Molly’s flight was twenty minutes late. Spider, who’d felt so clever and resourceful when he was executing his brilliant plan, now found himself sweating and tense and frustrated. After a while, with people crowded in around him, Spider found he could no longer remain seated; he got up and tried to press through the crowd so that he could be as close to the doors as possible; with a bit of luck he might minimize Molly’s exposure to any lurking bad guys. But once he reached the front of the pressing crowd, breathing hard, he started looking at these other people with him, and it was amazing, he thought, just how wickedly guilty they all looked! The bastards! Each and every single one of them, all doing their best to look like regular civilians, mostly dressed casually, some of them wrangling small and disagreeable children — they’re all clearly evil and bent on subduing me and making off with Molly, and the fate of the entire universe hangs in the balance!
And, once he caught himself thinking like that again he stopped, glanced around, and now saw only a bunch of tired, anxious and unhappy people — particularly the ones with fractious children — all of whom wanted nothing more than to pick up their friends, their partners, their family members, and get them the hell out of this wretched airport as soon as humanly possible. All of those people who looked so innocently full of evil intent, he noticed, couldn’t really give a bugger about him. All of which, he thought, made much more sense.
In fact, and this thought rocked him back on his heels, he had no real proof that Molly had not, the first time round, after calling Spider to complain about his lack of presence, simply gotten herself a taxi and gone home. Who knows? he thought, she could be there right now, in the other timeline, having a shower, getting something to eat, maybe even having a nice, safe nap in her own bed.
Wait a minute, he told himself. If Molly had left without him, taking a taxi, then she would have died — at least according to Soldier Spider. Any scenario in which Molly decided against waiting for him led to her death. “That’s right”, he said aloud, remembering the sight of Molly’s cold body in that procedure room on the Masada, “You’re trying to save her life. Focus, Spider.”
It was, for Spider, a moment of clarity, something he’d sorely missed since his life had skidded way off-course with the discovery of Clea Fassbinder’s body so long ago. You’re just one man, Spider, he told himself. Take it easy, you’ll get through this.
When, at last, the doors opened and torrents of weary travelers, each pushing trolleys stacked with bulging bags, began flowing into the arrivals hall, Spider found himself first smiling, then starting to panic again, trying to peer through the turbulent crowds, hoping to spot Molly, only Molly did not appear. Hundreds of other non-Molly people appeared, some of them even looking vaguely like her — that same cranky set to the mouth, the same “I can’t do anything with this hair!” — but his former wife was a no-show. Spider’s hopes were sinking fast. She can’t be gone already! He imagined Dickhead had paid off air-side employees to do a little job for him, to take one particular passenger aside for a little chat, to clear something up, just an administrative thing, nothing to worry about, you’re not in any trouble, now just step in here, that’s it, and wham! Next stop, End of Time!
“God, what’s the matter with you?”
He jumped, startled, and found himself looking at her, at Molly, the one and only. Thinner and older than he remembered, more careworn, showing a little sunburn on her cheeks, nose and shoulders, her freckles blazing, but the same intelligent gaze, the same disappointment in him. It didn’t matter. “I didn’t see you,” he said, knowing it was stupid as he was saying it, but beyond caring.
“Well, then,” Molly said, “where are you parked?”
Now she was here, Spider realized, things were about to get lively. Once more he turned his gaze to the throngs of people all around them, looking for anyone who might be working for Dickhead. For a moment he watched eager Customs beagles and their handlers.
“Well, are we going or not?”
Spider flashed an awkward smile, trying to convey the idea that everything was fine, nothing to worry about. Molly’s trolley, burdened down with several huge suitcases, was very nearly immovable. He wondered how on Earth she’d managed to propel this load all the way from baggage claim. It was so heavy he thought he’d need a tractor.
“You sure you’re all right, Spider? You look like shit, you know that?”
