by M. G. Harris
“Hi Ollie,” I say, trying to sound cool. Ollie stares at me as if she can’t decide whether to yell for help or not. Her eyes and mouth are doing that whole You? Here? Really? kind of thing.
“Your eyes. . .” she says, gazing at my face with an expression of wonder. “It works!”
She’s obviously confused. The idea that I could have escaped seems simply impossible to Ollie. So I decide to play along. “The Professor told me to come to you. She wanted you to be the first to see.”
Ollie gazes at me, now obviously moved. “She . . . she wanted me to be the first to see. . .? So she’s not still mad at me?”
The Professor was mad at Ollie. . .?
Ollie takes a step forward. She looks older than I remember. Her hair isn’t as blonde or lustrous; her face seems less rosy. I guess she’s stopped making an effort to look sixteen – her clothes certainly look more grown-up: brown jeans, a white blouse, a long blue woollen cardigan. She’s still pretty but looks tired and a bit drained. All that confidence that used to burst out of her – it seems to have vanished.
Looking at her now, I don’t fancy her even a bit. In fact, I wonder what I ever saw in her.
“Josh,” she says, touching a hand to my hair. “Still so cute. Blue eyes suit you!”
I struggle not to push Ollie’s hand away. For some reason she’s in the doghouse with the Professor – I’ll have to find a way to use that.
“What about the other genetic changes?” Ollie asks suddenly. “Have they worked too?”
So there are other changes. Anxiety surges through me again, like a wave of nausea. What have they done to me? So far I seem to be OK. Is that going to change? Soon? Or do I have years to wait, worrying?
I just nod. “It looks like it, yeah. The Professor sent me down here to get you.”
“She’s going to make the announcement. . .?” Ollie asks, eyes round, hopeful.
If you say so. . .
I keep nodding. “Uh huh.” I reach into my back pocket for Lorena’s drug pen.
“And I’m invited?” Ollie continues with a smile of amazement. I try to smile, concealing the pen behind my wrist. I step forward, in what I hope is a friendly way.
“And Ollie, I just wanted to say . . . the Professor told me to say. . .”
I put a matey hand on her shoulder. Ollie’s face is a picture. The Professor’s approval really seems to mean something to her.
“No hard feelings, Ollie, OK?”
Yeah, right.
Behind Ollie’s back, I slide the pen into position. Just as I’m going in for an all-friends-again hug, I jab it against her neck, feeling the spring-loaded mechanism burst inside. For one still moment, Ollie’s eyes stare directly into mine, with a look that’s half shock, half betrayal.
She collapses through my arms, slides to the floor trembling as she falls into unconsciousness. I watch her drop and can’t feel any pity at all.
Softly I mutter, “But now I reckon you’re really gonna get it. . .”
I’m standing in a windowless room which has floor-to-ceiling bookcases against every wall. Rows of bound science journals cover the shelves. In the middle of one wall is a door. I try the handle but it’s locked. From behind the door I sense movement. I lean against the door, put my mouth close to the surface. In a low voice I call, “Ixchel. . .?”
There’s a pause, then an amazed reply. “Josh. . .?”
For a second, relief washes over me. Then I’m looking around for a way to open the door. From behind the door Ixchel says, “Ollie has the key, Josh. . .”
Right – of course she does. As Ollie lies sleeping on the floor, I go through her pockets until I find the key. I open the door to find Ixchel standing before a window through which sunlight streams. For a second I can’t move. Luckily for me, Ixchel doesn’t hesitate. She rushes forward and hugs me tight. After a second I squeeze her back. Over her shoulder, I gaze at the view.
A blue-green river glistens like a slug trail in the sun, right in front of the building. To the left, the river snakes off into a lake. Across the river a field of mountains rises from the ground, surrounding the lake. In the distance they’re jagged, crooked, white.
“Switzerland,” I breathe, releasing Ixchel.
Ixchel freezes, staring at me. I’m getting that look again – the one when someone I know first sees my eyes. A half-smile. In Ixchel’s case it’s followed up with a frown.
“Blue eyes,” she goes. “Uh oh. . .”
Before I can ask her to explain, she continues, “So, hotshot, do you have a plan this time?”
I give her a sheepish grin. “Um . . . nope. . .?”
Ixchel pretends to sigh. “Well, your eyes may be different . . . but you’re the same old Josh.”
I do have a plan! It goes something like this: run down the stairs, get out of the building, keep running. . .
Oh yes, and somehow find time to stop and call Benicio. Not sure exactly how he’s going to get me out of this, though. Switzerland is a very long way from Ek Naab. Even with a Muwan.
We make it to the stairwell. We get all the way to the third floor when the commotion hits. An alarm goes off, followed by all kinds of running noises and shouting. I’m guessing that someone has found Ollie and the open door with Ixchel missing. Maybe even my own vacant hospital bed?
