by Wendy Devore
“The Bugs can be synced, remember? Once one is activated, the second one can be used to bring in another traveler.”
I groaned. “So you found me. Now what?”
“It was important to find you, to apologize.” He raised his eyebrows and tried a crooked grin. “But hey, as long as I’m here, maybe I could zap you with a taser or something.”
I felt a sudden flash of fury. “If that is your idea of a joke, no one’s laughing.”
“I don’t have a taser,” he admitted, reaching his outstretched hands farther as he slowly advanced. “Come back to the lab.”
As quickly as it had appeared, my fury transformed into the bitter flavor of defeat. I threw my hands up in the air.
“No! Besides, I don’t think this is going to work. You all thought I could do some magic here, but I can’t. Nothing works. I don’t think I’m the right person for this job.”
“You couldn’t be more wrong. Don’t you see?” He took a step closer. His gaze was so intense and earnest that I had to bite my lip to keep from looking away. As if this unnerving moment of intimacy had flipped some switch inside me, I could feel my resolve draining away. He tentatively reached his hand toward me, as if I were a timid animal that might bolt at any moment. A single step more, and now he was near enough to smooth my wildly flying hair. He delicately gathered the tangled mass and gave it a gentle twist. I tensed as his hand fell toward his pocket, but he merely produced an elastic hair band, which he expertly snapped around my newly subdued tresses. His hands fell to my shoulders, resting lightly. My muscles tensed even more, and my gaze shifted restlessly from his chin to the magnetic blue of his eyes, wary and searching for a clue to what he’d do next.
“Andric fessed up. Your EEG traces allowed us to crack the far-slice problem. Your ability and this experiment are profoundly entwined. You are the key to everything.”
I stood transfixed in the deepening golden light, and time seemed to slow to a halt as he gently cradled my face in his hands. His thumb caressed my cheek, and an unexpected wave of disorienting bliss washed over me. My heart pounded in my chest and my breath turned shallow; had I turned into some ridiculous giddy schoolgirl or was I simply hyperventilating? He was so close; and my focus narrowed to those striking eyes—the astonishing sapphire of the iris edge framing lighter cerulean ripples. It was easy to lose myself in these tiny galaxies that seemed to bore directly into my soul. The pure liquid hatred I had felt for him was unexpectedly erased. Was he drawing still nearer? The earth’s axis seemed to tilt precariously, and I feared that gravity might fail me completely. I closed my eyes to fight the vertigo but instead breathed in the scent of him—linen and spice and lust. Without another moment of hesitation, I inhaled sharply and leaned my face forward.
The instant his lips met mine, a powerful jolt left me breathless. Points of light blazed behind my eyelids like the flash of a thousand cameras, and I suddenly couldn’t feel any sensation in my body at all. Had I just suffered some kind of aneurism? Bewildered, I snapped open my eyes. The rush of the wind had been replaced by the sound of rapid typing. I was back in the lab, seated in my chair, and bound by the cumbersome EEG cap.
“Hey, hey, hey!” Amir called, jumping out of his seat across the room. “You did it again! That’s our girl,” he crowed, bounding across the room.
I glanced across the table and realized that Andrew was awake as well, staring at me intently. Before Amir could reach the rack of monitors, Andrew unclasped his EEG cap and dropped it deliberately into its bucket.
“Excuse me,” he said, his voice completely devoid of any emotion. Without another word, he left the room. The door’s click as it closed seemed to echo in the lab.
“What’s his problem?” Amir asked, staring at the door. “Wait a minute.” Amir’s eyes widened with dawning realization. “You didn’t just get yourself out. You both got out! Now we’re talkin’! So…how’d you do it?”
I sighed, carefully unhooking my own EEG cap and peeling it from my skull. The pounding headache was back. I should have been elated to have finally achieved my goal, but instead I wrestled with crushing exhaustion and almost paralyzing confusion.
“Listen,” I said, dropping my electrodes into the bucket of saline solution. “I’m dead on my feet, and my head is killing me. I need to rest. Let’s break this down later, okay?”
