by David Mack
One conundrum that still nagged at him, even as he moved closer to making it irrelevant, was that of the causality paradox inherent in his mission. His superiors had insisted that the reason for his mission was to stop a renegade band of scientists from altering the past by creating the promicin movement and, by so doing, destabilizing his time’s last bastion of human civilization.
But how could the promicin movement succeed if I and my peers were still able to mount a response to it? he wondered. Wouldn’t altering the past immediately erase the world we knew? He pondered the possibility that his leaders were deceiving him. Might the real purpose of my mission have been hidden from me?
The more he thought about time travel, the less sense it made to him. Watching the forest blur past on either side of his SUV, he tried to let go of all his questions, but they continued to haunt his thoughts and demand answers. If I succeed, and I wipe out Jordan Collier’s movement, will I be creating the future that I left? Or did that future vanish the moment the 4400 appeared on the shore of Highland Beach?
He recalled a hypothesis that suggested branching temporal outcomes created new quantum universes. If that’s the case, he concluded, then the future I knew was
never in danger at all. It would simply have continued on its course, its past unchanging, while the renegades’ efforts to rewrite history accomplished nothing more than creating splinter timelines with different outcomes. But so what? What difference would it make whether parallel universes followed different paths? Why would they ask us to download ourselves into nanites and go back in time if there was no real threat to our power?
There were competing postulates, naturally. One was the “dominant probability” hypothesis, which held that if the likelihood of a given outcome became overwhelming, then the quantum realities it favored would eventually erase less probable universes from existence. If that conjecture proved to be correct, then it might explain why his masters felt it necessary to expend resources, energy, and personnel on multiple efforts to defend their preferred version of history.
A road sign on the side of the road informed him that he was approaching the turn to Grand Loop Road. It started to rain.
No point in obsessing over this now, Jakes decided. It’s not as if I’ll unravel centuries of contradictory temporal logic between now and when I reach the lake.
Orders were orders, he reminded himself. His mission was to disrupt, by any means necessary, the spread of Jordan Collier’s movement. The plan that he, Wells, and Kuroda had set into motion seemed perfectly suited to that goal; the fact that it also would transform the world into a very close semblance of the barren globe from which they had come was simply a bonus.
Jakes guided the SUV through an easy right turn onto Grand Loop Road. He imagined the look of shock on Collier’s face as the end of the world caught him unawares. It made him smile.
The SUV’s windshield spiderwebbed with cracks, pulverized glass stung Jakes’s face, and a large-caliber bullet tore off part of his left shoulder, spraying blood across the backseat.
His screams of pain mixed with squeals from the vehicle’s tires as it swerved wildly, back and forth across the road.
He fought to recover control of the SUV. Bullets peppered its windows and doors.
Blood poured down his numb left arm, soaking his shirt.
Nauseated and dizzy, he pressed his foot on the accelerator and struggled to see through the fractured-white windshield.
Over the rush of wind, the roar of the SUV’s damaged engine, and his own labored gasps, he heard more gunshots.
Next came the growling buzz of motorcycles, closing fast from behind him.
Holes appeared in his roof. Windows exploded into shards. Slugs perforated the passenger seat.
A random shot tore into his side. It felt like a rod of fire jammed deep into his guts, aching and burning inside him.
Then a deep boom shook his vehicle, and the wheel began fighting him, resisting his efforts to steer around the slow-moving cars on the road ahead.
Lost a tire, Jakes reasoned. So be it.
He started swerving, wide left and right, and though he felt himself dying by degrees, he was laughing. The war was over, and whoever had found him out was too late to stop it. He was inside the effective target area for the warhead; though the lakeshore had been identified as the optimal detonation site, this desolate stretch of road would more than suffice.
Jakes knew that the dead-man switch linking him to the warhead would finish the mission, even if he himself could not. It didn’t bother him that he wouldn’t live to see the end. One death was just as good as another.
He rammed a station wagon out of his path and kept the gas pedal pinned to the floor as more bullets flew through his SUV.
