by Cam Rogers
“Fuck. We have to go. We have to go right now.”
“I’m mailing this to Beth.”
“Now, Horatio.”
Horatio held up one hand, still typing with the other. “I’ll be right there. Thirty seconds.”
Nick jogged out, got to the elevator, swiped it open.
If Horatio had found something that could cause some damage … yeah. Nick was all for using it to give it to Monarch in the neck. But it wouldn’t mean anything if they were too dead to use it.
Nick glanced at his watch. “Horatio! Come on, we—whoa!”
Horatio was no longer typing. He was in his seat, shuddering, arms slack by his sides.
Martin Hatch stood next to him, four fingers and thumb locked deep into Horatio’s throat, gazing at Nick as Horatio’s life ran out of him.
Nick swung into the elevator and hammered the Door Close button.
Martin Hatch watched him go.
Saturday, 8 October 2016. 10:05 P.M. Monarch Tower. Paul Serene’s Apartment, Floor 49.
If Monarch’s success and hypersonic rise could be attributed to one thing it would be Paul Serene’s explorations of possible futures and his identification of key junction moments that led to the choicest outcomes.
He had not always been sick, and he had not always possessed the ability to fly down the branching corridors of future probability. The gift was a trait of the sickness. The chronon syndrome.
In the early days his vision had been tight and nearsighted. A day ahead at most, with no control. In time he had learned to focus on moments that led to moments. He called them junctions. These almost always manifested in the instant, allowing him to make a choice now that would elicit an outcome later. This was fine for short-term gain, but there was a blindness to it, an element of chance. The choices he made were best guesses based on what shadowy perceptions he could grasp at the end of what probability branches were at hand—and he always had to choose quickly, before the moment passed.
But that would not do. It was not enough.
Paul did not want choice forced on him. He wanted knowledge, awareness, and control. In time, with great effort, he learned to identify junction moments before they arrived. This enabled choices that were more considered and better informed.
In this manner Monarch Solutions had first begun to shape the life of every person on Earth.
With greater effort and diligence Paul began to explore a larger selection of possible futures. And then to explore the possible futures that branched from those.
Greater exploration came with greater effort. Especially deep forays came at a cost: the giving of himself to the sickness, and the sacrificing of his flesh.
The dreams were terrible after such journeys. Not just a dream, but dreams about dreams. Dozens of iterations of surreal scenarios played out atop one another yet all of them, somehow, simultaneously comprehensible. Parallel timelines, near-identical causalities, each with small variations blooming into sometimes vastly different outcomes.
In the moment it felt like joy; on waking it felt like madness. He was never right for days after such deep journeys. But the company profited. Armed with detailed foreknowledge, Martin Hatch’s captaincy had been immaculate.
The sicker Paul got, the easier it became. The farther he went, the sicker he got.
Paul’s instincts honed. His efficiency sharpened.
Now, as Paul’s time on Earth grew short, he centered himself for his greatest and most complex voyage to date. His mission was to chart the most detailed probability map that he could, covering the coming days. This would be especially difficult as, given the events of the last twenty-four hours, the skein of cause and effect was in a state of high agitation.
The journeys he had taken previously would be as garden pathways compared to the seething jungle tangle that awaited him.
This final foray would cost him greatly.
Paul Serene sat comfortably on his magnificent chair of thirty-six-hundred-year-old Fitzroya cupressoides. At each compass point an articulated stand directed a microphone toward him.
His final operation as a surgeon of causality—his final voyage as a cartographer of future history—began in this instant.
The map he would leave behind would allow Monarch to navigate the coming storm, to survive the inevitable scrutiny, and to win the loyalty of those who could assure the company’s future as the savior of mankind.
It would assure the development and success of Project Lifeboat, which, without immediate and unconditional global governmental cooperation, would fail. Humanity, this universe, this timeline would cease to be.
Paul closed his eyes.
And began.
His consciousness became four-dimensional. He rose above the weave entirely and allowed his consciousness to point—compass-like—toward the future he desired most.
