Incursion: Book Three of The Recursion Event Saga

by Brian J. Walton

  Above me, I see Hauser and the scientist both turn to look at Colonel Andrews.

  “Keep going,” Andrews says.

  I blink away the dust, watching through tears as the scientist bends back over my mouth. He takes a scraper and taps at the gum around my tooth. “It’s a fast acting local anesthetic. Are you numb yet?”

  “I think so,” I say.

  “Good,” the scientist says.

  He leans out of view. I glance up at Hauser, but can see only his chin. My heart pounds in my chest, my mind racing to understand what is about to happen. If this is torture, then why did they give me an anesthetic? No, this is something else. They wanted the flash drive. I still don’t know why, but when I didn’t give it to them, they moved on to Plan B, which apparently consists of removing a core from my tooth. But what the hell could they want with that? Still, forcing them to move to Plan B is a success for me.

  The scientist reappears holding a drill, and my heart pounds even faster. “This drill will only take a small core from your tooth. When I’m done, I’ll fill the hole.”

  Leaning over my mouth, the scientist turns on the drill. A high-pitched whine sets my nerves on edge, and I jerk my head back in a defensive impulse. The pressure on my forehead and chest increase as Hauser bears down even harder as the scientist drills. There’s another boom, even louder this time. The door to the room flies open and another soldier runs over to Colonel Andrews. The two soldiers and Colonel Andrews exchange words, but the sound of the drill masks their conversation. Andrews barks something at the scientist. He straightens, and the whine of the drill lowers in pitch and then stops. As it does, another sound becomes audible.

  Gunfire.

  “You’re going to have to speed this up.” Colonel Andrews says, his voice flat.

  “It’s a sensitive procedure.”

  “Find a way,” Andrews says, flatly. But there’s an edge to his voice that I don’t like. “Can you do that?”

  “Yes sir,” the scientist says.

  Colonel Andrews nods, turns on his heel, and exits the room, the soldier following a step behind him.

  I try to shout no, but it comes out as a guttural moan. Hauser responds by reasserting his grip on my forehead and chest. The scientist bends down, rummaging in his case. A wave of fear spreads from somewhere deep inside of me, washing over me like an arctic wave, and I am back in that filthy apartment outside of Riyadh, my JAS captors shouting at me while they hold a knife to my throat. I didn’t crack then because I had nothing to give them. But now I do have something they want, even if I don’t understand what the hell it is that I’m trying to hide.

  The scientist steps back into view, a pair of pliers held in his hand. His expression is one of sadness.

  “Sorry man,” he says.

  Another explosion and more gunshots rock the building.

  “Hurry up,” Hauser growls.

  I bite down hard on the spacer as the scientist leans over and takes a hold of my jaw with one hand, reaching into my mouth with the other. I feel the cold metal of the pliers grip my tooth. His grip around my jaw tightens, there’s a yank, and a hot pain shoots up through my skull and all the way down my toes. I blink away tears. Through the water, I see the scientist step back, take a plastic bag from his case and drop the tooth inside. A smear of blood mars the inside of the bag as he zips it up. I can taste the blood as it fills my mouth, and I cough, gagging on it.

  “We’re done,” the scientist says.

  The pressure on my head and chest subsides as Hauser stands, stepping back from the bench. I roll onto my side and spit a ball of blood onto the floor.

  The scientist hastily packs his bag. “Is it the Interlopers?” he asks, glancing over at Hauser.

  “Who else would it be?” Hauser says.

  “Who are you talking about” I ask. I had learned about of the term “Interlopers” from Ellis’s research, but feigning ignorance was probably my best chance to gain information.

  The scientist takes out his sidearm. “They’re the bad guys.”

  “We took this base over from a group of Interlopers,” Hauser says. “Illegal time travelers. We’ve always expected them to come back.” There’s another explosion, this time much closer than before. Hauser glances back at me. “These are the guys who’ve been watching you, just so you know. So I suggest you stay in here.” He turns to the scientist. “And you might as well stay with him.”