“People keep telling me,” he said, glancing about. He knew she was right. How long had he been wearing these same white overalls? Spider went on to tell her they had quite a journey across the endless parking lots to where he had parked his van. Molly suggested he go ahead of her, grab the van, and bring it round to the pick-up/drop-off area in front of the Terminal. The very idea terrified Spider, so he made a show of not minding the enormous effort involved in keeping the trolley moving, and the heap of her bags reasonably steady. Molly offered to personally carry one of the smaller bags.
They made it almost a hundred meters through the parking lot, with Molly constantly bitching at him to go and get the bloody van, when Spider noticed a blue VW van slowly approaching. He didn’t recognize the guy driving, but something about it looked like exactly like the kind of thing he had been watching out for ever since he got here.
He had a choice, he realized, watching the van. He could let the bad guys take Molly, as he’d been told to do, because, after all, everything was at stake. All he had to do was willingly send Molly into a situation where she would suffer, but survive, and hate him forever.
Or — the side door of the van was opening, and Spider could see a couple of guys in black hunched inside, ready to leap out — he could try something else. “Get behind me, Molly,” he said to her in a voice something like his old “Stop, Police!” voice. It worked, too: Molly blinked and immediately ducked behind him, but then started in with the questions and the indignation.
Spider said, in a loud voice, speaking to the air around him, “Spider, if you’re following this, you know that more than anything I want Molly to be safe. You know how I feel about her. You—”
“Al, what the hell are you…?”
He went on. “I will not let Molly be taken by these goons. I’ll fight the bastards, and I am prepared to risk my own death if necessary. You know that. So here’s the deal. You take her. Take her to the Masada. Look after her. You told me Dickhead can’t touch anybody aboard your ship. So you take her, and protect her. In return—” The van stopped. Spider could smell its deep-fryer exhaust. Two guys leapt out, dressed the way Soldier Spider dressed, all in black spec-ops gear, faces obscured, hands in gloves. One was telling Spider, “Now, let’s not be stupid about this, okay?”
Spider said to the air, “Take her now, and I’ll do whatever the hell you want. Anything you want. Just protect Molly. I don’t care about anything else, okay? Okay?”
The other of the two goons produced a stun-gun, and leveled it, aiming it at Spider.
Molly, hiding behind her stack of bags, was shouting, “What the fuck is this? Al? What’s going on?”
“Hand her over, Mr. Webb,” the first one said, sounding reasonable.
“Anytime now, Spider!” Spider yelled at the sky.
Molly vanished.
The goon with the stun-gun swore and shot Spider. He went down, twitching, gritting his teeth, the great tottering tower of Molly’s luggage the last thing he saw before blackness swept over him.
CHAPTER 18
Spider was sitting in what looked and felt like a regular office chair, in front of a spartan desk, in a small clearing in — as far as he could see — a vast field of towering sunflowers. The sunflowers made him think of triffids. Then again, he realized, the whole scene looked like parts of rural France he’d seen in coverage of the Tour de France. It was a baking hot day; the sun, looming overhead, was huge and reddish, casting menacing purple shadows. Millions of bugs
hissed and whirred about. Way in the distance, Spider spotted a big bird of prey, possibly a hawk, hovering over a particular spot in the field, peering down, watching something which didn’t know it had only moments to live.
The last thing Spider remembered was — now, wait a minute, it would come to him if he concentrated — the airport? Molly? Some kind of trouble, hmm, that sounded familiar, and now that he thought of it, his joints felt sore, and his breathing wasn’t quite right, and he coughed a bit, though that might have to do with all the dust in the air from the sunflowers.
Then he remembered. “Oh, shit,” he said, horrified, and got up from the chair. Standing there in the clearing, staring around, trying not to hyperventilate, trying not to panic, he thought, It’s gotta be a sim. And if it’s a sim, there’ll be some way to tell, right? Actually, thinking about it, that might not be the case. Even so, he did not believe he really was sitting in the middle of a field of sunflowers in rural France on a hot summer’s day. One look at that sun up there, that wasn’t right. Then he thought, God, what if that is the sun? What if this is way in the future? Soldier Spider took me off into the future, and he said Dickhead would probably do much the same, so this could be… He had to look away.
