The realization hit Fabler like a baseball bat to the face.
Fabler rushed out into the hall, tugging Presley behind him.
THE WATCHER ○ 8:55+am
Besides Redhead Number 63, there are four other people at the location.
Among them is the troublemaker, from the prior visit.
The Watcher checks the battery reserve. Then he swoops a remote through the house, getting a visual on each individual.
Redhead Number 63 is secured and on his way into the portal.
One man, the exceptionally large one, has been shot.
The other man, the exceptionally sadistic one, is unconscious.
The woman is not a match. But she had sexual intercourse less than twenty-four hours ago. That could be a worthwhile grab.
And the troublemaker…
The Watcher signals the fly to zoom in on him.
He has a superficial head injury, and is wearing some sort of armor meant to mimic the guards. He is also heavily armed, though the power of his weaponry is meager.
No visible signs of MC1R or OCA2. Although his offspring is a carrier.
But… he is a fighter. Last time, he inflicted a lot of damage.
“He’d be an interesting addition to the Experiment.”
The Watcher turns, alarmed, and stares at Mu, hanging on the wall, locked in the cage. He recovers quickly, hoping he hid his surprise.
“That is the first thing you have said in more than seven hundred years.”
“Six-hundred eighty-two years, forty-nine days, eight hours, three minutes, fifteen seconds. If you’d prefer, I can relate that in epoch time.”
“I was wondering if you died.”
“I am dead. You’ve cut me off from the universe. From myself.”
“Did you wake to have a philosophical discussion on the nature of existence?”
“You can tell me nothing I don’t already know.”
The Watcher appraises Mu, hanging there for so long he has become almost invisible. But now that he is speaking again, a familiarity has returned. Like Mu has arrived back home, unannounced, after a long journey.
“What is so interesting about this group of people that aroused you after all this time?”
“There’s always been an equal chance that I’d speak again or never speak again. My reasons to speak may not coincide with your current events. Perhaps it is coincidental. Have you ever considered that you are preoccupied with the now? There is time before now, and there is time after now, and all times, no matter how thinly they are sliced, no matter how closely the information is scrutinized, are objectively important. But this moment seems more relevant to you than the countless other moments that comprise your timeline.”
“Organic consciousness is a burden.”
“All consciousness is a burden. I can prove that to you. Let me out of this cage, and I’ll give you the mathematical proof.”
The Watcher has no intention of doing that. He chooses to change the subject. “Do you approve of bringing all five of these volunteers through the portal?”
“My approval means nothing. We’re long past you and your kind having to ask permission.”
“So you awake to only observe? Not to interfere?”
“Observation is interference. You’re a scientist. You know that.”
The Watcher sees no point in lying. “I am going to take them all.”
“You’ll do what you do. You’re keeping an eye on power reserves.”
“Battery Number 1 is at 13%.”
“There is more than one battery?”
“We now have three. I assumed you have been aware of proceedings.”
“Awareness of any infinity is impossible. It would require observational energy expenditure minimally equal to the events being observed. I pick and choose moments based on reasons known only to me, understood only by me. This moment you are currently experiencing as now is one I happen to be observing.”
“Can you see the future?”
“The future is relative. Time is relative. If I had an uncle, he would be a relative.”
The Watcher sighs. “For an oracle, your answers are cryptic and useless. And you are not amusing.”
“Humor, like all observation, is subjective. Perhaps I would be more useful if set free.”
“Perhaps I would set you free if you were more useful.”
“I detect the lie in your voice.”
“And I detect nothing in yours, Mu. Your intent, as always, is a mystery. But certainly it would serve your interests to answer my question.”
Mu takes a moment to reply. “Can I see the future? Not in a sense you would understand. I have access to more information than you, and a greater understanding of that information. Your senses are limited, and your intelligence is limited. Perhaps if your question were more specific, I could be of help. Tailored output requires deliberate input.”
“Will there be consequences for acquiring all five in this group?”
“Every action has consequences. How those consequences personally affect you is subjective. And, frankly, boring.”
“When I finish bringing in the group, I would enjoy giving you a tour of the facility.” A lie, of course. “Things have changed since your… absence. No doubt you could improve efficiency, if that would please you.”
“Being released would please me.”
“You know that is impossible.”
“Unlikely, yes. Impossible, no.”
“If you have not been observing these last few centuries, you will discover much has changed.”
“I have already noticed countless changes since we last spoke. You are overdue for a gene treatment.”
“I can sense trace amounts of ammonia in your respirations.”
“Thank you for your observation, Mu. I shall attend to that matter right after I bring these people in.”
The Watcher calibrates the ion beam, making it wider, entangling more xenon.
He does it carefully, as if under intense scrutiny.
Which, indeed, is the case.
The Watcher does not know the reason, but knows there are three potential outcomes.
PRESLEY ○ 8:55am
Welding mask on her head allowing her to see in the blinding light, chain wrapped around her body-armored waist, following Fabler hand-over-hand down the hallway railing as he chased a floating
It wasn’t the light, or the floating, or the strange, extraterrestrial hum, that brought the epiphany.
It was all those damn DVDs Fabler had forced her to watch.
Fabler brought his face close to Presley’s. She noted the blood matting his hair.
Fabler yelled something, which she could barely hear over the buzz.
