Winston Chase and the Omega Mesh
Page 7
No, the animal didn’t deserve to die. Of course, Winston didn’t want to risk extreme pain and possible death by invading its home, either. He might have chanced flicking it out with a stick, if only there had been a stick within reach.
A thought occurred to Winston. If Bledsoe could restart Shade’s heart with a touch, could Winston at least manage a small electric field with his bare hand?
He tried to calm himself and focus on his heart, as Bernie had instructed earlier. This time, instead of looping heat through his body, he imagined a path from his brain through his heart and out to his right finger tips. He focused as clearly as he could, imagining the conduit as clearly as any of the electric schematics he’d seen with Little e.
His fingers began to warm and tingle. He imagined the flow increasing, filling his hand, pulling energy from throughout his body.
A small blue arc jumped from his thumb to his index finger.
Now or never, Winston thought.
He raised his hand and held it before the niche. Between his spread fingers, he saw the scorpion. The thing was dark brown and black, dusty and coarse. It would have easily fit in Winston’s palm. Its segmented tail curled over its back, stinger at the ready, pincers open and signaling that it wasn’t happy. Suddenly, it leapt forward.
Winston fought the instinctive urge to fling himself aside, only catching his muscles at the last moment before his left hand lost its grip and allowed his body to back flip all the way to the desert floor. His right hand flinched away from the niche. Apparently, that was enough to satisfy the scorpion, which stood on guard, watching him tensely from the edge of the niche.
Winston’s breath came in short gasps that he fought to hold back. The scorpion’s face couldn’t have been more than eighteen inches from his own, and he was afraid that the slightest motion or stirring of air might persuade the creature to test its jumping skills.
OK, Winston thought to it. It’s OK. We’re cool. I’m just gonna move along and leave you alone, soon as you scoot and let me put my hand right there.
The scorpion only replied with still tension, stinger at the ready, claws wide enough to grasp fingertips.
Winston swallowed through the dust in his throat and fought to calm his mind. He focused on his right hand, willing more energy into it. He didn’t need flames or fireballs, only a slow, small charge. Willing his adrenaline to subside, he imagined the sparks of stars from high above flowing into him with each inhalation, and each exhalation pushing them into his right hand.
A blue spark flitted across a knuckle. The small snap of its passing seemed impossibly loud in the stillness, like the cracking of a tree branch. The scorpion twitched but made no other move.
Another breath. A little more energy. Two more sparks winked in and out of being between his fingers. Winston willed the energy into the space before his hand. As slowly as he could manage, biting back mounting exhaustion and pain in his left arm, which now had to steady him and bear more of his weight, he brought his right hand up before the niche. Winston imagined shifting the energy so that it moved from encasing his hand to spreading out from it toward the creature.
More sparks snapped in the space before Winston’s palm. A small arc jumped from his index finger to the lip of the niche almost directly below the scorpion’s claw. The creature all but jumped sideways to the niche’s right edge. Its tail twitched, but it was clearly having second thoughts about its chances.
That’s it. Just go.
Winston moved his hand closer. Another tiny bit of lightning flitted from his little finger into the carved handhold.
That was all the scorpion could take. The creature suddenly turned from Winston and skittered out of the niche and up the rock face away from him. As soon as it was a few feet away, Winston exhaled relief, let the energy drain away, and rested his hand in the niche. He paused only briefly as his muscles relaxed slightly.
Winston grimaced but obeyed.
Winston wondered if the alien’s flat tone was sarcastic or factual, then decided he’d rather not know.
He climbed on grimly, teeth gritted against the mounting pain in his calves and shoulders. He realized that it hurt more when he stopped, so he focused only on finding his next move and testing its solidity. There were a few slips and what had to be dozens of scrapes. His knuckles, fingers, and palms glowed a dim, constant blue as the QVs fought to repair his many abrasions. And when he at last reached the top, he wanted to cry out in relief.
Winston wondered if the alien could hear the several expletives that came to his mind even though he didn’t purposefully communicate them.
Winston found a different toehold that allowed him to peek over the cliff’s edge and onto the plateau beyond it. The good news was that a large, waxing moon bathed the rocky landscape in pale light, allowing Winston to make out a simple tent about forty yards away, near a squat juniper tree and a low, burning fire. Beside this, a figure in a heavy coat sat on a folding stool, staring into the fire and humming to himself. A rifle with a short ammunition clip lay across his lap. Beyond the fire, opening from an outcropping, stood a dark, narrow tunnel entrance framed in heavy timbers.
The bad news, of course, was that Winston was unarmed, depleted, and on the point of collapse. There was no way he could see to make it across the long stretch to the tunnel entrance without being noticed and shot.
