel cold steel touch the back of my head.
August 22
Rocks scrape my back.
My eyes blink open.
The sky is boiling.
Doughy hands toss me into a truck.
A fat, leering smile.
* * *
The thrum of an engine.
I see glimmers of light.
Something flaps in the wind. Loose canvas.
Someone moans near me.
Genevieve.
I try to say her name.
Only a whispered breath comes out.
Please don’t be hurt...
I remember her betrayal.
* * *
I dream.
Wreckage floats past.
I twist, finding the car.
Its headlights are two fading beacons.
I look for someone to save me. For anyone.
But no one is coming.
* * *
Light floods in through a narrow opening, blinding me. I gasp, trying to cover my eyes. Two hands grab me, one on each ankle. I am pulled roughly across the hard surface of the truck. The man puffs in exertion. I open my eyes, keeping them at slits to block out as much as the punishing light as possible. I feel a tingling, like there is too much electricity in the air. The fat man ignores me, his face red and sweating. We are in a canvas-topped truck, and the light is streaming in through the open canvas. He hops down off the edge of the truck and yanks again, letting me tumble onto the ground.
Recursion (Book One of the Recursion Event Saga) Page 8