Which means that by now past-me is hiding in the nearby cold room, about to discover the Crystal Key, about to activate the Bracelet of Itzamna, about to zap back through time and space into the underground military base in Area 51.
About to meet my father.
I get a little shiver thinking of that. For me, that’s all in the past, but past-me is about to get one of the shocks of his life. Of my life.
I’ve experienced the past ten minutes of time twice. Is this what they call a time paradox, or a time loop? It doesn’t seem paradoxical to me, though. Just like some more stuff I did to get out of a tight spot.
I stepped outside of time and helped myself to escape. Weird but true.
Some of the guards are heading in that direction already. I heard them when I first lived through this moment in time. There could be others, too. There usually are. . .
I’ve caught up on myself – my ten minutes are up. I can’t help grinning as we almost tumble down the stairs.
I bought ten extra minutes. Reckon I spent them pretty well.
At the bottom of the stairwell there’s a fire exit. It only opens one way – to the outside. It isn’t guarded at all. I guess they built the place with the idea of stopping people getting in – not out. Ixchel and I push heavily against the fire door and we’re into the company car park.
At least I assume it’s the company car park, which is already packed. I spot at least two signs as we dash past: Chaldexx BioPharmaceuticals.
Yep – that rings a bell. It’s the name of the company from that news story.
The Professor definitely is Melissa DiCanio. I’d say she’s in pretty good shape – for a corpse.
From behind us, I hear the sound of the fire door being opened again. I risk a tiny glance over my shoulder to see two security guards racing towards us. They’re led by a fairhaired, dark-skinned figure that I recognize.
Gaspar.
I flinch. Even in that split second I’ve seen enough to realize that Gaspar is very, very mad with me.
“Faster,” I say to Ixchel.
She gets just one word out as we pelt away from the building and down towards the riverbank. “Where?”
I can’t answer that. Mainly because I have no idea. The river? There’s nowhere else.
“Look for a boat,” I yell, speeding ahead of Ixchel.
Staying to fight isn’t an option. No more drug pens . . . and I don’t imagine that Gaspar will let me slither through his fingers a second time.
There’s a line of trees on the riverbank. We bound through them, desperate to get some cover in case Gaspar and pals start shooting. Then it’s along the riverbank, towards a nearby kink in the ri
ver. After that there’s a small harbour lined with about ten leisure boats.
With Gaspar and his men less than fifty metres behind us, we can’t risk slowing down. I put my head down and run harder, pulling even further away from Ixchel.
I only hope she doesn’t think I’m abandoning her. One of us needs to get to a boat and get it started up – and fast. As the harbour comes into view, I start hunting for a boat that might not be locked.
I don’t know what time it is, but my senses tell me that it’s morning. There aren’t too many people out on the boats. Over on the river I can just see the edge of a big cruise steamer heading for the road bridge. Beyond that the river runs clear to the lake.
Scanning the line of white speedboats, something catches my eye. At the far end of the mini-harbour, a man is guiding his boat in between a dinghy and another speedboat.
Over my shoulder I call, “Ixchel . . . gonna head for that boat. . .”
If he sees me coming, the guy doesn’t get suspicious until the last second; he’s too busy turning off his engine and steering his boat. By the time I get close enough to jump for it, the boat owner is already fiddling with the moorings.
I leap off the edge of the pier and land smack in the centre of his deck. The guy is so stunned that he hardly reacts – at first. Once he’s realized that I’m actually daring to try to nick his boat, he makes a grab for my shoulder and starts to punch. He’s in his late forties or so, quite a bit taller and heavier than me. When that first punch lands near my ear, the whole side of my face rings with pain. In fact, there’s definitely something wrong with my right arm – it feels weak and slightly tingly. No time to wonder why, though – so I concentrate on ducking to avoid his follow-up punch. A tirade of what sounds like German streams out of his mouth. I recognize at least one swear word.
Well, yeah. I’d be mad too, if some scruffy teenager tried to nick my boat.
I twist free of his grasp and drop into a low defensive roll. There’s just enough room to swing to my feet and fly at him with a couple of rapid queixada kicks. I land blows to his chest and gut. The second kick winds the guy, who is clearly out of shape. As he’s doubled over, I shove hard and then high-kick him. Staggering in stunned bafflement, he topples and falls overboard into the river with an almighty splash.
I turn around just in time to see Ixchel flying through the air towards me. I don’t even have time to step aside – she crashes straight into me, almost knocks me to the deck. Gaspar and his men are close. They’ve almost reached the harbour.
We have one chance to get this boat moving. I’ve never driven a speedboat before. But Ixchel has. . .
I don’t have to ask her to get started – she pushes past me, goes straight to the engine and yanks on something. The boat jerks into motion. Seeing that we’re about to move out of range, Gaspar puts on a final spurt of energy. He leaps into one of the nearby boats and then jumps from boat to boat. We’re still moving slowly, trying to navigate the other boats. He’s only one boat away by now. . .
