by Cam Rogers
“Jack. Dude. Are you still at the house?”
Jack looked at the corner behind him. Glass glinted at him from between a couple of apple crates. There’d be one hidden in each corner. Will had wired the attic to become a fireball. “Why?”
“TV. Turn it on.”
Christ. How had Will set this up without killing himself? The guy couldn’t make cereal without setting fire to the curtains.
Jack navigated out of the mess, back to the desk, and turned on the crappy little flat-screen. Weather channel. “What am I looking for?”
“Channel twelve.”
Jack flipped through. Kitchen appliances. Who’s The Boss? Sharks. Nazis. His face. “What the f—?”
“Yeah. You mind explaining that?”
Jack reached for the volume. “Shut up for a second.”
It was his face, but the voice he heard was deep, soothing, masculine: “… reliably informed is Jack Joyce, the brother of a specialist Monarch Innovations fired some time ago. Monarch Security is working with the Riverport Police Department to determine if that is a relevant detail. We have multiple survivor reports which indicate that Joyce’s stated intent was to detonate the library with the protestors inside. It would be irresponsible of me to speculate about motive at this stage but it is clear that he is associated with this so-called ‘Peace Movement.’”
Cut to a live broadcast, on-campus. The reporter was pretty, Asian-American. Her interview subject was African-American, dark-skinned, bald, and a solid fifteen inches taller. The owner of that deep, soothing voice.
It was the lazy gaze and the unhurried speech; the way Hatch didn’t look at the reporter but straight at the camera, no blinking. Standing thin inside that five-figure suit Martin Hatch radiated the threat potential of an apex predator.
The effect was smooth, and deep, and hypnotic, and made Jack dislike him immediately.
“Jack Joyce is a career itinerant with a preference for world hotspots: Afghanistan, Syria, Thailand. He has the interest of the RPD, FBI, NSA, DHS, and Monarch Security. If you see this man do not approach. Call 911 immediately. Thank you.”
The report cut to a live feed from the site of the library’s smoking ruins. Early morning sunlight flashed off wet, black timber. Arcs from fire hoses cast rainbows. Jack’s throat closed. His brother’s remains were somewhere under that.
The reporter’s expression was stern, standard-issue, her features pleasant. His gut kicked again. “Jack Joyce, who has had numerous prior run-ins with the law, is suspected of attempted murder and the premature demolition of the Riverport University library. His accompliii…”
The moment dragged out for what felt like seconds, the image on the screen crawling, deinterlacing. Nausea rose in his gut as the second stretched and divided, stretched and then … snapped back into shape.
“… iiiice and brother, William Joyce, who had directed threats at university staff after being fired, died in the library explosion. The Riverport Police Department urgently requests that any information regarding Jack Joyce’s whereabouts be directed to them immediately.”
A stutter was coming. And soon.
Nick cleared his throat.
“Monarch’s outside my house, Jack. Do I go in?”
“I wouldn’t.”
“What about my dad?”
“I’m sorry. I don’t know.”
The volume on the phone dipped then spiked. “Hang on. Someone’s calling. Shit, I think it’s … they’re calling from my dad’s phone.”
“Don’t answer.”
“They’ve got my dad.”
“They can’t threaten you if you don’t answer.” Jack’s phone trilled in his ear. Fuck. Unknown number.
“They calling you now?”
“Nick, I take it back. Go in, tell them I abducted you. Do what’s best for yourself and your dad. Whatever happens I don’t blame you for it.”
Jack ended both calls and then flinched as a nearby bell complained: heavy, shrill, and loud. The thirty-five-year-old Bakelite phone on the wall was vibrating. Jack’s nostrils flared; he made a decision and picked up—angry. “Call my cell.” And hung up. His cell phone rang. “So what do we do?”
“Jack.”
Paul. A thousand words couldn’t release everything that fought to get out, so Jack lowballed it. “Explain.” Walking to the window he could see the barn, but no sign of Beth.
“I’m sorry about Will.”