He had never perceived the skein of probability so completely, so vastly, as he did now. Vast enough to crush a mind, perfect enough that the changing part of Paul Serene wanted to dwell there forever.
His mind found its direction as though it were the most instinctive thing on Earth. Paul Serene’s awareness found the future where Martin Hatch stood before those who control the world … and those who control the world said:
Yes.
Paul Serene started there, examining in detail the threads of cause and effect that led each and every person in that room to that singular and most-desired outcome, and worked his way backward.
Only then did he begin dictating to the microphones.
His flesh burned with starlight.
Saturday, 8 October 2016. 10:07 P.M. Monarch Tower. Martin Hatch’s Apartment, Floor 50.
When Randall Gibson entered Martin Hatch’s office the great man was cleaning one hand with a dark handkerchief, meticulously working the spaces between his fingers.
“Mr. Gibson,” Mr. Hatch said, without looking up from his work. “The tragedy in your unit has returned you to command. Welcome back, Senior Operative. They were good soldiers. Let’s not have you tarnish their memory, hmm?”
“Sir?”
“You and the remainder of C-1 are to head to the Riverport Swimming Hall. A time machine is inside. You are to enter the swimming hall, enter the machine, and go back as far as you can—to 1999—and kill Jack Joyce. Do you understand?”
“And … the Consultant? Mr. Serene? He’s gone and changed his opinion on the science? Last I heard messing with collapsed waveforms was verboten.”
“Mr. Serene has not been well. Leave the laws of the universe to me.”
“Y-yes sir.”
“Doubt, Mr. Gibson?”
“Sir, no, sir! I look forward to executing the mission with the utmost aggression, sir!”
“And I look forward to you and I renewing our friendship. Now go forth, and deliver a mighty suffering.”
Gibson felt his chest light up like a ball of phosphorous on a dark night. “Sir, yes, sir!” With the utmost fucking aggression. Oo-fuckin’-RAH!
“Dismissed, Senior Operative.”
Gibson saluted, pivoted, and marched on out, head high.
Hatch sighed, folded his handkerchief, and tucked it into his pocket. Today was a day for housecleaning, and setting things in motion.
Saturday, 8 October 2016. 10:17 P.M. Riverport Swimming Hall.
Beth had left Sofia in Jack’s care while she shut herself in the locker rooms to tend her savaged leg and change out of her Monarch uniform. Jack had some first aid training and figured she’d be okay in the short term. There would be a scar, but the slug had done no damage to bone or arteries. He had offered to stitch her up, but Beth wanted to take care of it herself and retreated to the change rooms.
So he was stuck with Sofia.
“You don’t need to convince me,” Sofia snapped. “I’ll help you. My own calculations are very clear: the Meyer-Joyce field will collapse. Well in advance of Paul’s five-year prediction. We have a day. Two at most. Now please let me work.”
Sofia was already examining the console of Will’s machine, looking up occasionally to compare what she was seeing onscreen to some detail of the machine’s structure.
“So you do think the world’s about to end.”
“Yes, I do.”
Jack leaped on that. “Paul’s been to the end of time. He has the date. If a collapsed waveform can’t be altered, if things can’t be changed, how can he be wrong?”
“It’s his word against my expertise and a model supported by verifiable data,” she scowled. “I can only conclude his recollection is flawed.”
Beth reappeared from the locker rooms out back. “He wants you to tell him it’s possible to influence a collapsed waveform, to change events.” Gone were the monogrammed Monarch jacket and fatigues. She had prepared an outfit that was fashion agnostic: blue jeans, plain black T-shirt, mid-range leather jacket of classic cut. An outfit that wouldn’t look out of place anytime in the last twenty years. “Jack,” she said. “You have to let go of the idea that you can save Will. Focus on what’s possible.”
Jack let it go, but wouldn’t be giving up. Will was alive in 2010. There had to be something he could do.
Beth turned to Sofia. “Are we good?” She was favoring her good leg pretty heavily, but otherwise looked okay, all things considered.
They could both have used some sleep.