10
Guard and Gambit
Winston had no choice. He had to get off this cliff face. His muscles trembled uncontrollably, and he could no longer feel anything but pain in his bleeding hands, which still glowed a dim blue. He forced his legs not to buckle as they shook above their precarious toeholds. The guard showed no intent to do anything except stare into the fire and hum absently to himself. He might remain that way the rest of the night, and Winston wasn’t sure if he could hold on to his perch for even another minute.
The cliff made the decision for him. Under his left foot, Winston felt something crack. He had just enough time to shift his weight and bring his right arm up and over the cliff’s lip. When the rock piece under his shoe fractured and suddenly fell away, Winston’s forearm hooked over the sharp boulder protruding before his face.
What few dregs of adrenaline remained in Winston suddenly dumped into his bloodstream as his feet dangled over the open drop. Something between a grunt and a cry escaped from his mouth and his left hand groped about and found an inch or two of jagged stone protruding from the dusty earth beside the boulder. Winston barely recognized that the guard’s head had snapped toward him.
He pulled with the last of his strength. Winston had never been able to do a single pull-up in all his years of gym class, so he wasn’t surprised to find himself unable to quickly haul himself up. In fact, despite his forearm already being over the edge, the best he could manage was to keep from falling, and even that wouldn’t last long.
Winston’s shoe slipped off the rock face and sharp edges bit into his knee.
His arms couldn’t do it. The guard disappeared from sight as Winston’s head sank behind the boulder.
At last, his right foot found purchase on something, and he lodged his toes into whatever fissure they had found. His ankle howled in protest, but the rest of him wasn’t listening. Winston’s eyes came back up over the boulder.
At the point when Winston’s leg was fully extended, his breastbone pressed against the rock before him. He pushed off his foot with the barest of jumps, and it was just enough to let him balance his chest over his forearm. With one last heave, he swung his right leg up and
over the edge. His heel dug into the loose scree and did not fall. He rolled his body up, over, over—
And then he was on his back, staring up at the stars, chest heaving, momentarily unable to do anything but take in lung-splitting gasps of cold air.
“Hey!” shouted the guard. “Who’s out there?”
Winston gritted his teeth.
Using muscles he suspected had been torn to shreds, Winston sat up, back toward the guard, and shrugged one shoulder out from its backpack strap. He brought the bag around to rest in his lap. His fingers fumbled with the zipper, again finding it almost impossible to feel and grip the little metal tab. If he ever got out of this mess, he was going to tie a big, easy-to-pull loop of cord through that tab, just for occasions like these.
Winston heard the sharp pull and release of a bullet being chambered in the soldier’s rifle. Rather than use his battered fingertips, Winston placed the zipper tab between the knuckles of his index and middle fingers, squeezed, and pulled sideways. The zipper opened.
“I’m not kidding!” called the guard. “Who’s out there? Announce yourself!”
Not daring to sit up straight, Winston slipped his right hand into the backpack and felt for Little e’s crossbar, knowing that the device’s arms would be where he’d left them, still locked around the chronoviewer, which should still have the chronojumper magnetically held within it. Everything he touched felt like thousands of needlepoints on his raw nerves.
What Winston wouldn’t give right now for Shade and one of his booby traps. The thought of his friend, now lost to Bledsoe and his grenade, sent a bolt of fire through Winston’s core. His cheek twitched in anger, and he willed his hand to ignore its stinging and fierce rigidity. The backs of his fingers brushed along the wrist guard, and that was enough to guide him to the crossbar. He closed his fist around it.
Unfortunately, in his haste, he overshot his target. One instant, the guard was walking toward Winston; in the next, the second reality layer shifted into dusk, with bluish-grey light on the horizon and a different man seated before the fire. Winston saw that it was over seven hours before his present, and his body tensed in panic.
Behind him, Winston heard gravel crunch as the man stood and walked toward him.
He pulled too far to the right. Two hours and thirteen minutes before present.
Nudge. Three hours and forty-nine minutes.
Suddenly, Winston felt another presence in his mind. It was like someone standing next to him, shoulder to shoulder, pressing into him and shifting his center of balance, only it happened in his head.
He nearly let go of Little e, not understanding at first what was happening. Then the chrono controls shifted. Rather than sliding, they jumped and landed at five hours and eleven minutes before the present. Winston turned his head. In his second reality, Winston saw the guard quickly rise from his post and walk down the hill beyond the mine entrance. The indicator took the barest of hops to the right, only four minutes, and then the guard was nowhere to be seen.
“Stay where you are!” called the guard. His tone indicated that he was still unsure exactly what waited for him, although he would see Winston any second now.
Winston pushed all the energy he could manage down his arm and into the Alpha Machine. He didn’t know if it was enough, but he still felt that second presence with him and sensed that it, too, was pushing outside energy along with Winston’s own.