Then he heard a rhythmic thrashing noise approaching from the distance; someone was coming to see him, he figured, and it was likely going to be bloody Dickhead McMahon, keen to take Spider aside and show off. Soldier Spider had told him that if Dickhead wanted to show off, then by all means let him. It was possible the bastard might let something crucial slip in an unguarded moment, something that would be useful later. Right, Spider thought. Fine. I’ll just stand here, not panicking, not furious, not worried about Molly even a bit, and let Dickhead schmooze me all he wants. He figured he’d want dinner and a show afterwards, though.
Then a bunch of sunflowers at the edge of the clearing were pulled aside, and there he was in all his glory: Dickhead McMahon, still dressed in that same business suit that he got off the rack at K-Mart. He nodded hello, and took a moment trying to brush dust off his suit with his hands. The bugs were bothering him, too, Spider noticed, so that was something: whatever the hell this was, it wasn’t just his own hallucination, and that, oddly, was a comfort.
Dickhead finished dusting himself down and started to stride across the clearing, coming around the desk, keen to give Spider a big buddy-hug. Spider saw him coming and the first impulse that came to him was to hit the bastard. He’d held himself back the last time he felt like hitting Dickhead, and regretted it. This time Dickhead had it coming. Spider remembered getting stun-gunned, the way it felt, his whole body on fire, convulsing on the filthy floor of some rented van.
Then Dickhead was right in front of him, beaming, saying, “Spider! So good to see you!” and his arms were out, ready to smother him, absorb him — and Spider snapped. He’d had enough. Glaring at Dickhead, he took a step back, out of the man’s grasp, then hauled off and hit him hard across the cheek. Dickhead staggered and groaned, reaching a hand up to touch his face, and he looked at his fingers — there was no blood, and then he looked at Spider, dismayed and confused, then angry, and Spider knew Dickhead was thinking about hitting him.
Spider was boiling with adrenaline, up on the balls of his feet, ready for anything, watching Dickhead, trying to read his face. Spider’s hand was starting to hurt, though. Was it broken? His fingers weren’t responding properly, and there was a blinding, piercing pain in his knuckles, and he thought, Shit! Not again! He held that hand lightly in his left hand, probing it for damage. Dickhead, still holding his face, nodded at him, and smiled. “Out of practice, mate,” he said, goodnaturedly.
“Yeah, a bit,” Spider said, and felt stupid.
Dickhead went to the desk, touched it, and a control panel appeared. He called for medical assistance, and presently a smartly-dressed female robot assistant came whirring through the sunflowers. Dickhead told the machine to see to Spider first, which she did, quickly examining his hand, determining that nothing was broken, but that Spider should probably rest the hand as much as possible. She applied a cold, antiseptic-smelling gel that tingled and then burned down into his knuckles and finger joints, and after a moment his hand felt almost as good as new. He said thanks.
The bot smiled and went to deal with Dickhead. Dickhead’s face was red where Spider had hit him, and he was trying to tell if any of his top teeth had come loose; it looked as if a few of them had been damaged. She took her time, working over his cheek and inside his mouth, applying various treatments. Dickhead winced and grimaced, and told the machine, “Hey, he started it,” which Spider heard and which made him want to protest that if Dickhead’s goons hadn’t abducted him—
Dickhead said, “Look, fair’s fair, you’ve got a legitimate grievance, Spider, and I do apologize for that. The pickup did not go as planned, and the boys truly fucked it up. I told them not to rough you up in any way, that you were to be treated as a guest, but they didn’t listen, and now they’re, well, let’s say they’re exploring other employment options. If you can’t follow simple instructions, you’ve got no place in Zeropoint, that’s what I say.”
All of which left Spider, flexing his fingers, astonished. “That’s it?”