Fury came out matter-of-fact chipper. “You will be.”
Paul didn’t acknowledge the threat. “I thought a long time about Will. I didn’t want that. But he forced my hand, Jack.”
“Hey, no worries, Paul. We’re still solid, yeah?” Jack experienced an anger so profound it messed with his vision. His phone’s casing surrendered a meek little pop.
“What I did will haunt me till I die.”
“So less than a day, then.”
“Listen to me!” Paul’s breathing was suddenly spasmodic, tremulous. “I’m trying to help you. To help us.”
“Y’know, I’m lousy on phones,” Jack said, all charm. “What say we talk this over face-to-face?”
Paul sighed. “Sure,” he said. “Come downstairs. I’m in the kitchen.”
* * *
Gibson had gone from his meeting with Hatch straight to the squad room. When he’d walked in he knew straight away that everyone knew. Donny had been a man about it, walked straight up and let Gibson crack him in the face.
“No worries, boss,” the kid had said, checking his nose, wiping away blood with a thumb. “It was a bullshit decision. None of us here buy it.”
Irene nodded. They all did.
Gibson said to Donny, “What are our orders?”
“Sit tight. Cool down.”
“Nah, that ain’t right. They’d be going after Joyce. They need us.”
Donny shook his head. “Hatch sent Technicians and Strikers. After last night, he wants us taking a half day.”
“To ‘decompress,’” Mully said.
“They want us fresh to run security on the gala tonight,” Voss put in.
Technicians and Strikers. Chronon-active standard troops, and bulked-up show ponies using first-gen chronon tech in an attempt to mimic a couple of Serene’s powers. All of them more in love with their gear than their creed.
“Donny, get me a spot on one of the Technician units on the Joyce farm detail.”
And that’s how Gibson wound up in the woods surrounding the Joyce place.
It was a nice morning. Clear, fresh. His daughter, Lorelei, would have appreciated it. Maybe he’d buy the place when this was all over. He could pick out one of those big trees over there, build the kid a house. Sit on that porch and watch Tamiko push Lorelei on a tire swing. Listen to the kid’s laughter carry across the garden.
He was lying on his belly, draped in ghillie netting, next to one of the ding-dongs from Talon squad, about a half mile from the Joyce spread. He tapped the side of the long-nosed sniper rifle the guy was resting his face on. “That one of ours?”
The sniper lifted one leafy paw, tapped the Monarch stamp on the rifle’s breach. That was poor discipline right there. An operative worth the name would have grunted an affirmative and kept his eye screwed to the scope. “Linux-based targeting system. Weather conditions, wind speed, target speed.”
“Got Netflix on there?”
The wookiee snorted. “Might as well. Once the scope tags the target I can put a round up the ass of a moving june bug at eighteen hundred yards while jerking off.”
“Sounds like you’re one innovation away from unemployment.”
The goon coughed up a less-convincing chuckle.
Fuck Gibson was bored. He’d gotten on this detail because he knew Mr. Hatch wanted that Joyce kid dead and Serene didn’t. If Randall could hand Mr. Hatch that little fuck’s head and plausible deniability, then the boss gets what he wants minus any fallout. Gibson could just say he was defending himself.
Fuck he was bored.
He’d been there with his dick in the dirt for the last hour and nothing was happening.
“Ever had to shit yourself on the job?” No response. “Is that still part of the training? Shitting in a bag? Lying in a ditch for four days waiting for a target. I mean if you gotta go you gotta go, right?”
The shooter mumbled something about it being a small price to pay for freedom.
What an asshole. He was probably wearing one now.
Fuck he was bored.
Then: “Target spotted. Barn. Upper floor. Female.”
Gibson wrestled the binoculars to his face. The hayloft doors had been opened. Some broad in a baseball cap, fatigues. Looking good in a T-shirt but couldn’t make out her face. “Well hello there, punkin’ butter.” Cap pulled low, head always dipped. One hell of a hardbody, though. “Name’s Randall. And you are?”