Both realities collapsed and blew away in an explosion of blue sparks and white emptiness. When Winston’s vision returned, he found himself in the same place above the cliff, breath still hitching in overwrought gasps, and the night still cloaked in darkness save for the low fire and high moonlight. The guard was gone.
It was true. Bernie had just saved him from getting shot or captured. Nevertheless, Winston felt a deep revulsion at having someone else mentally intruding into his actions, even if just a little.
Winston didn’t know how to answer that, so he fell back on one of his mom’s favorite lines:
He had Little e release the Alpha Machine pieces, then drew the artifact from the bag. Quietly, Winston rose to his feet. His vision swam drunkenly for a moment, and he had to put out his hands wide for balance. At last, the world settled into place, and he straightened as he shouldered his bag into place.
The tunnel mouth waited for him, black and menacing. As he drew closer, he saw an iron gate across the entrance, with hinges bolted deep into the surrounding rock. A lock secured the door to its surrounding frame.
Winston ground his teeth, desperate to sit and rest.
Winston considered drawing the last blue energy marble from his pocket. He sensed that the device was at least half empty, and he worried about it not having enough power when he needed it. Perhaps if he fed the marble into Little e’s small wrist guard bulge, he could siphon off some of that power to recharge himself, as well. But no. The artifact still had enough energy for now. Best to save that last marble for when it was essential.
With a deep breath, he brought Little e’s tube tips to the lock’s keyhole and set to work. As soon as he heard the clatter of small pieces within the lock, Winston stopped and gave the door a pull. The bar holding the door to the gate frame came loose and fell to the bottom of the lock.
Winston slipped inside the gate and closed it behind himself just as he heard heavy footsteps clomping up the hill. Thankfully, the door didn’t squeak on its hinges, and, in the dark, it would be hard to tell that anything had been damaged without close examination.
On his tiptoes, heart in his throat, Winston turned into the darkness and slowly edged his way down the tunnel slope and into the belly of Area X.
11
Deep Breath for Bledsoe
Falling sunlight set the scattered clouds aflame, and the mounting buzz of cicadas pressed against Bledsoe from every direction. He sat on the floating river dock, pant legs rolled up, bare feet dangling in the cool water. The scene was much how he remembered it from his boyhood. The dock had a few more rotten boards, and his palms had a couple of splinters that would need attention later. The tackle box and poles that he and his brother used to leave scattered about here were long gone, of course, and his home, set a hundred yards up the path from the water’s edge, now hunched dark, empty, and broken on the hillside, crowded by waist-high scrub grass and slowly strangling in the grip of trumpet creeper vines. He could see how the place used to be, though. He recalled Davey trotting down the path, a cup of worms in hand, as his mother watched them from the kitchen window. He recalled how the Emmerts’ spaniels had used to run free up and down the riverbank and how one had bit him on the thigh when she had endured enough of Bledsoe poking her with a stick.
Bledsoe smiled grimly at the memory as he watched the clouds reflected in the river’s surface. They wavered and danced to the pulsing rhythm of th
e cicadas’ sunset song. He wanted to tell his brother about what had happened in Portland, how Winston had taken Amanda away. If Bledsoe had been able to seize all of the Alpha Machine pieces, he could have been talking to his brother face-to-face right now.
“I don’t know why he keeps slipping away,” Bledsoe muttered to one particularly bright cloud just beyond the reach of his feet. “I suppose if changing the world was easy, everyone would do it.”
The cloud slowly slipped past his knees, and Bledsoe realized the clouds didn’t care one bit about his problems. Whether he succeeded or failed, no matter how many people he killed or how much pain he endured, those clouds would keep drifting on, always out of reach, always changing.
His inability to influence a thing right before him only reminded him of Winston again, and Bledsoe kicked water at the reflection. The clouds shredded into dizzying oblivion around his ankles, but their fleeting destruction offered him little solace.
Bledsoe took a deep breath of the heavy, humid air and looked around. Oak, cedar, and mesquite trees littered the riverbanks and crowded the low horizon. That much hadn’t changed. Some things remained constant and predictable. That was good.
The small plop of a fish swallowing a bug from the water’s surface drew Bledsoe’s attention. The fish vanished, leaving only small ripples to mark its attack.
“I hope you got what you’re after,” he said. “One of us should.”
Bledsoe remembered his grandfather sitting beside him on this dock, catching one fish after another, while young Bledsoe could only shake his head in frustration at his own meager haul. Maybe it’s the bent of yer cap, his grandfather would rumble around a cigar while giving a twist on the brim of his own battered bucket hat. Might be how yer holdin’ yer mouth. Or his favorite: They’re like women. They can smell when yer desperate.
Bledsoe gave a single chuckle and a rueful shake of his head.
“Do I smell desperate, gramps?”
Just stop caring so much, he would say. They’ll come.