“Hi. I actually just have a timepiece I need to solder a diode into. You guys happen to have a soldering iron?”
The shorter man slips off his stool and wanders over. “Got about four of ’em. Won’t do you much good though, because the power is out.”
“Damn. They’re all electric?”
The bald man moves over to his toolbox. “Actually I do have a butane powered kit in here somewhere. If I’ve got enough butane in it we could try that.” He slides open a drawer and starts shifting tools around.
A loud crash out front makes all three of us jump. The short man immediately squeezes past me and heads for the window. The bald man temporarily abandons his search and steps to the doorway, too. I want to encourage him to keep looking, but he seems intent on finding out the cause of the ruckus. The shorter technician shouts from the window. “Somebody just clipped the side of the fuel truck with the wing of one of Don’s planes. He’s gonna be ticked.”
His compatriot joins him by the windows. “Oh, there’s Don right there.”
I slide over to the toolbox and hesitate momentarily. In the maintenance world, rummaging through a man’s tools without permission is something akin to groping his wife, and I’m not used to violating that unwritten rule, but time is of the essence. I push the top drawer shut and pull out the next one. I shift a box of electrical connectors aside and find the soldering kit underneath. A loose roll of solder lies next to it. I toss my other things onto a stool and put my chronometer on the workbench. The butane soldering torch has plenty of fluid in the reservoir, so I flip it on and strike the igniter button. It blazes to life with a sound like a miniature jet engine. One of the men shouts from the window. “Oh shit, he’s got a gun!”
There is scrambling for the door and the front room goes quiet. I poke my head around the corner and get a look out the window. To the men’s credit, they haven’t run away from the danger, but rather toward it. Traus is out of the plane and waving a gun around. Don seems to be facing the majority of his anger and I’m worried for the big man’s safety, but I also imagine Traus is trying to save whatever bullets he has left for me. It doesn’t keep him from pointing the gun in people’s faces. Some of his threats must work because someone I don’t recognize points toward the avionics shop. Traus looks my way, and while I doubt he can see me from his position, I curse inwardly and dash forward to lock the office door. I shut the door to the back shop as well. It’s a flimsy plywood door and won’t hold up long, but I need to buy all the time I can get.
I dart back to the soldering torch and find it plenty hot. I carefully burn away the solder holding the ruined diode and use a pair of needle-nose pliers to yank the part free. The new diode has a line on one end that means it’s directional, but the old one is burnt too badly to decipher which side was which. I have a fifty-fifty chance of getting it to work. I try to imagine what getting something backward in a precision chronometer could mean. I hesitate just long enough to remember the diagrams. I plunge my hand into each of the pockets of my jacket and pants till I find Abe’s schematics. The sound of plate glass breaking heralds Traus’s entry into the building. Shit.
I locate the blueprint, and the new diode slips into place after a little trimming. I drip solder onto the ends as quick as I can, blowing on the droplets to try to cool them into place. It looks messy, but I think it will hold. The shop door shakes as someone slams against it. I need more time. The door withstands the first few blows then starts to buckle. I scoop the loose parts from my chronometer into Abe’s tool tin and gather up my things, then duck under the workbench next to the door. The door splinters in the center and the top half of Traus’s body appears first before he kicks open the remnants of the door. As soon as he steps into the room, I sink the hot soldering iron into his thigh.
The smell of burning flesh and leg hair accompanies Traus’s scream. I take a small delight in the sound as I sprint for the side door to the parking lot. I collide with a parked car as soon as I’m out the door, and I ricochet off it toward the maintenance shop. I fly across the parking lot as fast as I can. Traus still has the gun, even if he won’t be moving very fast, and I don’t intend to give him an opportunity to use it.
The maintenance hangar is cluttered with at least a dozen airplanes. Most are single-engine aircraft, but there is also a turbo prop commuter and a helicopter parked on a rolling wooden helipad. I check the door to the office but find it locked. The mechanics all seem to have left, drawn away by the crash. I dodge around the various protruding wings and tail surfaces, looking for a place to hide. A couple minutes. That’s all I need. I make my way to the back wall of the hangar and I’m headed toward the big turboprop aircraft when I hear the yell.