  “I thought we’d already started transferring the gates to the Los Angeles Station,” the scientist says. “Shouldn’t we go, like, now?”

  “Not till we stop this incursion,” Hauser says. “Do you want to get your ass blown to hell? Stay in here and stay out of sight.”

  “There are people out there that work for me,” the scientist says.

  Hauser points a finger at me. “And he’s more important than all of them. So keep an eye on him, will you?”

  That shuts the scientist up. He looks down at the floor, running a hand through his short hair. Hauser nods, satisfied. He checks his rifle and then moves quickly out of the room. As the door swings open, I see the domed room now filled with smoke, the sound of gunfire setting my teeth on edge. Then the door swings shut, muffling the gunfire.

  I turn to the scientist, who is still looking down at the ground. “Why?” I manage to ask through a mouthful of blood.

  The scientist answers without looking up. “That procedure is something all agents have done so they can be tracked. Apparently, you’re now a valued asset of the United States Government, and we need to protect our assets.” The sarcasm is thick in his tone, and I would recognize it anywhere. It’s the tone of a man who hates his superiors.

  “Should I trust these guys?” I ask.

  The man sighs, running a hand through his hair. “You may not have a choice.”

  “Do you trust them?” I ask.

  “I get to play with technology that’s decades beyond our capability,” he responds, grinning slightly. “I just hope I don’t get killed in the process.” He looks away, and his smile drops. There is real fear there.

  “You guys make it out of here,” I say.

  The scientist looks up at me. “What do you mean?”

  “At least, I know that some of you guys make it back to the LA Station, and then build some big-ass versions of those gates.”

  “You were lying to Colonel Andrews?” the scientist asks.

  “A little,” I say.

  The scientist grins.

  I look down at my feet, taking in deep breaths. These were the people that killed Molly. The same people that she had defected from—if Ellis’s research had been correct. But at the same time, the Order may be attacking this base at this very moment. The ISD could protect me. Do I put my safety in the hands of an organization I don’t trust just because the alternative may be worse? And then I remember the gate. The one leading back to my apartment in the late nineties. A route of escape.

  “I want to get home.” I say. “And you don’t want to be stuck babysitting me. What do you say you let me walk out that door?”

  The scientist narrows his eyes. “There’s shooting out there.”

  “I plan to get out.”

  “Even if you do, we can track you,” he responds.

  I nod down at the bag. “Only if they keep that.”

  The scientist hesitates. “How does any of this help me?”

  “If I run out of here, they’ll be more concerned about stopping me to care at all about what you’re doing.”

  The scientist nods. “Good point.” He glances down at his bag and then kicks it underneath a bench. “Oops.”

  “What’s your name, Doc?” I ask.

  “Mark Downing,” he answers.

  I stifle a laugh because Downing has to be one of the few characters whose name I recognize from Time Patrol.

  “Something I said?” Downing asks.

  I look him in the eye, calling forth as much sincerity as I can manage, despite my throbbing jaw. �
��I know something about your future. If you promise to me help, I’ll tell you what I know.”

  Downing and I both flinch as another explosion shakes the building. This one sounds like it’s right outside the door. “Okay,” Downing says.

  “Colonel Andrews doesn’t survive past the next few years of his life. But you are going to live.”

  “Are you sure?” he asks.

  “In a few years, you’re going to help a friend of mine,” I say. “It kind of makes me think that you’re going to help me right now.”

  Downing takes his gun, holding it out toward me. I look down at it and notice that his hand is shaking. “I think you need this more than I do.” Downing says.

  “Thanks,” I say, and take the gun.

  I point to the bag of my belongings, lying on an adjacent bench.

  “Do you mind?”

  Downing’s gaze travels to the bag and then back to me.

  “What they were looking for is in there, isn’t it?” he asks.

  I nod.

  Downing shrugs. “You’d better hit me, then.”