Sofia stepped away from the keyboard. Gathering her thoughts she said, “Before I do this, I have a question for you: your brother built something he called a Countermeasure.” Being here, looking at Will’s machine, and piecing together her own experiences with Paul Serene and Monarch, it was now clear to her that Dr. Kim had little, if anything, to do with the pioneering of chronon research. That, quite possibly, she had made a grave error in helping Monarch to achieve their goals. “‘Countermeasure.’ That is a very specific word.”
“Will built it to repair the fracture in the M-J field,” Jack said.
Sofia’s face broke into a sudden smile. It suited her. “Then it exists.”
“It existed on July 4, 2010, we know that much.”
“And that is your destination?”
Beth stepped in. “We go back, retrieve it, return here, fix all this. How soon can you get the machine working?”
“It’s ready now, if you are.”
* * *
Irene Rose was in a top-down position on the pool, her rifle’s barrel nosing through a gap in a thin and grimy window, waiting for go.
“Count all three. Joyce, Wilder, Amaral. They’re focused on the machine, seem pretty excited about it.”
Gibson was hanging out on the corrugated eave, outside the cafeteria-level window. He had just finished laying a sheet of black plastic adhesive across the pane. “Team, report in.”
“IR, roof,” Irene responded.
“Voss, rear door, ground level.”
“Chaffey, Reeves, Dominguez, rear door.”
“Gibson…” Gibson took out his knife, tapped the plastic hard. The glass pane beneath it snapped, came away clean. He laid it down carefully. “Cafeteria, top floor.” He ducked inside, unslung his carbine as a car pulled up outside, braking loudly.
Irene piped up. “Boss.”
“I got it. Count one: Caucasian male. Limp. Voss, how you coming with that door?”
“Already in.”
* * *
Shouting from the lobby bounced around the swimming hall. “Jack! Beth! You here?”
Nick ran into the hall, heavily favoring one leg. He and Beth were a matching pair.
“Thank God. Guys, Monarch knows you’re here. They’ve always known. They’re probably on their way right now.”
Jack and Beth were on the ramp to the time machine’s airlock, waiting for Sofia to give them the go-ahead to depart.
“Horatio got you out?” Beth asked. “Is he with you?”
Nick’s expression said it all. “He…” Nick struggled. “Horatio … he was trying to e-mail you something. Martin Hatch … he … he’s got something going on. Something’s not right with that company, man. Or that dude. Way, way not right.”
Beth nodded, pushed the grief down. Horatio was a good guy. “Tell me about it when I get back. Sofia?” Beth entered the airlock. “We’re going to fix this. Nick, you should get out of here. Jack?”
Sofia brought the power online, chronon particles flooding the Promenade. The bare-bones frame of the old machine clunked hard, picking up a rattle like loose change in a dryer.
“Go now,” Sofia said.
Jack moved up the ramp.
* * *
“Breach,” Gibson said.
At the back of the swimming hall, thirty feet behind the time machine, the door to the locker rooms blew off its hinges.
Jack threw a stutter bubble at his feet out of pure reflex, as the cafeteria window shattered. Bullets impacted the shield, thudding dully. Sofia shrieked, going rigid, shoulders hunched, an upright target.
Irene opened up from above. Gibson kept up fire from one end of the cafeteria as Voss swept in doing likewise from the locker rooms. The bubble protected Jack from multiple kill shots, torn between entering the machine or protecting Sofia.
A shot from above blew a crater out of the tiles at Sofia’s feet, there was a spray of blood and Sofia fell forward across the controls. Collapsed, she vanished behind the instrument panel.
“Voss! Stay wide of the machine!” Gibson shouted. “Wide of the machine! We need that.”
The airlock sucked shut.
“Beth!”
Nick fell back into the lobby, wide-eyed.
Jack ran to the airlock, but he had been here before: it wasn’t opening. Beth had her notebook out, scribbled, tore off a page, pressed it to the viewport:
CHARGE MUST EXPEND. NOT SAFE TO OPEN. SEE YOU THERE.