This would be the last mile of his journey, and he was determined to enjoy the ride while it lasted.
Diana kept the throttle of her motorcycle pinned wide open as she flew down the winding road, slowly gaining on Tom and Jed.
They were more than fifty yards ahead of her, dogging the white SUV, which they had riddled with bullets from their assault rifles. Now they had to rely on their Glocks, but even a semiautomatic pistol was hard to aim and fire while pushing a sportbike to its limits in a high-speed, high-risk pursuit.
Wind hammered at Diana, and it sounded like thunder rushing over her helmet. Rain pelted her and slicked the road.
Up ahead, the SUV swerved from side to side, preventing Tom and Jed from pulling forward on either side of it. Though one of its tires had been damaged by rifle fire, and Jakes had been wounded, he still had at least partial control of the vehicle.
Stuck on its rear flanks, Jed squeezed off a few more shots, which ricocheted off the Pathfinder’s rear door and bumper. The right-handed Jed was having trouble aiming his weapon with his left hand—a necessity imposed by the fact that a motorcycle’s throttle was located on the right handgrip.
Tom, who normally handled his weapon with his right hand despite being left-handed, was having an easier time shooting lefty. In two shots, he blasted apart the SUV’s rear window.
The SUV and the two motorcycles swung wide through a curve in the road. As Jakes raced ahead, Jed and Tom braked.
Coming the other way was a massive recreational vehicle almost wider than its lane. It veered toward the shoulder to avoid the madly winding SUV, which narrowly missed a head-on collision. The RV began to tip onto its side as it rode up the slope beside the road, then slammed into a stand of pines. Two people—the male driver and a female passenger—burst through its windshield and tumbled like rag dolls to the dusty ground.
Not far ahead, the road was busy with traffic. It was a mix of SUVs, small cars, station wagons, and pickup trucks. Most of them were loaded with camping equipment, and some were hauling canoes or small boats on trailers.
Oh, shit, Diana thought, imagining the worst.
Her cycle’s speedometer read ninety-five miles per hour.
She knew this was about to get ugly.
Jakes swerved in and out of the line of cars. He rammed a station wagon topped with camping gear off the road and forced an oncoming pickup truck to swerve into a head-on crash with a tiny hybrid vehicle that cracked like an egg.
Within seconds the road was a deadly maze of shattered glass and broken metal, bent vehicles and bloody bodies. It was all Tom and Jed could do to slalom through the obstacles without causing more damage or hurting any civilians.
Diana detoured onto the right shoulder and sped around the accident scene, fighting to keep up with the chase.
The damaged white Pathfinder continued to weave erratically down the road at nearly ninety miles per hour. More vehicles lay ahead of it, unaware of the danger heading their way.
Then the SUV straightened its course.
Jed swung wide left and pushed his bike to its maximum speed. Riding the center line, he pulled alongside Jakes’s door and fought to steady his left-handed aim across his right arm.
Jakes jerke
d the SUV to the left and slammed Jed into the next lane—and into the path of a car that had been trying to steer wide around him. Jed’s bike spun and fell sideways. Then the car smashed into him.
The impact knocked Jed from the bike, which was mangled under the car’s tires. Even as the car ditched into the trees to avoid running over Jed, the next car was unable to stop in time. Jed vanished under its wheels as Tom and Diana raced by.
Tom signaled Diana with a wave of his Glock that he was going to make the next attack on Jakes’s left side, and Diana understood that her role was to make a simultaneous assault from the SUV’s right. She drew her pistol, nodded her acknowledgment, and swung to the right as she opened the throttle.
Some part of Diana’s mind, deep beneath her years of NTAC training, knew that she ought to be terrified—but as the road ripped by in a mad blur, and the wind buffeted her chest, all she could think about was making the kill.
The purr of the BMW’s engine resonated through her entire body, but her pistol was steady in her hand.