Dickhead was leaning against the edge of the table. “What more do you want? I said I’m sorry. It’s not at all how I wanted you brought into the operation. I don’t blame you a bit for taking a whack at me. I’d have done the same.”
“Right, I see,” Spider said, still surprised at Dickhead’s graciousness.
Dickhead got up, clapped his hands, beamed, his face looking fine, and said to Spider, “God, I’ll bet you’re hungry. What do you feel like?”
Hungry? The word “hungry” didn’t begin to cover it. Spider was starving. It felt as if he hadn’t eaten anything substantial in ages. He decided to chance Dickhead’s hospitality. “What have you got?”
Turning to the robot assistant again, Dickhead said, “Two steaks, eggs, chips, onions, medium-done.” Then to Spider, “Don’t know about you, but I could murder a coffee. What do you reckon?” Before Spider could answer in the affirmative, Dickhead told the assistant to also bring them both long macchiatos. The assistant nodded, repeated back the order, and left, disappearing back into the sunflowers from whence she came.
“Take a seat,” Dickhead said to Spider, pulling out the chair for him. He went around to his side of the desk, still touching his cheek gingerly, and pulled out his own chair. Spider noticed that Dickhead’s chair was noticeably bigger than his, and thought, Typical. Spider’s chair was comfortable, and seemed, surrounded by all this rolling French countryside, quite out of place. He took a moment, now that things were as normal as they were likely to get, to admire the realism of the illusion.
“Got your own holodeck, huh, Dickhead?”
“It’s a ‘Display Room,’ actually, Spider. We do much of the running of the ship from here.”
Spider glanced sideways at his host. “So we are on a ship? I wondered.”
“Oh, pardon my manners. Yes. Welcome to the Timeship Destiny, Spider. You are an honored guest. Once we’ve eaten and had a bit of a chat about things, I’ll show you your quarters.”
“So I’m staying a while, then?”
“Well, actually, no, but I’m hoping you’ll be back, and when you do return, there will be a place for you here aboard this flagship.”
Doing his best to keep up, Spider nodded. “So all this, this is just you showing off for my benefit?”
“I wouldn’t call it showing off, exactly,” Dickhead said, clearly stung by the accusation.
The assistant returned, this time bearing dinner. The steaks were enormous; the eggs perfectly done; the chips were hot and fresh. Hungry as Spider was, there was no way he could possibly eat all of this. The coffee, when he tried it, was strong almost to the point of being unbearable, but not quite. In sho
rt, it was divine. Spider sat looking at everything, taking in the marvelous aromas and the steam, and tried a chip — perhaps too hot just yet — and found himself thinking that if this is how the bad guys eat, maybe being a bad guy was okay.
Then he stopped, realized what he was thinking, and felt, for a moment, like pushing everything away. Except he really was desperate for something to eat.
Dickhead dismissed the bot and told Spider to get down to business. Spider didn’t need further encouragement.
Later, once the dishes had been cleared away, and Spider was on his third coffee, Dickhead asked him, “So, Spider, any questions?”
Spider had quite a few. “Well, since you ask. You said we’re on a timeship, not a starship, or whatever.”
“That’s right. Basically, an extreme development of existing chronotechnology. With one small twist: we can hop across from one universe to the next, playing with timelines, preferencing some over others. It’s made us strong, Spider. Very strong.”
This was much like what Soldier Spider had told him, but he couldn’t let on to Dickhead that he already knew what was going on. He’d been a little anxious about that during dinner; he hadn’t said anything about the whole “timeship” thing, mainly because the food was so good, and there was so much of it, all he wanted to do was dig in and eat up. Now, stuffed to the point where he had to adjust his belt, and planning to stay seated for a good long time, he could start playing the innocent time machine repairman, just as Soldier Spider had told him. “Really?” he said, doing his best to look all saucer-eyed with surprise. “Does that mean you can choose…?”
“Yes, we can manipulate events, even history, up to a point.”
Time Machines Repaired While-U-Wait Page 22