Convergence Point

by Liana Brooks

  “My resignation? For what . . . not dying?” Sam was indignant, but Director Loren was clearly done with the interruptions. She withered under his glare. “I’m sorry, sir.”

  “Trust me—­I’m not going to ask you to resign. It’s not your fault, Rose. There’s always that one agent who catches media attention like a lightning rod. You just happen to be it.”

  “I don’t try to get their attention.”

  “You know the bureau, though. Attention means promotion. It’s hard for other agents to see your record as anything but self-­aggrandizing stunts.”

  “I’m sorry iterations of me keep getting killed. I’ll try to keep that under control. Maybe I can send a group memo to myselves.” She crossed her arms and scowled at him.

  “Agent . . .”

  He gave her a long look, somewhere between stern and sympathetic. Finally, he said, “You sure you don’t want something to eat before we go into the debrief? There are some donuts in the main office.”

  Her stomach cramped at the suggestion. “I’ll be fine.”

  “Okay, right in there then.” Director Loren led her into the main conference room, where the rest of the region’s senior agents were waiting.

  The room held a row of tables set in a U-­shape with computers, locking desk drawers, and plush red seats that looked comfortable but undoubtedly would feel like torture devices after the first hour. Ten other agents were already there, including Agent Petrilli, and the illustrious Senior Agent Alisha Mada, her inky-­black hair twisted out and salted with white. She’d had a decorated thirty-­year career, first in the USA FBI then the CBI, and the only reason she’d taken a district was because her nephew had been killed by gang violence and she wanted it cleaned up before her retirement.

  It had been cleaned up, and her retirement was imminent.

  Not soon enough to avoid her being here for this, though.

  Sam met Mada’s eyes and tried to smile. Mada’s career was the one she’d always modeled, or hoped she was modeling. On days like today, she had serious doubts about her ability to live up to those standards.

  Mada wasn’t smiling.

  Next to Agent Mada was a younger man nervously tapping a stylus on the desktop. He saw Sam’s look and folded his hands in his lap.

  Director Loren looked around the room. “Are we all here?”

  “Yes, sir,” the junior agent said. Sam was surprised his voice didn’t squeak.

  “Who’re you?” Director Loren asked.

  “Junior Agent Gerrard Wade, sir. Agent Eckleton sent me because he’s in the hospital.”

  “Right. Foot surgery.” Director Loren sighed. “What’s your clearance level, Wade?”

  “Um . . .”

  Director Loren jerked his head toward the door. “Get out. Tell Agent Eckleton I’ll visit him in the hospital later today.”

  “Um, yes, sir.” Wade gathered his things and hurried out the door.

  “Everyone else here has top secret clearance, correct?”

  There was a murmur of affirmatives from around the room.

  “Good. Let’s get started. Has anyone not had a chance to read the statement I sent out this morning.” If anyone hadn’t, they weren’t stupid enough to say so. “Good.” Director Loren sat down at the right corner of the U. “Agent Rose will catch us up on what she knows about the events of last night.”

  Sam looked to the regional director in confusion. “Where do you want me to start, sir?”

  “Start with the events of the past few days,” Director Loren said.

  Sam nodded and tried to gather her harried thoughts. Biting her lip wondering if ‘In the Beginning was the Word’ was a good response. Director Loren didn’t look like he’d enjoy that bit of Catholic school humor.

  So . . . the truth it is.

  “Last year, a man named Dr. Emir invented a machine that he wanted to use to send messages back in time. It was meant to be an early alert system for natural disasters or terrorist attacks. It failed stupendously in that regard.

  “What it did do was create a connection with timelines similar to our own. Parallel universes in a way. Emir called them iterations. The woman killed earlier this week was Detective Samantha Rose. Me from a different iteration of time. She crossed into our timeline, looking for Gant. She stole my car at least once. She impersonated me, most likely followed me, and, in the end, she died. Gant is a killer with no parallel in our iteration. I don’t know what psychosis drove him to pursue me after the other woman was dead, but he did. He firebombed my apartment, shot my dog, and put my partner in the hospital.”