The stud beside the trigger clicked. “Target locked.” Then: “Lost visual. Target stepped away from the window.”
A voice, deep and comforting, murmured over comms: “Highground One.” It was Hatch. Gibson kept his mouth shut. “Please describe the target.”
“Caucasian female. Mid-twenties. Five ten. Baseball cap. Appears unarmed,” the sniper mumbled.
“Our Consultant hasn’t emerged?”
“All units report no exit as yet, sir.”
Silence on the line. Then: “You have the green light. Proceed.”
* * *
Jack came down the stairs, gun in hand.
Someone coughed in the kitchen, took a reassuring breath.
Jack stepped off the stairs, moved left toward the kitchen, the interior coming into view.
Far wall, framed pictures, fridge, bench, and cabinets … someone that looked like Paul.
“Hi,” Paul said.
Paul didn’t appear to be offended at having a gun pointed at his face—that familiar-but-different face.
“Except for last night it’s been almost twenty years since I’ve seen you, Jack. And here I am with no idea of what to say.” Paul smiled and Jack wanted to do something he wasn’t sure he’d regret. “Seeing you here, the young man I remember, in this house … it’s eerie.” Paul jerked his thumb toward the drying rack. “Will kept every Ziploc bag you used for lunches. After dinner every Friday night we’d wash and hang them on the rack there. He made a box of those bags last for years.”
“Will’s dead. You killed him.”
“Jack—”
Jack cocked the automatic’s hammer, uselessly. “Shut up and start talking.”
“The person you grew up with is gone, Jack. It’s for the best. But I still remember. That counts for something.” Paul pulled the silver chain around his neck, drew out what it secured: his silver bullet. “I remember it all.”
The sight of the bullet made Jack think of the gun in his hand; the gun in his hand made him think of Paul holding a gun on Will. Thinking of Will dispelled pity. “I don’t think you do.”
“Will was right: something was wrong with the machine’s calibration. Time will end. I’ve seen it. In fact time will end because I’ve seen it. The waveform of that particular potential future has now collapsed and become an unavoidable certainty.”
“Except…” Jack had to believe there was an answer here. “The time machine. I go back, I find us, I tell us not to use the machine, this never happens, Will never dies, and I spend the rest of my life trying to forget how badly I wanted to shoot you.”
Paul shook his head, sadly. “Has that happened?”
“When I do go back it will have happened. And then … I guess we won’t ever remember having this conversation.”
“So if the events of the present we currently inhabit never occurred … what would motivate you to go back in time and warn us?”
Hearing that was like watching Will die all over again. Jack shook his head. “There’s a way.”
“You can’t change the past. I’m sorry.”
Hate pulled Jack forward. “You’re lying.”
“If changing the past were possible I would locate Will’s prototype—the first machine, older than Monarch’s, the one he built in the barn out there—and do my damnedest to make that work. Then I would use it to travel back and prevent the Monarch machine being made. That would prevent the Fracture from occurring and spare me a terrible life. But it is not possible.”
Jack’s mind wheeled. There was no answer to this.
“Do you know where Will’s machine is, Jack?”
“If this is true, then why do any of this? Why kill my brother? Why kill all the people at the university?”
Paul weighed his words carefully. “There are reasons why last night was necessary. First, we took the core from the lab and installed it into a secondary Promenade within Monarch Tower. We made it known that this was done as a safety precaution by Monarch personnel. Now the world knows a sensitive Monarch project was targeted by a terrorist group. Second, I need the mood of the nation to be primed. The public and the administration want a simple target for their anger. Soon I will provide that target in a manner that is advantageous to the objectives of the company. For that to work the events at the university had to be … mediapathic. Showy.”
There was a time, Jack remembered, when Paul couldn’t bring himself to use a mousetrap.
Paul looked Jack in the eye, earnestly. No guile. “Monarch doesn’t exist to change the future—it exists to help us survive it. We have a plan,” he said. “We call it Lifeboat.”