  I reach down and snatch the bag with my belongings from the floor. I rip open the bag, taking out my clothes, and hurriedly dress. With one hand I grab the flash drive, and with the other I pull out the necklace, placing it around my neck. When I’m done, I turn to Downing and make a fist. “Sorry,” I say, and punch him across the jaw.

  The large, domed pool is dark. Half of the work lights have either been dismantled or shot out. Around the perimeter of the pool, the scientists and soldiers in the room are busy moving gear through one of the gates. Two of the gates are already collapsed. Soldiers lift one, carrying it through a tunnel. Downing joins them, stepping through the gate, but not without first taking a brief glance back in my direction. I give him a small nod, and he nods back. Other soldiers are still working to lower the gate I had fallen through from the ceiling. It is affixed to the ceiling by chains, run through winches. The winches turn, lowering the ceiling toward the water, while another winch pulls it toward the edge of the pool. Every soldier not already engaged in moving equipment is standing, gun ready, staring up. There must be a helicopter above the dome. I look up, following their gaze. But I see and hear nothing.

  Of the three gates still standing one is being used by the soldiers, the other is dark, deactivated, and the third is the gate to my New York apartment.

  Home.

  The thought pulls at me. I know that Molly isn’t there, that this would be the entirely wrong time, and that this is a home haunted by grief-stricken version of myself. But it’s still my home. And, more importantly, it’s a way out.

  “Stop him!” I crane my head around to see Hauser, jogging toward me from across the room. I feel a moment of panic, and then it fades. The soldiers are all near him. Between the tunnel and me are only scientists. I turn and sprint toward the dancing, flickering image of my old apartment.

  There’s a flash of light above me and a tunnel appears, superimposed against the curve of the dome. Muzzle flashes punctuate the surface of the tunnel. I stare at it in surprise. People are shooting from a hole in the sky floating in the air… Glass explodes behind me, and I spin around as one of the few remaining lights explodes in a shower of glass and sparks, and then goes dark.

  I lose my balance in the darkness and stumble, falling hard on my side. I blink, trying to regain focus in the shifting semi-darkness, and I see the duffel bag. That duffel bag. Molly’s duffel bag. It’s sitting right here on the ground in front of me. The bag is knocked over on its side, part way unzipped, and everything has spilled out of it. The money. The ticket. Everything. Even the sweater I had bought her after I had come home from captivity, the same sweater that made me realize Molly had been lying to me that night in the car. I get up on an elbow look around me to see more things. My CD collection. A stack of my books. Mine and Molly’s clothes. I am lying in a pile of my own belongings—everything I had owned from the apartment in New York is here.

  I look up at dancing image of my apartment and realize that the scene I’m looking at is from the night I had been robbed. But nothing had been taken that night, and the reason why is clear. These people had been looking for something I had been given that night of the party. Something small. Innocuous. Something I may not have even noticed. So they ransacked my apartment, managed to duplicate everything in it—how I don't know, but something about pulled teeth and the word magnets from Ellis’s notes is now beginning to click—and put it all back.

  “You don’t want to go in there.”

  I look up to see the redheaded scientist standing a few paces from me holding a metal case. Her eyes are wide. Serious. I realize now that what she had been cataloging was the contents of my New York apartment.

  A cold anger bubbles up inside of me. I stand part of the way to my feet and she takes a step toward me. “Get out of my way,” I growl.

  “If you go through there, you risk running into yourself. And that would be very, very bad.”

  I hesitate, because I know what she says is true. Ellis’s notes have told me all about Recursion Events, and the havoc they can wreak on the universe. But, dammit, the need for escape, the need for home, is stronger.

  Above me, the floating tunnel appears again, accompanied by another burst of gunfire. I take the opportunity surge forward, shoving the woman into a rack stacked high with items from my apartment that had been tagged, categorized, and organized.

  She drops the metal case that she’d been carrying. It falls to the floor, and springs open. Plastic sample cups begin rolling from the case and onto the grounds. Their lids spring open, and small, identical silver objects begin rolling out of each one. From each of them, a small ring bounces out and onto the floor. It’s my ring, multiplied many times over.

