He jerked again, and again, and . . .
CHAPTER TEN
OCT 15, 2005 | 2:15 PM | hangman’s tree
“CAN YOU HAND me a nine-sixteenths socket?” Anthony asked.
He was standing in a pit built into the metal floors with both hands covered in grease. Above him, secured with its back facing down, was a prototype developed by one of his subsidiaries. They referred to the creation as The Mock 7, but anyone who had seen a military science fiction movie in the last three decades would have known immediately that they were looking at an armored Mech.
Anthony had called this model a Thor, because of its large hammers in place of hands. Designed to give a normal man or woman a fighting chance against a Ferox, his development team hadn’t ever known the specific purpose. He’d had thirty of the prototypes stored at the Seattle site, and in the next few weeks they’d have at least twice that brought in.
Then again, he was still thinking about moving materials with human logistics. How he would slip the Mechs through customs in shipping containers from overseas development sites and all the rest that would be necessary. He kept forgetting that with Mr. Clean, such subterfuge wasn’t necessary. The AI could teleport the goods here in an instant and there wouldn’t be any paper trail for The Cell to follow.
“You know, I am capable of swapping out the old circuit boards with the upgrades,” Mr. Clean said. “I mean no disrespect in pointing out I could do so far more efficiently.”
“I’m aware,” Anthony said, his hand reaching out of the pit and grasping at air to emphasize he still needed a socket. “But if I let you, then I’d be staring at a wall while I wait for the recon teams to tell us if they have a plan that is going to work.”
A metallic pincher formed out of the floor, rising like a blob of liquid until its shape solidified. Mr. Clean used it to pull open a drawer in a toolbox. “So, you’re doing unnecessary labor inefficiently in order to distract yourself from the anxiety of waiting?”
Anthony chuckled. “We call it passing the time, Mr. Clean. I don’t know if it’s something you’re going to easily relate to.”
Finally, Anthony felt the socket press into his palm. A moment passed as he swapped out the heads and went back to work.
“Sydney is approaching,” Mr. Clean said.
“That was quick,” he said, as he finished replacing the back-access port on the Mech. By the time he heard her footsteps on the metal scaffolding, he’d gotten out of the pit and was washing his hands in a nearby utility sink.
“You’re earlier than I expected, something up?” Anthony asked, as he dried his hands. “And any chance it’s good?”
“Perhaps,” she said. “One of our team is reporting major outcome discrepancies.”
“How is that maybe good news?” Anthony asked.
“It’s . . . well, it’s Jonathan,” she said. “He’s changing the future.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
BOREALIS HISTORICAL RECORD | 710010654642
THE MOST PROMINENT gaps in my records chronicling the exploits of Jonathan Tibbs involves the incident that came to be known as The Queue Loop.
As of current date, Jonathan Tibbs has never volunteered a full recount of his experiences regarding the twenty-eight consecutive activations that took place between the minutes of 2:15 pm and 2:16 pm on Oct 15th, 2005.
Why he remains so guarded about his experience is a source of continued speculation. Understandably, he is frequently beseeched for a full account, as he often proves to be in possession of remarkable bits of knowledge. These range from details as specific as anatomical information regarding the Feroxian species, as complex as the general working of time mechanics, and as mundane as the personal private information of many of his friends and associates.
While the latter is the most often cited reason that he endures frequent requests for a full accounting, Jonathan nevertheless maintains that he is under no obligation to speak of these events. Thus far, no attempt to coax details he does not wish to share has been successful.
On occasion, Jonathan has disclosed some portions of his experiences. However, these accounts are generally tailored, revealing the most inconsequential of details rather openly, while often confining those of greatest curiosity to bare necessity.
I—the Borealis entity currently known as Mr. Clean—have been present for every known account he has provided. These include the trivial mention of small details as well as the longer narratives. However, while I continue to record these accounts for further posterity, I fear that a full debriefing of his experiences may never be provided.
THE QUEUE LOOP| ACTIVATION ONE
Two things had changed the moment Jonathan was pulled clear of the shell’s threshold. He’d felt the twitch trigger in his chest. The burn of activation had come over him hard and fast as a crashing wave. His muscles had stopped obeying. He’d have dropped to the floor had it not been for Harrison’s guards. Their grip on his arms kept him vertical even as he became dead weight.
The second, and far more disturbing of the changes, was the dime-sized piece of Mr. Clean coming back to life. He’d felt it attach itself to him while he was being taken prisoner. His wardens had not found it when he was searched, but after being placed inside the containment shell, the piece had gone lifeless, stiffened into a solid transparent disc. He’d kept it hidden beneath his tongue, but the moment he was outside of the shell it came back to life.
This was like a worm slithering up his sinuses and into his inner ear. He reflected on the number of times he’d thought of swallowing the disc to keep it from being discovered. After this experience, he was more than a little glad he hadn’t.
“Mr. Tibbs!” The guard’s tone reflecting her lack of patience. “I told you, we got a real short fuse for—”
He never heard the end of her statement. Sound ended abruptly as the burn of activation swept through him and cut off his hearing along with the rest of his senses. His escorts could have already dropped him to the floor and be beating him to a bloody mess. There was no way he’d have known while his blood was lava in his veins. That one agony drowned out everything else until activation was completed.
