Winston Chase and the Omega Mesh
Page 11
“I don’t understand,” Amanda said. “Why me?”
Winston shrugged and offered the hint of a mischievous smile as he dug about inside the pack. “I dunno. But you know what I’ve learned in fourteen years of you being my mom?” She shook her head. “You always told me to keep my head down and go unnoticed. You said bad things would come from drawing attention.”
He pulled out Little e, his hand already gripping the crossbar as the device’s arms unwound. In his other hand he held the two chrono pieces. He placed these within Little e’s arms and enjoyed Amanda’s expression of wonder as she watched the pieces levitate and revolve.
“Well, I hate to tell you, Mom, but you were wrong. Bad stuff happened anyway. So, maybe drawing attention is exactly what we need to do.”
Amanda nodded, eyes wide. “I agree with him. I’m not ready.”
They heard footsteps approaching down the hall. No. Multiple pairs of footsteps, approaching quickly and purposefully. Perhaps the guard had found someone from maintenance to bring back.
Winston grimaced. “Crap!” he whispered. “Can’t we just get some time to think?”
He dropped his pack to the floor and crouched over it as he closed the main zipper.
The slider popped up in Winston’s vision showing the current time. His vision shifted and dimmed slightly as the target reality formed behind the present, although they both looked identical at the moment. He mentally leaned to the left, inadvertently forcing the control much more than he intended. Unlike when he used the Alpha Machine outside, though, there was no dizzying blur of alternating day and night. Down here, the lights were either on or off, and judging by how little his view changed, it seemed they were almost always on. At least one person seemed to be in this office around the clock, hunched over their work or scribbling on one of the many chalkboards. That also meant it was going to be hard to find a time for them both to land without drawing attention, plus it had to be far enough away from this moment to avoid overlap with when he was already in this time somewhere else.
Winston mentally nudged the time slider to the left. Eight hours ago…two people in the room. Ten hours…one person, which Winston jarringly realized was a young Claude Hawthorne. Fifteen hours…
Winston thought to her.
Confusion crossed her face.
Winston realized he had stopped scrolling though past times. It was hard enough trying to converse, not get shot, and keep the past view active in his vision.
Two quick knocks sounded on Amanda’s office door. “Doctor Dabrowski?” called a man’s voice. They heard the creak of the door opening.
Winston nudged the time slider again, and this time he had it. Almost twenty hours ago, no one had been in this room. Winston didn’t know how long it would be empty, but he’d have to chance that.
Amanda nodded slightly and rested a hand tentatively on his arm. He noticed the Alpha Machine’s fleeting electric arcs dance in her eyes.
Everything around Winston flared into a flashbulb burst of white and blue sparks. For the briefest instant, he felt the floor shift under his body, then it was back again. The sparks fell away and winked out around him.
His mother-to-be’s hand had pulled away from his arm. Lifting his head, he searched for her but found himself alone in the office. She hadn’t gone back with him. That was very bad. And then it got worse.
15
Fatal Fray
Bledsoe stared out his childhood kitchen window, which now stood cracked and thickly coated in spiderwebs. The corners of the windowsills and many sections of the gray ceiling were dark with black mold. Grime layered the kitchen’s green linoleum floor, interrupted by the tracks of small animals and their scattered feces. The air hung thick with the sickly-sweet stench of rot, and Bledsoe suspected the walls were stuffed with God knew how many generations of rodent corpses. This place, this moment, represented everything he was fighting against. What had once been great and noble had fallen to repulsive decay. He had found several of the rooms cluttered with garbage left by years of squatters, including assorted bits of drug paraphernalia. Bledsoe spotted a large syringe and slipped it carefully into his jacket pocket.
This place made bile rise into Bledsoe’s throat, but he willingly breathed it in. It was all a bitter but necessary reminder. This was the whole point.
He tried to tell himself that he was making the right decision. Command One had said COME HERE, not COME HERE NOW. Bledsoe didn’t understand how the man could have known that he would be looking at the Area X entrance at that moment, but he knew two things for sure: First, Management was dialed in with alien technology deeper than QVs, which meant they might know some of not all about his Alpha Machine aspirations. Second, he didn’t trust Management at all. Command One’s invitation was probably a trap meant to land Bledsoe in a holding cell if not kill him outright.
And fair enough, he thought. I did just kill two of their guys.
Once he could ignore his surroundings, Bledsoe had to focus on the red-headed agent for a long time before he found him. Maybe that was because he kept getting distracted by memories of Smith covered in paint. Bledsoe tried to believe it was that and not that he didn’t really want to kill the man. He knew Smith was a good kid, and maybe with time he might have come around to Bledsoe’s cause. Unfortunately, he had struck against Bledsoe and taken Winston’s side. If not for Smith, Bledsoe would have had that Alpha Machine piece from the tunnel and already been rid of Winston.
Some sins could be forgiven, which was why he was content to let Lynch remain in the hospital for now. The oversized agent had repeatedly bungled matters, but at least he had been loyal to Bledsoe. Later on, somehow, Bledsoe would reward him for that.