“Come on out, Travers!”
Traus’s voice echoes around the hangar. I duck behind the nearest airplane. I realize the landing gear tires will give very little cover if Traus decides to bend down to look under the planes. I can see his legs near the front of the hangar. I crouch low and move to the rolling helipad. The helicopter has no doors, but it’s facing the back wall away from Traus. I wait till he limps around a plane in the front of the hangar before climbing into the pilot seat of the helicopter. I extract my tool kit as silently as I can and locate the tiny screws for the chronometer backplate. I work furiously as Traus starts his search of the hangar.
“I don’t know how you did it, Travers, but you shouldn’t have come back.” I peek out of the cockpit and spot him peering behind some oil drums in the corner. He has his pistol ready. “Ambrose might have been fooled by that disappearing act of yours, but I knew better. You aren’t the type to leave it alone. You had to come back.”
I spin the second screw in as fast as I can and rummage around for the third. Abe had been specific about being sure everything was right before using the chronometer. I know the backplate functions as a ground for the user to the device and, it’s possible I might not need every screw, but I’m not about to take the risk and accidentally mess this up. I only want to do this once. I get the third screw in but can’t find the last one. I lift up my satchel to see if it fell out on the seat and something tumbles out the unlatched top of the bag. The object hits the wooden helipad and bounces off. I watch in dismay as the baseball rolls under the wing of the neighboring aircraft and finally stops over a metal drainage grate.
Son of a bitch. Are you TRYING to get yourself shot?
Traus’s taunts have stopped, which I dislike immensely. Now I have no idea where he is. I spot the loose screw on the carpet of the passenger side foot well and snatch it up. I work the screwdriver as fast as I can, and once the backplate is secured, slide the chronometer onto my wrist. It latches into place and I get a wave of relief. I ditch the satchel and climb slowly over to the passenger side door. All right, Traus. Where are you?
The bullet rips a hole out the front of my jacket just below my armpit. I fall out of the helicopter and hit the epoxied hanger floor with a thud. The pain in my arm registers first, then the burning at my ribs. He shot me. He actually shot me. Traus laughs from the far side of the helicopter. Looking under the helipad from my position on the floor, I can see his feet walking casually around the front of the next aircraft over. I cringe from the burning in my side as I roll over and spy the baseball still well out of reach. I need more time.
I dial my chronometer for thirty minutes into the past. I get my hand to the floor just as Traus rounds the helicopter. He raises the gun. I blink.
Of all the jumps I’ve made, there have been few that have given me anywhere near the relief I now feel staring up at the ceiling of the airplane hangar. Warm blood is wicking into my T-shirt from my ribs and the inside of my bicep, but when I lift my jacket and look at the wounds, I can tell it’s far from fatal. I’ve been fortunate, and the bullet just grazed my side and the inside of my arm on its way through. Thank God. My jacket is ruined, but I’m ready to take it off anyway. I live in Florida for God’s sake. I’m almost home.
There’s an Ace of B
ase song on the maintenance shop radio, Don’t Turn Around, giving me an instant flashback to my teenage years. In the background is a steady buzzing that I realize is coming from the high intensity overhead lights hanging from the ceiling. The lights are on.
Shit! The lights are on! I scramble to my feet and stagger from the discomfort in my ribs. I try to remember how long ago I set off the EMP. I am not going to fix this chronometer again.
I spin the dial on the chronometer back to the time I left, not sure if I have minutes or even just seconds till the device detonates. I use the hangar wall so I’ll arrive behind Traus and press the pin.
He’s still aiming the gun at the floor when I arrive. I actually catch a glimpse of my other self disappearing in front of him as I show up. Traus doesn’t have any time to react before I tackle him from behind. We both hit the floor and the gun skitters away across the slick epoxy, glancing off a tire and out of reach. Traus’s surprise doesn’t keep him from reacting quickly. He lashes at me with an elbow that just misses and rolls over to punch me. His fist strikes my shoulder and dislodges me from on top of him. He’s spry for his age and moving astonishingly well. All right, asshole. Let’s do this. I punch him hard in the thigh, right where I jabbed him with the soldering iron. I’m ready to fight dirty now. The chronothon has taught me that much at least. Traus bellows and shoves me away. I bounce off the front cowling of an airplane, denting the aluminum and narrowly missing the propeller as I topple over.