  “Iteration? Timelines?” Agent Mada’s stern frown was skeptical.

  Director Loren made a circular motion with his hand, encouraging Sam to open up.

  “Explain what an iteration is,” Director Loren said. “I doubt anyone understood that part before their morning coffee.”

  “Time and reality are not as set in stone as we’d like,” Sam said. “Emir proved the theory of the Many-­Worlds Hypothesis correct. Every choice fractures reality into different iterations of time. There are periods of expansion followed by collapses. Eventually, all iterations come back to one reality, and the others are discarded. Emir termed the event a Decoherence, the collapse of an iteration. When two iterations run parallel, it’s called a Convergence, and it is possible to cross into other timelines during a convergence. During other periods, it’s theoretically possible for a person to travel backward—­possibly forward—­in their own iteration.”

  “Why weren’t we informed about this earlier?” Agent Mada demanded coolly. “The risk of having untracked criminals from other timelines is a significant security risk. Everyone in the bureau should be aware of what’s happening.”

  Sam glanced at Director Loren and sighed. “We thought the machine was destroyed last year and that we wouldn’t experience any more interference from other timelines.”

  “A foolish assumption,” Mada said. “Especially if you didn’t have proof the machine was destroyed.”

  “We had proof,” Sam said. She’d smashed the damn thing herself. And she was willing to pick up a sledgehammer and do it again. Then she’d burn Henry’s notes. “But it was rebuilt by a student of Dr. Emir’s. Actually, he built two. A working prototype and another smaller machine that he tested in his lab and which killed him.”

  “Give them the full story,” Director Loren ordered.

  Sam closed her eyes. “Emir’s student, Dr. Henry Troom, activated the smaller machine at his lab, crossed back in time to the day of his mentor’s death, was shot by then–Senior Agent Marrins of the CBI, fell back into our time dead of a bullet to the head. The smaller machine was unstable and caused an explosion.” She could practically see their thought processes. The machine was a shiny new toy of destruction. Like Mac, they were all thinking about that one thing in their past they could change. Contemplating what crimes they could stop before they ever happened.

  She was losing them to the madness of the machine. To that siren song everyone heard but her. “I need to be clear: These are not toys,” Sam said. “The machine has killed at least two ­people through improper use and been instrumental in the deaths of several others. Leaving our timeline open creates a security breach we are not prepared to deal with.”

  “We can guard the machine, though, can’t we?” Petrilli asked. “Put guards around it and prevent anyone from walking in.”

  Sam shook her head. “The machine doesn’t deliver you to the machine on the other end. At least, that’s not been our experience. There is a way to make that happen, but we don’t know how. We don’t know nearly enough to contemplate keeping the machine active. Most ­people who cross between timelines wind up in a random location. Unless we have a way to calculate it, this machine creates an open border we can’t defend. Look at Gant. He crossed over from another iteration and was hunti
ng us before we knew he existed.”

  “Not much different than most stalkers,” Petrilli said with a shrug. “Usually, we only find them after they’ve been following the victim for months. We can handle that sort of situation.”

  She stared at him and wondered if Petrilli realized how stupid he sounded. Probably not. He hadn’t spent the last week reading physics notes until his eyes burned. He just . . . couldn’t know. Couldn’t understand.

  “Petrilli is right,” Mada said. “If we get ahead of this, we could use it to our advantage.”

  Petrilli nodded at her encouragingly. “There’s a lot to be said for being able to control time.”

  “Yes, if we could control time,” Sam said. “We can’t. No one alive knows how the machine works. This is the new atom bomb, and we are poking it with a stick waiting to see if confetti comes out. Guess what? We’re not going to get confetti and candy.” Saints and angels. Why couldn’t she be having this argument with someone rational, like MacKenzie? These ­people were too . . . too . . . too her, she realized. This was exactly what Agent Rose would look like after ten years of ser­vice in the bureau. Able to rationalize anything in the name of the greater good, with full faith in the infallibility of the bureau.