But Smith’s sins? No. The time for forgiveness was long past.
Finally, Bledsoe stilled his emotions enough to hold a clear image of Smith in his mind. With the dim layer of his vision, Bledsoe saw Agent Smith at his desk in a basement, dressed in a gray bathrobe and slippers. The place was a duplex, half of an old-style, dilapidated home just off a busy road in North Portland. Wooden stairs coated in flaking white paint led down into a dingy space illuminated by two bare bulbs and a cheap gooseneck lamp on Smith’s desk. An old washer and dryer sat in one corner. A wall of wooden slats divided Smith’s side of the basement from his neighbor’s.
Bledsoe was careful to survey what Smith was doing before he materialized, just in case. He had a laptop connected to a second screen. One showed an FBI database while the other showed a photo gallery filled with the contents of various crates. Many of the pictures were black and white, and it didn’t take Bledsoe long to figure out that these were historical records for Area X. He had hoped to find something significant as soon as he arrived. Of course, nothing was ever that easy.
Instead of showing up in the basement and giving Smith a chance to strike, Bledsoe floated up to the main floor. At the top of the stairs, he found a kitchen so small and ill-equipped that one corner contained a portable dishwasher with a hose line that snaked over and dumped into the sink. Good God, how little did agents like Smith get paid? Or was he the type who lived frugally and socked everything away to retire as a multi-millionaire?
It wouldn’t matter in a moment. Bledsoe made the jump and arrived in a cascade of sparks that danced across the linoleum floor and vanished. The place smelled of garlic and bacon. He double-checked his surroundings and listened. As he did so, his pulse hammered across his head, now veering into a full migraine. He wondered if he might just rest here and try to refill whatever in him was so depleted. The thought of sleeping on Smith’s bed made him de
cide he probably had at least one more small jump in him.
The back door stood between the kitchen counter and a narrow pantry cupboard. Bledsoe placed the black Alpha Machine torus in his pocket and tucked the black ring under his belt at the small of his back. He rapped loudly three times against the back door.
There was a two- or three-second pause, then Agent Smith groaned in the basement. Bledsoe heard his desk chair creak as he pushed back, followed by the shhhk-shhhk-shhhk of his slippers rasping across the cement floor. Bledsoe hung back out of sight from the stairway. There was no good hiding place in the cramped kitchen, but Bledsoe figured that if he was within two steps, the element of surprise would be more than on his side.
Each stair creaked as Smith tromped up. Bledsoe tried to judge the man’s distance by his steps, but it was hard to tell through the walls. It was only at the last instant before Smith reached the top step and came into view that Bledsoe heard the distinctive click of a pistol hammer pulling back.
That crafty bastard. He must have already been wary and kept a gun on him. Bledsoe had probably erred in knocking on the back door, as that was unusual, especially at night.
Bledsoe lunged forward just as Smith rounded the doorway, gun up and at the ready. His eyes were on the back door, though. It took him a fraction of a second to register Bledsoe on his immediate right. He tried to swing the pistol over.
Bledsoe grabbed the agent’s gun arm and pushed out a wave of energy that should have dropped him in his tracks. Unfortunately, Bledsoe hadn’t taken the bathrobe into account. He was holding Smith’s forearm, which was covered in plush terrycloth thick enough to insulate the man from most of the shock. Bledsoe clamped down with his free hand, but between the inertia of Smith’s swing and the adrenaline burst that came from his surprise, Smith was able to bring his gun in line with Bledsoe’s body. As Smith cried out in pain from the mild shock, his fingers squeezed the pistol.
The gun roared in the small kitchen, and Bledsoe’s shoulder felt like it had been struck with a fiery cattle brand. His grip on Smith nearly dropped as the agent pulled away, trying to widen the gap between them. The move was his undoing.
Bledsoe’s fingers slid down Smith’s sleeve until they encountered the bare skin of his wrist. He latched onto the wrist, letting Smith pull him forward. His right shoulder screamed with pain, but he managed to keep his hold on Smith’s wrist. In the time it took him to draw a short breath and force every bit of energy he had left into their connection, the tide turned. Smith’s legs melted under him. His body spasmed uncontrollably.
Bledsoe followed him down. Smith collapsed onto his back, trembling all over, the muscles in his face and neck contracting in a rictus of pain that seemed to echo Bledsoe’s own. Bledsoe crouched over him and let the force of his attack slacken — not enough to give Smith back any control, and perhaps enough to kill him if it went on much longer, but Bledsoe didn’t need much time.
With his right hand, Bledsoe pulled the syringe from his pocket and jabbed the needle into the bulging line in Smith’s neck. He was careful to keep his thumb on the plunger.
“If you move,” Bledsoe panted, “I’m gonna inject a hundred cc’s of air into your jugular, and you’ll be dead as soon as it hits your brain. Understand?”
Bledsoe slacked off a little more energy flow, enough that Smith could draw breath more freely, focus on Bledsoe’s face, and blink his eyes rapidly. The agent didn’t dare speak.