“All right,” he agreed, stepping aside and nodding. “You’re the boss….”
If only, I thought.
Chapter 18
Andrew
September 27
The gym was empty except for a lone figure throwing an aggressive series of carefully choreographed punches and kicks against a double-angled heavy bag suspended from the ceiling. As soon as the pattern of attack was complete, Andrew released a grunt of frustration and repeated the series of strikes anew.
He heard the click of the lock disengaging as the door to the gym swung open with terrible force, but it didn’t break his concentration. He continued with the series of strikes, rivulets of sweat streaming down his cheeks. Andric Breckenridge strode across the room, livid with anger, to the mat where his son trained.
“We have lost control of this project,” Breckinridge shouted, grabbing Andrew by the shoulder and spinning him around midpunch.
Andrew lowered his taped knuckles and panted, swiping away the sweat from his brow. As he struggled to catch his breath, his frustration focused into an intense beam of aversion.
Breckinridge clutched his son’s shoulder and violently shook him. “Laurent Fournier at the École Polytechnique has held a press conference, announcing his research regarding a revolutionary study involving the brain physiology of Hindu monks.”
Andrew knocked away the older man’s grasp, but Andric just carried on. “To add insult to injury, that French bastard has insinuated monks’ possible connection to the multiverse could be triggered by a physical device. Our patent lawyers have not yet finished drafting their first round of documents on your prototype. We have released nothing publicly. What I want to know from you,” the man growled, moving even closer to his son’s flushed face, “is how our technology has been developed by Fournier? In France?”
Andrew scowled. “Are you suggesting we have a leak? We don’t leak. Our people never leave. You monitor all electronic communications in and out of this building. We don’t work with others in the scientific community. We work for you. There is no leak.”
Breckenridge’s upper lip curled into a snarl. “Then explain why I have devoted massive resources to your research when the outcome of all this expenditure is that someone else reaps the benefits?” the man bellowed, his tone rising at every syllable.
Andrew broke away from the elder’s overbearing presence and gave the heavy bag another pointed strike.
“Need I remind you that you named your empire A. L. B. Aion, literally slapping your initials in front of the Greek god of immortality? Hell, my own name is nothing more than an English bastardization of yours. At best, my work is merely the extension of your colossal ego. You know as well as I do that I cannot predict what aspects of alternative slices merge back down into our own. In that slice Lily and I infiltrated, Kathryn produced that study. It’s no surprise it’s been discovered here as well. You have always known that the risk of unanticipated cross-contamination is there. You deemed that risk acceptable before, but now that someone else has gotten the jump on you, maybe you can finally see how dangerous this whole scheme has become.”
“What I have finally seen,” Breckinridge replied, his eyes cold, “is that I have coddled you and it’s made you soft. You are to take that young woman with you, get out there, and resolve the issues with this technology, or…”
“Or what?” Andrew challenged, meeting the elder’s icy gaze.
“Just do it!” Breckinridge snapped, turned on his heels, and stormed from the room.
As soon as the door slammed, Andrew released a volley of powerful punches against the bag. One after another, the blow
s flew, and he didn’t even notice when Janine Mori entered the room. As the door closed again, Andrew wheeled around with a look of fury in his eyes.
“Rough day?” Janine asked, raising an eyebrow.
Andrew unloaded another few halfhearted punches on the bag before dropping his fists, but said nothing.
“I suppose you’ve already heard about Laurent Fournier.”
Andrew sat down on a weight bench, breathing heavily. “I heard. The boss made it quite clear that it’s my fault.”
“I figured. I passed Andric as he stormed out of here.” She sat down on a mat on the floor. “I know how he pushes your buttons, but he was just here moments ago, and you look like you’ve been abusing that bag for at least an hour. What’s going on?”
Andrew carefully studied his taped knuckles. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“I was looking for you in your lab. Amir said Kate’s been successful. And not only did she pull herself out, she brought you with her. That’s the breakthrough you’ve been looking for, isn’t it? I thought you’d be ecstatic.”