I spring to my feet again, not willing to give him a chance at the gun. Blood is running down my arm and into my palm. It makes a squishing sound as I clench my fist and swing at Traus’s face. He blocks the blow and hits me hard in the ribs. It’s the opposite side from where he shot me, but it still hurts like hell. I get one jab in with my left, striking his right temple before he lowers his shoulder and barrels into me. We both hit the edge of a low-wing airplane where the wing joins its fuselage, and our momentum carries us up and over. The wing must have been recently waxed because we both slide headfirst toward the floor on the other side without a hint of a stop. We land in a tangle of limbs and I struggle to get up, but Traus kicks my legs out from under me.
I’m winded and aching now, my energy starting to ebb. Traus flails at me and catches the top of my head with one punch and then another. Come on, show a weakness somewhere. I defend my head as best I can, but I’m taking a beating. I jam my heel hard into his groin. It pauses his attack long enough for me to crawl away. To my relief, Traus doesn’t follow, but when I look back, I see why. He’s spotted the gun underneath the airplane. Shit. He gets down on one knee to grab it. I try to get to my feet, but my bloody hand slips out from under me. When I start to try again, Traus is looming over me with the gun.
“About time somebody finally kills you, boy. Who would’ve thought it would be so goddamn hard—” The thud cuts his words short. His eyelids flutter and his eyes roll back in his head as he crumples to the floor.
Behind him, Don is holding a crescent wrench and is flanked by the two men from the avionics shop. He steps over Traus’s prone body and picks up the gun. “I told you. STOP WRECKING MY AIRPLANES!”
I slump back to the hangar floor and let my arms fall open. It hurts too badly to laugh, but I laugh anyway.
33
“When I look at the tangled state of time in our universe, with its near infinite pathways to trod, it is intimidating. It also looks like a whole lot of fun.”–Journal of Dr. Harold Quickly, 2210
I’m happy to find that despite Don’s blustering, he’s not the type to hit a man while he’s down. The sight of my bloody shirt may have evoked a little sympathy as well. While Traus ends up rather roughly handcuffed by means of some industrial strength zip ties, I manage to avoid that fate by explaining that I was trying to stop him. I make vague allusions to a non-specific government agency and hope that they buy my B.S. I suspect they don’t, but with the whole world suddenly experiencing the effects of a planet-wide power loss, no one is too quick to call my bluff. The mechanics merely keep an eye on me while Don makes more attempts to phone the police.
The crew of the Bayside Flyers maintenance shop seem like they’d normally be amiable fellows, the kind I’d typically love to hang out with, at least on a day when I hadn’t wrecked most of their planes. That’s not today. I also have a recollection of Major McClure’s scientist touting the recurring nature of his redundant wave technology. I don’t know how long it will be till the next pulse makes its way through the atmosphere, and I’m not looking to do any more roadside repairs. Also, more importantly, one more jump is all that stands between me and freedom. One more jump till I’m back to her.
One of the mechanics is kind enough to help me retrieve my satchel and even picks up my baseball for me before I retreat to the bathroom under the premise of getting my wounds cleaned up. I do need medical attention but as soon as I get the door closed I’m entering chronometer coordinates from the back of Milo’s baseball photo. I doubt Cal Ripken Jr. could ever have imagined how vital his autograph could be to saving the universe. Hopefully someone will enjoy it once I leave it behind. My hand is shaking with anticipation and adrenaline as I get a firm grip on the ball and hold it to the proper height. So long Epsilon Solo.
I’m going home.
<><><>
In hindsight, getting the blood cleaned up and trying a little first-aid might have been smart to do before making the jump, as my gory appearance causes gasps of concern from Mym and Milo when I arrive in the memorabilia shop in Seattle. Major McClure and Kara are there also, as well as a handful of soldiers and a pair of full-size cardboard cutouts of Mark McGwire and Ken Griffy Jr.