“Pull away!” I yell as Gaspar jumps from the last boat in the row. Our boat moves away just in time to watch Gaspar crash into the edge. He lands in the water but grabs on to the boat, gripping, and tries to swing his legs up on to the deck. I push all my weight against him and shove a hand into his face, pushing him back. We struggle for a few seconds, him trying to climb aboard, me leaning my whole weight against his face. The boat picks up speed, wobbles as we turn towards the lake.
With a final shove I push Gaspar off the boat. By the time he hits the water we’re already away.
But we still have a problem. The other two security guys from Chaldexx seem to have found another boat to commandeer. It’s pulling out from the mini-harbour and sluicing around towards Gaspar. I gaze down the river towards the lake, trying to think.
The big river cruiser I spotted moments before is turning slowly, just ahead of the road bridge. In fact, if we don’t make it to the bridge pretty soon, we’re going to have trouble squeezing past the cruiser. Ixchel has seen it too – I can tell by the way she’s leaning forward, urging the engine to go faster. But it just won’t. Our boat has a top speed of . . . something not very fast.
I can’t tear myself away from the front of the boat, staring out over the windshield.
“We’ve got to go faster. . .” I say, feeling helpless.
“I know, I know, you wanna try?!” Ixchel says, exasperated.
I make myself look back, past Ixchel and towards the second boat. I almost freeze in panic when I see how fast it’s moving. I guess they’ve picked up Gaspar by now. . .
The space between the fat paddle steamer and the road bridge narrows. The steamer doesn’t seem to have any problem with taking up all the space on the river and making the smaller boats wait.
“We have to make it to the road bridge!” I yell.
“I know, Josh . . . hold on tight. . .”
Briskly, Ixchel steers the boat, almost toppling me in. We bank hard to the right and then make a headlong rush for the last remaining gap under the road bridge. I can see it getting smaller by the second.
“Keep going!” I urge. The second boat is gaining, no doubt at all.
The last few seconds are pure nervous energy. I’m helpless to do anything about it. Ixchel just stares ahead, her features tense with concentration. We head for the gap, the second boat now less than ten metres behind. I think we might just about make it . . . but will they get through too?
If they do, we’ve had it.
We spring through the gap with what seems like less than half a metre to spare between us, the boat, and the road bridge. As we pull through, I’m aware of a small crowd of people watching us from the deck of the steam cruiser. They look cross and hugely disapproving, some of them actually shaking fists and wagging fingers at us.
The second boat has decided to abort the attempt – it stalls with a crazy spin, sending a huge wave crashing into the air. Spray rains down on the deck. There’s a chorus of outrage from the tourists.
We’re clear to the lake. That river cruiser has bought us a few precious minutes. Even as I take out my Ek Naab phone to call Benicio, I can’t help fretting.
Will we have enough time?
“Hey, Josh, what’s going on?”
Benicio sounds deliberately cool. I’m a bit surprised, given that I might have been dead and everything. His voice changes then, becomes urgent. “Is Ixchel with you?”
“Yeah,” I reply, a bit miffed at his reaction. “She’s driving the boat. I can hardly hear you cos of the engine. You’re gonna have to shout, OK?”
“What?”
I have to bite my lip to stop myself from yelling angrily down the phone. This is a very bad time for Benicio and me not to make ourselves clear.
“We’re in Switzerland,” I tell him slowly, shouting.
“I know that, Josh, I can track your phone when it’s on, remember? You’re on Lake Brienz.”
“Where?”
“Go to Interlaken,” he says. “It’s a city behind you.”
“We’re running away from there!”
“Oh . . . damn.”
There’s a silence. Ixchel and I look at each other, exasperated.
“What’s he saying?” she calls from the back of the boat. I shrug dramatically and then point back from where we came. “He says that’s Interlaken.”
“Can you stop the boat?” Benicio says. “I can’t hear you very well.”
“Can’t stop!” I yell. “We’re being chased! The Sect took us to Chaldexx BioPharmaceuticals.”
Benicio goes quiet again. “What are you doing?” I ask, getting annoyed by the silences.
“I’m trying to find a place for us to rendezvous. My ETA in Interlaken is thirty minutes. You’re lucky – we knew you were in Europe, so I’ve been flying around here. Someone must have turned your phone on at some point.”
“Benicio,” I tell him, now really shouting, “we can’t go back to Interlaken! They. Are. Af
ter. Us.”
“Cool it, buddy; I know. OK. I’ve got it. You’re on a boat, yes? You need to get off the lake and on to the road. Find a car.”
“Find a car. . .?” The idea of racing through the mountains sounds pretty cool, but I have to admit I’ve never handled a car in traffic. . . “Mate, I don’t drive!”
“Of course not,” he continues smoothly, “but Ixchel can. At the end of the lake is the town of Brienz. Find a car. Take the left fork on the road after Brienz. Keep going to Lake Lucerne. I’ll find you, got that?”
“Brienz,” I repeat. “Lake Lucerne. Got it.”