There were cars ahead, more innocent-victims-in-the-making. Diana had no intention of letting Jakes get that far. Too many had died for this madman’s cause already.
It ends here, she vowed.
Through the SUV’s empty window frames, she saw Tom nod.
They made their move.
Together they sped forward, moving in synchronicity. As she took aim through the SUV’s passenger window, Tom leveled his Glock at Jakes from the driver’s side.
They fired in unison.
Jakes twitched as bullets struck his head and neck.
He slammed on the brakes, and swerved left.
Tom’s motorcycle rammed against the side of the Pathfinder as it spun out. The SUV’s rapid deceleration sent it into a chaotic roll. It broke apart as it tumbled over the asphalt, shedding glass, broken plastic, and metal debris.
Diana fought to outrun the rolling catastrophe behind her, only to find the road ahead blocked by slow traffic. She stepped on the rear brake pedal, but at that speed all she could do was wipe out and get dragged across the pavement by her bike.
The wrecked Pathfinder was still rolling toward her.
She couldn’t see Tom or his bike.
Ahead of her, over the scrape of her body being towed across dirt and asphalt, she heard the dull metallic thuds of cars colliding. Shouting, screaming, and tears.
But the last thing Diana saw was the smoking blur of the broken white SUV as it rolled over her.
FORTY-ONE
3:57 P.M.
JORDAN COLLIER’S FIRST WARNING that The 4400 Center had been breached and was under attack was the sound of rifle fire in the corridor outside the executive suite.
“Fall back!” shouted Marco, one of the few people in the building bearing a weapon. He locked the main entrance and pointed to an exit at the rear of the meeting room. “Get to cover! Move!”
Gary and Kyle led the retreat, shepherding Maia into a hallway that led to several offices and the restrooms. As more people followed them out, Marco struggled to push the conference table over onto its side. Jordan rushed to Marco’s side to help him, and Lewis Mesirow joined them.
Working together, they knocked the long, thick-topped hardwood table on its edge. Marco ducked behind it and pulled the assault rifle off his back. To Jordan and Lewis he said, “Run! And stay down!” Then he primed his weapon and aimed it back over his impromptu barricade as the locked door was blasted in.
Lewis was at Jordan’s heels as they sprinted toward the exit. A furious stuttering noise split the air. Something warm and wet sprinkled the back of Jordan’s neck.
He dashed around the corner and looked back for Lewis.
The middle-aged clairvoyant wasn’t there.
Stealing a peek back around the corner, Jordan saw Lewis facedown on the blood-spattered floor. Jordan palmed the moisture from the back of his neck. When he looked at his hand, it was streaked with fresh blood.
Bullets ripped a trail across the wall in front of him. He ducked low and scrambled away from the door, down the hall.
An explosion ripped through the meeting room. Fire and debris erupted through the door into the back hallway.
Lamenting the sacrifice of the NTAC agent who had stayed behind, Jordan slammed through a fire door into the emergency stairwell—only to collide with Marco Pacella, who was scuffed but definitely alive.
“Bad guys, two flights down,” Marco said, adjusting his eyeglasses, which now had one cracked lens. “Head upstairs, I’ll cover you.” Jordan nodded to the young teleporter, then scrambled to the next floor while Marco backpedaled up the stairs behind him, his rifle braced against his shoulder.
As they reached the next landing, Marco asked, “You didn’t happen to see which way Dennis Ryland went, did you?”
“Sorry, no,” Jordan said, opening the door to the Center’s top level, which housed the chief executive’s master office suite. He stood aside and let Marco scout the path ahead.
Waving Jordan through the door, Marco said, “Don’t worry about it. I’m sure he’ll turn up.” He added with a contemptuous grimace, “He always does.”
Shawn winced at the rattle-roar of automatic weapons. He could barely see dim shapes moving through a fog that scorched his throat and stung his eyes until they watered.