When self-awareness resurfaced, he didn’t know how long he’d been out. The world was still black. Soon what began as muffled sounds became speech he understood again.
“What the hell,” one of women said. “What the hell is it?”
“Is he dead?”
“He sure as shit ain’t moving.”
Jonathan recognized the voice of the one in charge. “Rolland, check his pulse.”
“But . . . ma’am, I . . .” Rolland stammered. “He’s glowing for Christ’s sakes.”
Having now regained enough wherewithal to know he was lying face up, he thought his vision was slower to return than usual. Then he remembered he was blindfolded. When he took in a deep breath, he heard the guards gasp.
“Yeah!” Rolland said. “He’s breathing.”
Jonathan’s alien instinct, the compass that located a Ferox’s portal stone, came to the forefront of his mind. He sat up, which brought a second round of anxious reactions from the guards. He could hear the shuffling of their boots as they stepped back on the corridor floor.
He tilted his head, trying to get a better read on the inbound Ferox’s location. To the guards, he’d have looked like a man using his head as though it were a radio antenna and he was trying to get better reception.
“Tibbs,” the leader said. “If you know what’s good for you, you’ll hold real damn still.”
Actively trying to tune them out as he focused on the signal, he ignored the warning. The Ferox wasn’t on the move yet but the portal was high above him. No surprise, he’d known they were being held underground after the lengthy elevator ride that preceded his being put inside the shell.
It was then that Jonathan heard the jovial booming voice of Mr. Clean. “Jonathan? Can you hear me? Your captors possess technology that is creating a disturbance in my ability to—�
�
“Mr. Clean, can you hold that thought a moment,” Jonathan interjected.
“Who’s he talking to?” he heard the guards whispering.
Having assessed his situation, Jonathan broke free of his cuffs like he was snapping a cobweb.
“Son of a . . .”
Just as he reached for the blindfold, a baton slammed down on his forehead. Jonathan flinched—though it had little to do with the attack—the corridor was bright, and his pupils hadn’t adjusted. Squinting, he saw the tail end of the exchange. Rolland cradling her hand while reciting a litany of provocative swear words after her baton clattered to the floor.
Jonathan looked at the weapon, then back up at Rolland’s mask as she backed away from him.
Ohhh, yeah, that’s gonna sting, he thought, remembering when he had made the mistake of taking a swing at Heyer with a baseball bat. Still, he didn’t show her his sympathies. Rather, he stared daggers into Rolland’s mask.
As amusing as it may be in the movies when a bad guy tries to hit Superman with a crowbar, Rolland had just tried to cave in his skull. She hadn’t known it wouldn’t kill him. She may have been reacting out of fear, but had he not been activated she could have ended him with that swing. As such, he wanted to make sure Rolland knew with certainty that she’d earned the privilege of his notice.
Jonathan stood, and the guards stepped back. The three who still had their batons didn’t make a move after seeing how it had worked out for Rolland. Instead, they reached for their short-range tasers.
“Tibbs,” the leader said, uncertainty in her voice as she took aim, “don’t make us put you down.”
He looked at her with a raised eyebrow. “You’re . . . you’re serious? Really?”
“Stand down, now!” she yelled.
Jonathan took a long breath and stepped toward them. They fired only to realize what they must have already feared. The tasers slowed him down as much as a soft breeze. Still, running short of alternatives, they emptied the rest of their charges into him. Jonathan paused to wipe away the wired probes clinging to his shirt as they readied their batons.
They were getting wise quickly, retreating until their backs were against the containment shell door.
“Just put them down,” Jonathan said, looking at each of them in turn, lingering a little while longer on Rolland.
None gave up their weapons, leaving him little choice as he closed the distance. He needed one of them conscious, but he didn’t want to hurt anyone. When they came at him, their attacks might as well have been in slow motion. Yet, to them he must have seemed a blur of motion punctuated by the moments when he bothered to stand somewhat still. He’d disarmed them and tossed their batons down the corridor as he moved between them. Dumbfounded by the ease with which they had been deprived of their weapons, they were further caught off guard when their masks were torn off.
This all stopped abruptly when Jonathan suddenly held the leader by her armored vest, legs dangling and unable to find the floor.
“So much better to put names to faces,” Jonathan said. “Wouldn’t you agree, Rolland?”
He saw her fear, but also a commendable defiance in her. It was mirrored in each of the guards. He was familiar with that look. They knew they couldn’t win but, if he made them, they would die failing.
“All women,” Jonathan said as he looked at each of them. “Why? What’s the angle?”
Tightening jaws and eyes narrowed into hostile glares was all he got. Still, as he looked at the three subordinates, he got the sense they didn’t know the answer even had he been ready to force it out of them. However, the leader—her eyes gave away the subtle spark of knowledge.
“I need a hostage, but only one. You’re in charge, so spare them,” Jonathan said to the leader. “They can go tell whoever is running this show that I’ll be along shortly.”