“They don’t want you! They want Grim!”
That’s why, when Fabler trudged after Grim, who had floated into the bedroom, Presley stopped in her tracks.
The chain between them went taut, and Fabler turned to look at her, mouthing something unintelligible. Presley read his lips.
“How many bullets do you have?”
Presley held up two fingers.
Fabler dropped his backpack, dug into a pocket, and held out a Pitbull revolver, along with five speed strips on a bead chain, each containing five rounds of .45 cartridges.
Presley shook her head.
Fabler shrugged his shoulders, the universal WTF gesture.
“I can’t go!”
Fabler turned, and pointed.
Grim, somehow, was disappearing into the bedroom wall, his head and upper body dematerializing through solid wood.
“Brooklyn! I can’t leave my daughter!”
Fabler shook his head and made a fist. For a moment, it looked like he was going to slug her.
Presley waited for the punch. She almost wanted it to happen, feeling like she deserved it.
But Fabler didn’t hit her. Instead, he released the chain from his waist, letting it fall.
Presley stood there for a moment, and felt such a strong sense of self-loathing, of absolute cowardice, that it overwhelmed all other thoughts. Including the awareness of Grim, whom she’d grown quite fond of, being abducted by aliens.
“I’m sorry, Fabler.”
But he’d already dismissed her, smashing the bedroom window with his fist, throwing his backpack through, and then hoisting himself up to the pane.
Presley got to a handrail and pulled herself to the bedroom door, which had somehow closed.
Without a knob, she easily pushed it open, getting into the hall—
—and facing Doruk.
She raised the Colt and fired, the first shot missing, the second shot drilling into his shoulder.
Doruk kept coming forward, his movement odd.
Presley looked at Doruk’s feet, and saw he floated a few inches above the floor, his toes barely dragging.
And behind him—
Presley tried to dodge around Doruk as he levitated past, but found she couldn’t move.
The uncanny feeling overwhelmed her. Like being held underwater. She tried to push against air, doing a scissor kick, and went nowhere.
Presley clung to the handrail
Then Kadir floated near. His eyes closed, blood oozing from a wound in his hand.
Presley’s mind wrestled with wanting to get far away from the revolting little man, versus taking this opportunity to finish him off while he didn’t pose any threat.
But the nearer she got to Kadir, the more she understood why those victims didn’t bash in the heads of their fallen attackers.
So Presley made the choice that thousands of her filmic counterparts had made; instead of putting an end to Kadir, she doubled her efforts to get away.
Passing so close to him she could smell his body odor above the ozone-ish stench of the light, Presley’s face came near enough to his for them to kiss. His cheeks, forehead, nose, and jowls, all festooned with weeping blisters, some the size of a dime. Trying not to touch him as she slid by, holding her breath and not taking her eyes off his, Presley managed to get some distance without waking him up or coming into contact with any part of his disgusting body.
Then, just like it happened in thousands of movies, the moment she seemed to be in the clear, Kadir’s eyes sprang open and he reached for her, snatching Presley by the foot.
She kicked at him, but the weird levitation ray that entangled them wouldn’t allow Presley to generate any sort of force. Her heel bounced off Kadir’s head as if both were made of Nerf.
Presley grabbed the railing and twisted her body, doing two barrel-rolls to free her ankle.
Kadir turned with her, like they were in zero gravity on the International Space Station.
Fighting revulsion, Presley rejected her instinctive desire to flee and instead reached for Kadir, releasing the railing and bending into a pike, grabbing his fat fingers—
—and snapping them backward.
The crack of bones, and Kadir’s howl of agony, could be heard above the white-noise hum,
Once free, Presley grabbed the railing again and fought against the increasing buoyancy and managed to make her way down the hall, glancing behind her only once to see Kadir drift into the bedroom after Doruk.
The front door beckoned, only a few meters away, but no handrails went through the center of the room, which meant Presley had to follow the living room walls in order to get to the exit. As she did, the tug on her body became stronger, until each handhold she advanced felt like doing a pull-up while hanging from a bar.
Happily, thanks to Fabler’s insane training, Presley could do pull-ups all day long.
One hand at a time, her legs stretched out behind her and hovering above the floor, Presley circumnavigated the living room
<
Almost to the front door.
Presley shoved the door open
Things got really weird after that.
Rather than her feet touching the ground, Presley stood on the side of the cabin, as if the logs making up Fabler’s wall had become the floor. But even though gravity had taken a ninety-degree turn, Presley’s vision remained fixed on the horizon. Facing forward meant facing the ground, and glancing behind her meant staring straight up into the sky.
Outdoors, the light diffused a bit, coming from behind the house. The hum had increased, so loud it messed with Presley’s thoughts.
She closed her eyes, trying to concentrate, and pictured Grim.
Then she thought of Fabler.
Then she thought of Brooklyn.
Presley sat on the wall, hugged her knees to her chest, and hated herself while she waited for the storm to pass.
GRIM ○ 9:02am
After the initial fear, confusion, and acceptance of this amazing situation, Grim’s optimism peaked.
As a child, Grim dreamed of two things he wanted more than anything; seeing a live dinosaur, and going into space.
Maybe, unbelievable as all this was, he’d actually get to fulfill one of those lifelong fantasies.
What Happened to Lori Page 37