Andrew grunted and frowned but avoided her eyes. Janine stared at him thoughtfully as she began a stretch.
“It’s Kate, isn’t it?” Janine probed suggestively, giving him a sidelong glance as her nose met her knee. “You have feelings for her.”
Andrew stared at her with a blank expression.
“Oh, please!” Janine scoffed. “I’ve known you for far too long for that to work on me. It’s not surprising, you know. She’s smart, and full of spunk. You and she share that special little gene that’s so useful for bending reality. I can see why you like her.”
Andrew sighed. “She was the source of the EEG trace that made far-slice travel possible. And while I was there… well, let’s just say her research was compelling.”
Janine smiled triumphantly. “I knew it! You seduced her to get into her plans, didn’t you?”
“Not entirely…”
Janine threw him a stern look.
“Well, maybe a little,” he admitted. “But that’s not the whole story. Ever since this endeavor began, we keep crossing paths.”
“Maybe it’s fate.”
“I don’t believe in fate—I believe in quantifiable facts.”
“Well, then,” Janine said, smiling. “Maybe it’s statistics. Either way, there’s nothing wrong with being attracted to her.”
Andrew slammed his taped fist against the bench. “Everything is wrong with it! She has no idea what I’ve done. What I’m capable of. After all, like father, like son.”
“Your father is a formidable man, but I knew your mother. And you’re more like her than you’re willing to admit. But I will tell you one thing. If you care about Kate, you need to lay it all bare. Tell her everything. Tell her about Andric, and Lily, and the leaking slices.”
He dropped his head into his hands. “How can I do that?”
Janine extended her fingertips past her toes and held the stretch.
“You may need to do it sooner than you think. I’ve been mulling over your hypothesis that the far-slice trip you took with Lily has leaked into our reality and has adversely impacted our climate situation. While you were in here beating the crap out of that bag, I came across a troubling weather report.”
Andrew looked up, instantly tensing. “What kind of troubling weather?”
“The Center for Global Weather Forecasts in Reading, England is tracking a weather disturbance over the Atlantic, about eleven hundred miles west of Africa. Currently it’s still a disorganized collection of thunderstorms, but there’s an eighty-seven percent chance that it will develop into an extreme weather event.”
Andrew frowned thoughtfully. “They accurately predicted the devastating path of Hurricane Sandy in 2012.”
“That’s right. Don’t you know someone at the National Hurricane Center?”
“I know a guy. We worked the Sandy hack-a-thon together while I was at MIT; at least until she knocked out power to most of the eastern seaboard. He’s a weather geek; there’s nothing he likes discussing more.” Andrew retrieved his mobile from under a crumpled, sweaty towel. He quickly unlocked the device and with a few deft swipes placed it on speaker and waited while it rang.
A tinny voice rang out from the device. “Charles Brannon here.”
“Charlie! It’s Andy. Andy Breckinridge.” Andrew attempted joviality, but the edge in his voice remained.
“Andy! How long’s it been, man?”
“Too long,” Andrew replied, pacing the mat. “I’m guessing you’re suddenly busy over there; I hear there’s some weather brewing?”
“That’s an understatement. We’re tracking something, something big. I’m talking a five-hundred-year event. Some kind of superstorm. She’s just about big enough to get a name, and when she does, Ophelia is going to be colossal. The mass of thunderstorms is intensifying fast. The storm path models look suspiciously similar to that of Sandy. Similar factors seem to be at work. The surface temperature offshore is crazy-warm. Currently five degrees Celsius above normal, so the storm is apt to remain tropical for longer than usual. And rather than turning out to the Atlantic like most storms, an upper level low forecast for the eastern US is likely to turn the storm inward.”
“Five degrees?” Andrew muttered to himself, rubbing his chin. How could that be right? The normal variance was maybe one degree Celsius, max. “Might the storm just peter out?”
“I don’t think so,” Charles replied. “Wind shear is lower than normal over the western Caribbean right now, and it’s the shear which would normally tear apart the storm before it had time to intensify. It gives us high confidence that this system is going to grow into a monster.”