Mym is at my side instantly, propping me up as I teeter from the landing. My head is fuzzy from the fight and possibly the blood loss. Major McClure can’t contain his curiosity more than a few seconds. “Did it work? Did you set it off?”
I smile and nod while wrapping my arm around Mym. “Hey, you.”
“Hey, yourself.” She probes my bloodied shirt and finally smiles at me, resting slightly easier once she’s seen my wounds aren’t serious. “God you’re a mess. Sit down.”
McClure grabs the stool from in front of a ’50s jukebox and shoves it toward me. Milo reaches for the baseball on the stand and I suddenly remember my deal. “WAIT! Don’t touch that! There’s another one coming through.” I back away from the space I arrived in and shoo people out of the way.
McClure’s expression hardens. “What are you talking about? Who did you—”
Lazarus arrives with Elenora right in the middle of his question. The soldiers and the major have guns drawn in an instant.
“NO! He’s with me.” I step in front of the major. “They’re cool.”
Major McClure doesn’t lower his weapon.
“This Zealot is part of Ambrose’s organization. We’ve got him on the surveillance.”
I keep my hands up. “He saved my life. Don’t shoot him.” I turn around and find Lazarus has his hands raised, too. Elenora is clinging to the back of his jacket with her body pressed against him.
I give the group an abbreviated explanation of how the Zealot eliminated the parallel timestream. Thankfully, the major lowers his gun about halfway through my explanation. He finally holsters it when I tell him about the successful use of the EMP in both streams.
He steps forward and extends a meaty hand. “I guess we owe you a thank you, Mr. . . .”
“Your gratitude isn’t necessary,” Lazarus replies. “I did what I did because I don’t believe what Ambrose had planned will ever be the answer. I only want to get my niece back to her father.”
McClure rests his hands on his hips. “Will you tell Zsa to stop this fighting?”
“I’ll tell him what I experienced, and I’m sure he will respect that you’ve allowed his daughter safe passage. I can’t speak to his plans beyond that.”
Major McClure seems satisfied with that answer. As he straightens up and directs his men outside, I see the
hint of a smile on his lips. I don’t know if he’s pleased that the prophet now owes him a favor or is pleased that there will be more of the war to come. I get the impression he’s not ready for a life of peace just yet.
Lazarus gestures toward Mym. “Is this the girl you had the message for?”
“What message?” Mym looks up at me.
I squirm a little. “Nothing.”
“What were you going to tell me?”
“I’ll tell you later.” I squeeze her closer. “We’ve got lots of time.”
<><><>
As much as Seattle in 1996 seems like an enjoyable city, I only linger with the major and his men long enough to get bandaged up and into some clean clothes. Lazarus has saved me the leather jacket he took from the version of me who died, and as I fold up my own bloodstained jacket, I can’t help but think about the other me disappearing into the ether. The image is still lingering once I say goodbye to the major. I promise him a full debriefing in the future once I’ve had time to recover, but for now I’ve had enough of his strategies.
Kara and Milo actually agree to get coffee with Mym and me before we say our goodbyes. I promise I’ll keep in touch, and wish them well in their ongoing surveillance of the Epsilon Solo solitaire. Kara even gives me a hug in an unprecedented display of affection that leaves me grinning like an idiot. I wink at Milo and try to draw his attention to this new softer side of Kara, but he seems oblivious to my matchmaking. Mym has the sense to steer me out of the coffee shop before I can cause any more awkwardness.
Mym still has some of the anchors she used during her trip from the central streams, and we pick up a few more en route. She makes a call to Abraham via the TPT in her dad’s Australian lab and gives him the news that I’m alive. It takes us a couple of days worth of traveling to get back to the heart of the central streams and finally to November Prime in 2009. Walking up the steps to my own apartment is a surreal experience. We’ve chosen to arrive on the same day I left. Everything looks exactly the same. It couldn’t feel more different.
In Times Like These Boxed Set Page 108