He understood.
“When did Management recruit you?” Bledsoe asked.
Smith only whispered, “You should get that shoulder looked at.”
Despite himself, Bledsoe smiled. He had misjudged this guy, after all. He’d taken him for a bumbling do-gooder who got lucky on that Willamette River dock. Apparently, there was more to him than met the eye.
“Last chance,” Bledsoe said. “When?”
Smith’s eyes held Bledsoe’s for a moment, then he seemed to reach a decision.
“After the tunnels. I was in the hospital. They approached me.”
“What did they ask you to do?”
Smith’s nostril’s flared. “Protect Winston.”
“Why?”
Again, Smith paused, and Bledsoe could see the man’s mind churning as sweat beaded across his forehead.
“I can’t tell you.”
Bledsoe’s hand trembled around the syringe. He wanted so much to make this man squirm. There were so many problems in this situation beyond his control that filled him with rage. He just wanted to take it out on someone, in case it relieved even a bit of the pressure.
“I really suggest you tell me,” he hissed.
Smith closed his eyes and, of all the things, began to chuckle until he winced at the pain in his neck.
“What’s so funny?” Bledsoe asked.
The agent opened his eyes. “I’ve seen what happens. It makes sense. It’s worth it.”
Fury swelled within Bledsoe. Shocking him wasn’t enough. An air bubble to the brain was too merciful. He would make this guy beg for—
Without warning, Smith’s arm shot up. Bledsoe saw Smith’s hand dart toward the syringe, so Bledsoe reflexively clenched down on it, depressing the plunger its entire length. The effect was virtually instantaneous. Smith’s back arched, and his eyes rolled back in his head. His body shook as if Bledsoe was pouring every bit of energy he could muster into the man, trying to turn his heart to ashes, even though Bledsoe had let go.
“No!” he shouted into Smith’s face. “Don’t you go like that! We’re not done here! Smith!”
The agent’s body went limp. He head lolled to the side. The whites of his eyes stared up eerily into Bledsoe’s face, syringe still jutting from his neck.
Bledsoe scooted away from Smith and kicked furiously at his body. He kept kicking, hearing ribs crack, until Smith’s body jostled through the basement doorway and went tumbling loudly down the stairs. Bledsoe stood in the doorway, gazing down at the mangled form, breathing heavily.
What had he said? I’ve seen what happens. What did that mean?
Either it was crazy talk, or he was trying to confuse Bledsoe and stall for time, or…
Or he really had seen it. Which would mean that he’d been given QVs and had received some sort of visual message. And if that were the case, who would have sent the message? Management?
He sat on the top step, one hand gripping the railing, working to calm his breathing and still his mind.
What next?
He had tried to tie off his loose end, only to have the thread unravel under his fingers and fray into additional questions.
Command One had met his spectral self, for want of a better phrase, outside of Area X with clear instructions to come to him. Bledsoe had deferred acting on the request, electing instead to guard his rear before marching into what was likely an ambush. He was more convinced than ever that Management wanted to dispose of him.
And yet…if that was so, why hadn’t they simply come for him? They had sent agents to him in Tillamook and the New Mexico desert, and they had arrived seemingly out of thin air, so there had to be another Alpha Machine in play — or worse. And if Management had that sort of power, then surely they could capture or kill him any time they liked.
Perhaps they were toying with him, like a cat over a half-crippled mouse. Had he become the lab rat? Wouldn’t that be the bitterest of ironies, that they had set him up on Rota for years running lab experiments, only to become one himself?
What would a man like Bledsoe do with half an Alpha Machine? Well, let’s find out…
Bledsoe shoved his knuckles into his forehead and groaned. No, he was being paranoid. Most likely, they wanted him for a reason he hadn’t even thought of yet because he had so little information.
He was exhausted. His head felt like half a dozen vise grips were slowly squeezing his skull until it was ready to burst like a watermelon.
Before he advanced into danger, he needed to retreat. He needed to sleep and think and h
opefully cut through the fog enveloping his thoughts. If they wanted him, they could come and get him.
16
Cave and Captive
Winston leapt to his feet, gaze still sweeping the office in case he’d missed anything. Same lighting. Same desks. One blackboard had moved slightly, but nothing else seemed to have changed…except his mother had vanished.
Winston had Little e release the chrono pieces into his backpack as he moved to the door, which was closed but not locked. Winston pressed his ear to the door and listened for any voices or movement in the hall.
Winston didn’t understand what he meant by “reset” but he got the duality part and winced at his own oversight. Of course. He couldn’t have two versions of Amanda in the same time and place. In his enthusiasm to mess with Bernie’s directions, he had overlooked the most basic of the Alpha Machine’s rules.
One of Bernie’s words stuck in Winston’s mind: prohibition. Was the problem that he wasn’t allowed to take her, not that it was physically impossible? Maybe the prohibition against having two versions of Amanda together was a safety issue, like firecrackers being illegal for everyone because a few people got injured with them.
Bernie considered before answering.