“What intensity do the models predict the storm will reach?” Andrew asked cautiously.
“It’s a little early to be certain, but as of now, it looks bad—like, catastrophically bad. If the models are correct, we anticipate that Ophelia may reach well beyond hurricane category five status as it passes over the Caribbean, likely to strike Jamaica, Cuba, or Haiti. With a system this intense, it’s hard to tell how accurate the storm track will be. There has never been a storm that surpassed category five, which adds to the uncertainty. If Ophelia takes the path the model predicts, it will then swing back over the eastern Caribbean Sea, picking up even more moisture. Worst case, the storm could remain a Category Five until it veers back toward the east coast.”
“Category Five, or worse,” Andrew repeated, shaking his head. “Where do the models estimate second landfall?”
“Right now the runs are showing really troubling consistency—approximately the same path as Sandy. Somewhere north of Atlantic City, most likely. The storm surge will be intense through Boston and New York. If the storm strikes when the tides are up, New York in particular will be devastated. Coastal New York can’t handle much inundation. You know with the current sea level rise—which is nearly thirty-one inches—that the city is already extremely prone to flooding.”
Andrew looked at Janine in alarm. That number seemed terribly wrong.
“Are emergency plans deployed yet?” Andrew asked.
“Not yet,” Charles reported, his frustration obvious to Janine and Andrew. “My bosses are taking a wait-and-see approach so they don’t start a panic, but I personally think the safest plan would be to issue mandatory evacuation immediately. When Sandy hit, New York felt a storm surge nearly fourteen feet high. This storm runs the risk of flooding most of lower Manhattan. All up and down the coast, cities will flood, people will lose power, buildings will be destroyed—and if the evacuation order doesn’t happen in time, there’s no telling how many lives will be lost.”
Andrew drew in a quick breath. “And you’re telling me that this superstorm Ophelia is going to be three times worse than Sandy?”
“That is what I’m telling you,” Charles confirmed.
“How much time do we have?”
“The European model estimates three days until Hurri
cane Ophelia makes landfall in the Caribbean and seven or eight until it strikes the east coast. The GSF model is in near agreement.”
Andrew drew in a sharp breath. “Thanks, man. Stay safe?”
“You bet,” Charles replied.
Andrew ended the call.
Andrew cradled the device in his hands for a moment, then turned to a silent and thoughtful Janine.
“Charlie said that the non-storm sea level rise in New York is thirty-one inches? And that the east coast’s ocean surface temperature is five degrees Celsius above normal?”
Janine nodded. “That is what he said.”
Andrew rubbed his temple with his palm. “That can’t be right. New York’s sea level has only risen about thirteen inches since 1900. And even an extraordinarily warm ocean surface temp should only be up about three degrees Celsius.”
“How do you…” Janine started, then smiled wryly. “Right. Photographic memory. Well, maybe before you traveled, that was the case. But now the facts have changed. Your leaky slice accelerated climate change, and that can’t happen in the blink of an eye. It took a rewrite of history. You may remember it differently, but this is the reality now.”
Andrew uttered a grunt of frustration. “When Sandy hit Atlantic City, it wasn’t even a hurricane anymore. At its most destructive it was only a category two, and still it impacted over sixty thousand people. This will be worse. Much, much worse.”
“A lot of people are going to lose their lives,” Janine observed quietly.
Andrew stood up abruptly and ripped the tape from his knuckles, casting it forcefully to the floor.
He spoke with determination. “There’s no time to waste. I’ve got to do something. I’ve got to try.” Without another word, he was gone.
Chapter 19
Kate
September 27
No one else was in the kitchen, and I relished the silence as I intentionally procrastinated. My head ached, my eyes were strained, and I didn’t even want to anticipate what was coming next. At least the food was excellent. I was finishing the last bites of delicious reheated chicken piccata with garlic mashed potatoes when Andrew burst into the room, clad in worn gray gym shorts and drenched in sweat. He dropped heavily into the chair opposite mine.