  Mada raised her hand. “You said we have the research Emir used?”

  “Yes.” Oh, she did not like where this was going.

  “Then we have a way of learning how to control the machine.”

  Sam opened her mouth to protest, but Mada held her hand up to stop her. “But I also recommend caution. Agent Rose is right, we shouldn’t be poking anything with a stick. Yet we also shouldn’t dismiss it too easily. There are many things in history we could change.”

  “That would be a mistake,” Sam said, cutting off Director Loren. She’d rather her director fire her than let this go on. “Changing the past will drive you insane. We have Gant in custody, he’s insane. I don’t think he started that way, but when he came here, everything that had made his history was erased. Anyone we asked to use the machine would be at risk.”

  “So we ask for volunteers,” Mada said. “Ask them to fix our greatest mistakes, and in exchange, let them fix one of their own.”

  It was like they weren’t even listening. “How would you determine our nation’s greatest mistakes?” Sam demanded, hands moving to her hips. “Marrins tried that. He wanted to go back and stop the nationhood vote. Gant wanted to leave the country before he committed his crimes. If you ask any two ­people what part of history ought to be stopped, you’ll get three different answers. Are you willing to risk another civil war to justify using the machine?”

  “We won’t ask the ­people. This isn’t a referendum. We have a government for a reason.” Mada’s dark eyes were frosty with contempt.

  “So we’ll put the power to eradicate parts of our culture into the hands of the wealthy and elite? You’ll destroy parts of our heritage with no idea what impact it will have on the future, or our present?” Sam shook her head. “No. This is too dangerous.”

  Director Loren held up a hand. “Thank you, Agent Rose. Please have a seat. We have a great deal to discuss here.”

  “Sir—­” There was nothing to discuss.

  “Your opinion has been noted, Agent Rose,” Director Loren said as he stood up. “I appreciate your passion for the topic. But, as your supervisor, I will caution you to examine your own feelings on the matter.”

  Sam sank reluctantly into the chair opposite the director as she realized his decision was already made. Director Loren might not have even been the one making the decision. While she’d slept, he could have passed it up the chain of command, so the choice to use the machine ended up with a politician. Ended up with someone like her mother, someone who wouldn’t think twice before rearranging the universe to suit their whims.

  “Dr. Troom was close to you,” Director Loran said.

  “Not particularly, sir.”

  “You rescued him last year during the assault on the laboratory where he worked?”

  “Yes, sir.” Her shoulder tightened in anticipation of what was coming.

  “From personal experience, I know how much it hurts to lose an asset you’ve risked your life for.”

  She swallowed the angry refutation she wanted to use. “I regret the loss of Henry’s life, but I assure you that’s not why I object to using the machine, sir.”

  “Your dog was killed by this. Your partner injured. You are too closely tied, and too emotionally invested, to think clearly about the possibilities,” Director Loren said with a patient smile.

  Sam resisted the urge to cross her arms. Looking combative wouldn’t help her stance. “With all due respect, sir, that’s a weak argument. I’ve been dealing with this for over a year. I’m the only person with any direct experience in this field. That makes me the expert. I’m not being emotional when I tell you that using the machine will cost more lives than you or I are willing to spend. You’re about to make the Battle of the Somme look like a picnic. Sir.”

  Director Loren stared at her, face a mask of emotionless rigidity. “I’ll take that under advisement. Agents, we will follow Agent Mada’s direction to proceed with caution. That being said, let us discuss the possible ways this new device could help our nation.”