“If you hand me a brochure, Paul, I swear to God—”
“We can’t stop the Fracture, Jack. We can’t stop the arrival of the end of time. That waveform has collapsed. But Lifeboat will assure—does assure—that our best and brightest remain able to repair and reseed the flow of causality after the Meyer-Joyce field collapses and time ends.”
It took a second for Jack to fully understand that his rage was becoming dilute with horror. Horror at the realization that he understood Paul’s decisions … and maybe sympathized with them.
“And Will?”
“Will was unique. A pioneer. He was given every opportunity to play a key role in the success of Lifeboat. But you know Will. No one can do his thinking for him. The knowledge and expertise that he had, and the powerful desire to use it against us, made him a very real threat to the future of humanity. I loved Will like a brother, Jack. You know that.”
It became harder to keep the gun straight, vision threatening to blur.
Paul took one step toward him and said, as gently as he could, “You are faced with the same choice.”
* * *
Standing as far from the open hayloft doors as she could Beth went through her breathing exercises, focused on what she was about to do. She shook the tension out of her hands, checked her watch again; and then she fished for the notes in her fatigues. They were a couple of crumpled pages torn from a Moleskine, written in blue ink, meticulous and neat for maximum legibility. No fuckups permitted.
She knew them back to front but checked the times again anyway, ran through her checklist, checked her watch. Closed her eyes and breathed.
Fifty-seven seconds.
* * *
Inside the house, Paul Serene said, “Six years ago I was exposed to a near-lethal burst of chronon radiation. I became ill, and my relationship with time changed even further. I can, with effort, stand at the junction between myriad possible futures—and choose which one to take.” The flesh of his arm ached, phased minutely from one state to another. Paul shuddered, discreetly.
“You want to tell me how this scene ends?”
“I use the ability sparingly, Jack. It costs me. I use it to save nations, not win the lottery. I’m here now because I trust you not to kill me, to hear me out.”
“I don’t trust me not to do that.”
Paul persevered. “This selective foreknowledge I have has allowed me to subtly exert a profound influence over government at local, state, and national levels, and consequently the world. Oncoming history is a sla
lom, Jack. The extinctions and conflagrations that I have navigated our idiot species past, my God. The atrocities I have had to facilitate in order to avoid a greater catastrophe down the road.” Paul couldn’t look at Jack as he said it, his left hand flexing uncomfortably. He cleared his head, got back to business. “Discreet teams of lobbyists, the manipulation of favor economies, deniable personnel, and leveraging the specialties of divisions within Monarch … all form a scalpel that can cut into deep tissue, remove, remodel, and leave no scar. It has been the work of sixteen years to reach this point.”
“And?”
“We call it Project Lifeboat. Monarch has been exploiting Will’s innovations and Dr. Kim’s advancements to allow ordinary people to operate freely in a chronon-devoid environment—the end of time itself.”
“So you can have a dozen people wandering around a frozen world, waiting to die. That’s a shitty use of sixteen years, Paul.”
“A few hundred people actually, all at the top of their field, all carefully selected.” Paul sighed. “If we have mobility then we have a chance to restart causality. It is our only chance.” Paul straightened. “Come with me. Come to Monarch Tower. You need to see what we’ve been building.”
Jack shook his head. “I need to think. Call off your goons.”
“With respect, Jack—”
“Thinking’s not my strong suit, yeah, I get it. Do it, Paul, or the next time you see me I’ll be waving at you as Monarch Tower falls into the Mystic River.”
Paul held up his hands. “All right. All right. Please don’t make me regret this.” Paul touched a finger to his ear. “Monarch Actual, this is your Consultant.”
* * *
Ten seconds. “Everything works, everything works,” Beth told herself. Five seconds. Four. One breath in for the road. Two. And out.
Go.
Two steps, turn, face the woods, and …
Beth jerked her head left as the .338 slug trilled past to blow a fresh-wood crater in the aging timber of the barn’s back wall. She translated the movement into a full-body turn, swept up the hunting rifle, and let the ShotSpotter tell her exactly where that bullet had come from.