They were loyal, none gave a sign they intended to leave their leader behind. But as Jonathan stared into the commander’s eyes, he could see why she was in charge. Fear was there, but it didn’t have so much control over her that she couldn’t do the math. Her side of this disagreement was in desperate need of reinforcements and bigger guns. If they stayed, all her team would get was injured or worse.
“We both know it’s your best move,” Jonathan said. “Get your people to safety.”
Hesitantly, the leader nodded. “Do . . . do as he says. That’s an order.”
“Harrison, we ain’t leaving you,” Rolland said.
“If he wanted it, we’d already be dead,” Harrison said.
“That’s true,” Jonathan said, turning to Rolland. “And I would definitely start with you.”
Rolland stubbornly took a step closer, and Harrison’s voice turned angry. “I gave you an order!”
The woman blanched, and though she stared at Jonathan with pure hate, she and the other guards began to reluctantly retreat down the opposite end of the corridor. When they were out of sight, he dropped Harrison to the floor. She stumbled in surprise, falling against the door of the shell.
“All women,” Jonathan repeated. “Why?”
He endured two breaths of her delay as she tried to decide if he were bluffing. Then drew back a fist and brought it down on the door. The strike was so fast Harrison barely perceived his movement before an explosion of sound erupted beside her, his fist having slammed into the shell door.
He’d intended to put a hole into the door right beside Harrison’s head. What he achieved was the door bending inward, breaking free of its hinges, shooting through the shell’s interior, until it smashed against his cell door.
Well, that works too.
Hayden and Collin stared back at him wide eyed, unsure what had just happened.
With nothing behind her suddenly, Harrison fell into the shell just as red lights lining the corridor flared to life and an alarm like a barking walrus filled the air. She began to crawl backward, but he quickly had her by the vest again.
“I don’t have all day,” Jonathan said. “So just tell me, how many bones it’s worth to you?”
She stammered getting the answer out, “Sec . . . security measures. All personnel in direct contact with prisoners had to be female.”
“Why?”
“Protocol . . . to re . . . reduce risk of any accomplice assisting in an escape attempt.”
Jonathan scowled for a better explanation.
“All the alien’s known contacts are male.”
His eyebrows rose as suddenly it made sense. Until quite recently, he’d believed Heyer was only dragging men into his war. Until he met Rylee . . .
Jonathan flinched and took a step back from Harrison as his strength wavered.
In all the activity since his implant activated, he hadn’t taken time to think about how the oppressive weight of the bond had withdrawn—pulled back into something smaller at the fringe of his consciousness. The moment her name registered in his mind, he felt it again. Like a faucet that had been turned down to a drip slowly turning up the flow of poison into his blood.
Panic struck him.
He’d been at the mercy of the bond’s abuse for so long that time had become irrelevant. He’d been like a man buried alive but lacking any will to dig himself free.
Why? Why had it stopped? Why this interlude? How long could he hope to keep any power over his mind and body? He could feel his fear of it trying to steal this moment of clarity. He braced himself against it. He needed to know what had given this moment back before it slipped away.
Luckily, the answer really wasn’t that elusive; he might as well have asked himself why he could see in the dark after turning on a flashlight.
Activation. Pain. Endorphins. Adrenaline.
Everything that overwhelmed his body while that searing fire stripped it all away. It took his sight, his hearing, his command of his nervous system. It took his thoughts. It took his identity. It took until it reached its logical conclusion and then it took his consciousness.
Heyer said that
the bond would use his own biology against him, would reduce him to an addict searching for a fix.
“Jonathan!” Mr. Clean’s voice returned with an urgency that tore him from his spiraling thoughts. “You’re too close to the disturbance. I’m losing my connection.”
He looked down to see his feet had crossed the shell’s threshold. Even with its door knocked in and its seal lost, the field this thing generated must have still been functioning at some diminished capacity. But, the shell clearly ran on electricity. He didn’t have time to play clever electrician, he searched for the first thing that looked like a conduit and found a promising target running up the side of the shell near the door.
Tearing it free, he took the line in both hands and yanked. A short-lived flurry of sparks and arcing electricity was followed by the spurting end of the shell’s perpetual thrumming in what sounded like one long hydraulic death hiss.
“Mr. Clean, how’s that?” Jonathan asked.
“The disturbance appears to have been removed,” Mr. Clean replied.
Well, at least something wasn’t complicated for once, Jonathan thought.
They should have been standing in the dark. However, Jonathan could see Harrison’s face in the orange light emanating off his chest. She was trying, unconvincingly, to not notice Jonathan talking to himself. Behind her, his roommates’ startled expressions stared back at him while that looping walrus bark of an alarm continued.
He quickly spotted speakers built into the nearby walls and put a fist through each. It didn’t stop other alarms throughout the entire facility, but at least he could hear himself think again. He pulled Harrison to her feet once more and marched her to the rear of the shell.
“Stay put,” he said, then held his finger to his lips. “I really need to take this call.”
He was addressing the AI as he turned and walked away from her. “Mr. Clean, how much longer will you be online?”
As he listened to the answer, he put one hand through the food slot on Collin’s prison door and yanked the plastic off its hinges. “My primary consciousness will go dormant in approximately fifty-seven minutes.”
The Never Army Page 10