  I stumble backward in surprise, slipping on one of my old Smashing Pumpkins T-shirts, and fall to the ground. I watch in shock as dozens of duplicates of my wedding ring move across the floor, seemingly on their own, rolling, bouncing and sliding, some toward each other, and some toward me. Simultaneously, the necklace pulls tight around my neck, stretched out as if held by an invisible hand. Two of the rings collide in a burst of sparks, fusing into one. I look down at the fused rings on my own necklace, vibrating as it is pulled by dozens of forces from multiple directions at once, and then grab it with my free hand just as a ring bounces off my knuckles.

  I hear a noise of scuffling on the floor. The redheaded scientist is scrambling to collect the rings, placing them back into their separate containers. One more ring flies at me and I duck as it whistles past my ear. Whatever is happening, I need to get the hell out of here. And fast. The scientist pauses her collection to give me a rueful stare. I grunt and roll back over, rising to my feet, just as another ring after another begins striking me on the back, like slow-moving bullets. Above me, gunfire rains down from the floating gate, shooting out the last remaining bank of lights. The tunnel disappears, throwing the room once again into relative darkness and silence.

  Ahead of me, the glow of the gate leading to my New York apartment shimmers and vibrates. I take a step toward it, and can almost feel its energy pulling me like a magnet.

  “He’s going for the gate!” I recognize the voice of the redheaded scientist.

  Tile explodes near my feet, and I jump to the side. I turn back to see the redheaded scientist holding the gun I had taken from Downing in one hand while clutching the case in the other.

  “Don’t shoot him,” Hauser yells, running toward the woman. “Shut the gate.”

  She turns to Hauser, confusion clouding her face as she struggles to understand the order.

  “The gate!” Hauser yells. “Shut it down!”

  Another soldier picks up on the order and turns toward the console controlling the gate. He stares at it, not comprehending the controls, and then raises his gun.

  “No!” someone yells. It’s the redheaded scientist. She lowers the gun, and still clutching the case, moves over to the c
onsole. I ready myself to turn and sprint the last few remaining steps into the tunnel. Another flash of light consumes the domed room and the floating tunnel appears a third time, now at floor level. Everyone turns in the direction of the tunnel. I wait for gunfire, but it doesn’t come.

  “Hold your fire!” Colonel Andrews shouts.

  Soldiers wait, guns aimed at the newly appeared tunnel. Slowly, figures appear in the shimmering light. The first I see is a tall man with a thin mustache and blonde hair parted to the side. A shock of recognition jolts through me. It’s the man from the catering staff at the fundraiser in New York from so many years ago. If I hadn’t just seen his picture, I wouldn’t have recognized him. It doesn’t look like he’s aged a day. Next to him is a black woman with short-cropped hair and multiple weapons strapped to her body. She looks young. No more than thirty. And behind her is Quincy, looking just as young as he did that weekend driving up to the Cedar Springs dam. A fourth figure appears, stepping out from behind the first two. It’s a woman, with curly, shoulder-length brown hair and bright brown eyes.

  Molly.

  I don’t remember what kind of horrible attackers I’d been expecting when Andrews had mentioned the word “Interlopers,” but whatever image had flashed through my mind, I had never imagined the caterer from the night of the fundraiser, or a young black woman with enough firepower to single-handedly bring down the building, or my old college roommate’s boyfriend, or my long-dead wife.

  As quickly as it had materialized, the tunnel disappears.

  Silence falls over the room.

  I hear whispering behind me, and I turn searching for the source of the words. It was Hauser’s voice. Moving slowly across the floor, I stop when I see Hauser speaking Colonel Andrews near the fallen palm tree. I look back at the nearby soldier and the redheaded scientist. They are busy staring at the empty air where the tunnel had disappeared, just like everyone else is. Ducking down, I move quickly to the fallen palm tree. Hauser and Andrew are just on the other side of it. Peeking over it, I can see the two men standing close to each other, barely visible in the dim light.