People screamed in agony, ran in every direction, crawled under furniture to hide. His young friend Chongrak twitched in the grasp of crimson tendrils of electricity. Tristine, one of Jordan’s bodyguards, convulsed as horrific, bloody gashes opened in her throat, her abdomen, and her back, as if she were being flensed by a great invisible blade.
Trusting in his memory, Shawn scrambled on all fours through the cubicle maze until he reached a corridor that was clear of tear gas. His lungs felt full of fire. Painful coughs racked him as he sprinted toward the closest possible exit.
As he ran, he fought to see through the toxic smoke, into the offices and meeting rooms that lined the hallway. He knew that he ought to take cover and stay there, but he had to know—
“Shawn!”
Heather leaped to her feet from behind a photocopier in a small anteroom on his right. She ran to him and peppered his face with kisses both grateful and fearful.
“Thank God,” he said. “C’mon, we have to go!”
Taking her hand, he led her in a clumsy, stooped run around the corner, on a mad dash across the top floor’s elevator lobby, into the reception foyer of his executive suite.
A sound like a jackhammer on crystal meth rattled Shawn’s teeth and turned a wall of glass panels into a carpet of hazardous jagged shards that covered the reception area’s floor.
He pulled Heather to cover behind his assistant’s desk. Impacts and ricochets tore splinters from the desk and the wall.
Between bursts of gunfire, Shawn heard a high-pitched, girlish yelp of terror from the other side of the reception area. He and Heather turned their heads and saw Maia lying behind the end of the leather sofa, her back to the wall.
Heather screamed, “Maia! Stay down!”
Another spray of bullets ripped off the corner of the desk in front of Heather’s face, and she flinched back into Shawn’s arms. She threw a scathing glare at Shawn. “What happened to Gary and Kyle? They were supposed to protect her!”
“I don’t know,” Shawn protested, raising his voice above the din of bullets shredding the desk behind them.
Eyes darting back and forth from Maia to Shawn, Heather shouted, “We have to help her! Do something!”
“I can’t!” he said. “I’m trying to sense their life forces, but something’s blocking me—one of them. It must be the leader, Frost.”
He fell backward, and it took him a moment to realize that someone had telekinetically levitated away the desk he and Heather had been using for cover.
“Move!” Shawn cried, diving through a doorway into the administrative office behind the receptionist’s desk. He landed hard atop a razor-sharp mess of broken glass
and fought to protect his hands and his face from harm.
Jagged chunks sliced and punctured Shawn’s forearms and his back as he rolled across the lacerating debris. It was only when he stopped moving that he saw Heather wasn’t with him.
He looked back as Heather made a desperate, stumbling run toward the cowering Maia—
Something invisible cut Heather down. A massive wound sliced her entire body, splitting her open from chin to navel.
She fell, bleeding and beyond Shawn’s reach.
Maia let loose a scream of horror.
Shawn unleashed a scream of rage.
There was nothing he could do but watch Heather die.
Jed Garrity blinked as the car made impact, grinding him and his motorcycle against the rain-slicked pavement of Grand Loop Road. He expected to taste his own blood at any second.
But in that flash of a moment, he finished his blink to see not the road or the motorcycle or his broken body … but a hallway littered with shattered glass and spent shell casings, and obscured beneath a haze of dispersing tear gas and thick smoke. It took him a second to recognize the interior of the top floor of The 4400 Center. Then his ears registered the stutter of weapons firing and the sounds of panic.
He turned around and saw four men, all facing away from him toward the executive suite. They were soldiers, attired in black-and-gray urban camouflage and equipped with gas masks, night-vision headsets, body armor, and military weaponry.
From the far end of the hallway, Jed heard Heather Tobey call out, “Maia! Stay down!”
The soldiers took turns laying down suppressing fire in the direction of Heather’s voice, and he heard Maia scream.
One of the soldiers extended his hand and, with a casual gesture, telekinetically flung aside the thick wooden desk behind which Heather and Shawn Farrell had been hiding.
Shawn wisely jumped for more cover.
Heather sprinted across the soldiers’ field of fire.