He was shaking his head no. Beth pressed her hand to the viewport, and stopped.
Jack angled his view, knew immediately why she wasn’t going through. Something had gone wrong: the left hatch—the door to the past, the one they were meant to take—was closed. The right one was open. The past was locked, the future waiting.
Something must have happened when Sofia went down. Had the controls taken a hit? It was impossible to tell.
The machine began to tremble violently. From somewhere in the back of the Promenade a riveted steel plate detached and crashed to the tiles.
Voss didn’t risk getting into Jack’s line of sight. Irene and Gibson held fire, waiting for the shield to drop—at least fifty bullets waiting for permission to splash right through Jack.
Jack took a chance. He stepped out of the bubble, spraying three-round bursts toward the ceiling-line windows. Dirty glass shattered as military rounds punched through rusted iron paneling, sending Irene flinching back from the edge.
Gibson took a shot, but not before Jack manifested a second shield in his line of sight that took the hits. Jack cleared the short distance between ramp and console, throwing down a third bubble as Voss opened up.
Three rounds pounded dully into the bubble, eye level with Jack.
“Boss,” Chaffey piped up in Gibson’s earpiece. “You want us in there?”
“Negative. Stand by.”
Sofia was at Jack’s feet, facedown and unmoving. The dark fabric of her evening gown made it tough to tell where she had been hit. Blood pooled into antiseptically shaded tiles.
There was blood on the console, one thick line pawed diagonally across the screen and keyboard, ending at Sofia’s fall. The destination date had changed. The trip to the past was now the trip to the future, the destination committed and locked. And the date was blank.
Through the airlock’s grimy viewport Beth pressed a hand to the glass. She tried for an “oh well” kind of smile. Pointed at her watch, then at Jack—Don’t be late—gave a single wave and, just like that, walked into the future.
No date, headed forward. The end of time.
“Beth! Wait!”
The machine screamed and th
rew off a pounding beat of energy.
Jack didn’t notice Irene drop through the ceiling—a fast rappel—timed to coincide with the machine’s flash and noise. He leaped the console and went after Voss, who immediately booked it beneath the machine.
“Boss! I need cover!”
Gibson pressed a finger to his ear mic. “Nice goin’, Voss! Keep him busy!”
“I ain’t playin’, boss!”
Irene glanced over her shoulder. Nick was still at the entrance, framed and petrified in the doorway. “Don’t sweat it, Voss. I got you.” She blasted a few random shots in Nick’s direction, sent him hobbling. “Gonna play with your little friend, Joyce! Hope you don’t mind!”
She set off after her target with an easy, loping grace.
Jack gave up on Voss, changed course, and jetted after Irene. Nick retreated to the lobby. Irene used gunfire to herd him up the stairs to the cafeteria and chased along behind.
* * *
Gibson waited until Jack had pursued far enough to take him beneath the cafeteria, then hopped out the window. “Chaffey. Time to bug out.” He landed on the roof of the prefab housing the diesel generator, then down to the ground floor. He went straight for the machine’s bloodied controls.
Subvocalized into his mic. “Voss, come on out. You’re first up.”
Voss rolled up from the maintenance recess as Chaffey, Reeves, and Dominguez flowed in from the locker rooms.
“Wilder went through, Voss.”
Realization dawned. “She knows the mission. You think … she went back to protect Joyce?”
“Get into the airlock. I’ll scatter us all wide, different dates. Chaffey’s boys as a crew, the rest of us solo. She won’t be able to pick us all off.”
* * *
Jack zipped to the base of the cafeteria stairs. As Irene ducked out of sight Jack heard the machine crescendo. Dust punched off the walls and ceiling as the core fired. A framed black-and-white from a 1940s swim meet crashed to the floor.
Irene called out, “You’re looking tired, sweets. Is all the fun taking it out of you?”
Then, behind Jack, the front door kicked open and a Monarch Security team flowed in.
A shot took Jack through the side, spinning him. Shouting, Jack encapsulated the first four members of the squad in a sphere of frozen time, blocking the door with it, and fell to the ground.