  “Putting a positive spin on it won’t make it better,” Sam muttered. Director Loren sent her another harsh glare, and she snapped her mouth shut. Her teeth ground together as the other agents talked about the things that could be changed. Old cases worth revisiting. Being able to place a person at the scene of the crime to witness it without interfering, stopping tragic deaths in advance. They hadn’t heard a word she’d said.

  An hour later, her stomach was in knots, and nothing had changed.

  Director Loren dismissed them. “Agent Rose, stay a moment please.”

  She stopped at the door, not willing to turn. “Sir.”

  “I know this is hard for you. You’ve been on the front lines, and it’s left an impression. Have you considered taking a few days off?”

  “I’ll take it under advisement, sir.” Just like he’d taken her suggestions under advisement.

  “You’re going to go down in history, Agent. A hundred years from now, they’ll be reading about you in history class.”

  “A hundred years from now, there won’t be anyone left to attend class.”

  The hospital was oddly quiet for an afternoon. Sam walked down the halls, heels clicking on the floor with a comforting familiarity. The smell of antiseptic and the slow beeps of the machines guarding the patients helped soothe her. She slipped into Mac’s room and checked the nurse’s notes on the computer screen by his bed. Poor security there. Someone should have logged out before leaving the room. Still, she was grateful for the oversight. Mac’s vitals were good. He’d recover in time.

  She sat down in a hard plastic chair next to his bed. “Mac?” The whisper didn’t wake him. She gently reached for his hand. He was cold. So still. Corpselike . . . almost dead when she needed him most. She squeezed his hand and bit back the tears. There was so much she needed to tell him, to ask him, to take from him, she realized with a sickened sensation. She always took from Mac. Stole his time, and his couch, and his attention . . . She had endangered his career more than once.

  She put her head on the bed beside his hand, waiting for him to wake up. She wanted one more thing from him: a chance to say good-­bye.

  A nurse bustled in, regarded her in speculative silence, and retreated after checking the monitors.

  She was still waiting for Mac to wake up when Agent Petrilli knocked on the door.

  “Hi.” He smiled like a movie star waiting for the camera flash.

  Sam forced a smile of her own. “Hi.”

  “Your phone was off, and Director Loren asked if I could check on you on my way back home.”

  Sam sat up. What
had they done?

  “I figured you’d be here.” Petrilli smiled. “I always wondered who I was competing with for your attention. You two are quite something, aren’t you?”

  “No, just friends,” she said for what felt like the hundredth time. She pulled her hand away from Mac’s. Petrilli couldn’t know what Mac meant to her. No one could. Not if Mac was ever going to have a normal life. “He saved my life once. I figured the least I could do was visit the hospital and check up on him.”

  “Is he going to be okay?”

  “He’ll be fine. He has a minor concussion, a ­couple of scrapes and bruises. Nothing serious.” Hoss had taken bullets for her. Mac had taken the bruises. She ought to be dead twice over, but here she sat unscathed, while everyone around her suffered. “Did you need anything?”

  “No. I just wanted you to know they ran the first op with the machine up at Fort Benning.”

  Her heartbeat slowed, stuttering, threatening to stop as cold fear gripped her. “Oh?” She kept her voice light and calm.

  “They went back a week in time and saved a baby who was going to be killed in a car collision. I thought you might need to hear that.”

  “Really?” Even to her ears, her voice sounded strained.

  “We’re going to do good with this, Rose. I know you’re worried it could all go sideways, but it isn’t. I promise. I’m on your side. I agree we need to be careful. But we saved a kid’s life today, what’s better than that?”

  “Nothing,” Sam lied. “I’m sure the family is relieved.” She waited a moment. “How did they react?”

  He glanced down the hall and shrugged. “They were good.”

  “You’re lying.”

  Petrilli winced. “There was some shock. The family was grieving, and then it hadn’t happened, it was an adjustment. We sent a therapist to work it out with them. In the future, we’ll probably try to hit these things within a few hours. Giving ­people too long to adjust to changes only gives them more psychological dissonance to worry about.”