True Path: Timesplash 2

by Graham Storrs

  At the sound of Sandra’s voice, she looked up sharply and said, “Mum? Oh God, Mum! I thought you weren’t going to wake up again. I thought …”

  “What are you doing down there?” Her head felt much clearer now, most of the wooziness having been replaced by sharp pain. The nausea had gone too.

  “I tried to, you know, throw myself about a bit and break the chair, but I just sort of toppled over and then I couldn’t do anything.” She gave a short laugh, which quickly died.. “Are you …? I mean, do you feel all right?”

  Sandra could have cried upon hearing all the hope in her daughter’s voice. “Much better, now.” She checked her commplant for the time. “Christ, we’ve got to get out of here.” There was still a chance. They had an hour to get away from the center of the splash. If she could get free, find a car, drive like a madwoman … An hour would give them, what, thirty kilometers dodging through city traffic, running all the lights? It could be done.

  First the chair, then. Running backwards into a wall to break the chair would be ideal, but she couldn’t run, or walk, or even shuffle much. Each of her legs was tied to one of the front legs of the chair. Each of her arms was tied to one of the back legs. She could lean forwards, maybe, get her balance and then try to walk the chair over to a table with tools on it. If she could get a tool with an edge to it, she might be able to cut the rope. Despair filled her chest and made it hard to breathe. It was such a long way to go, tied up like that. It would be so hard to keep herself from falling flat on her face, and, if she got a tool, it would be a long, hard job to cut the rope. Even if she could do it without braining herself or slitting her wrist, it would take so long. Ten minutes. Maybe more. They didn’t have ten minutes.

  Nevertheless …

  She rocked forward, trying to shift her weight over her feet. The chair didn’t budge.

  “Mum, be careful!”

  “Says the girl on the floor.”

  She tried again, harder. The back legs came up with a sickening feeling of toppling helplessly forward, but she was nowhere near the balancing point and the chair rocked back with a thump. Her heart was pounding, partly from the effort, but mostly because she knew she wasn’t going to make it. She’d felt dizziness and nausea as she tilted forward. She almost certainly had a concussion. Teetering a few meters tied to a chair was probably as far beyond her as crossing Niagara Falls on a tightrope. If only there was a way to get Cara off the floor.

  Or to untie her.

  Her daughter was tied up the same way Sandra was. She could see quite clearly the knot that held Cara’s uppermost hand to the back leg of her chair. If Sandra could get her own hand near that knot, she could untie it relatively easily. All she had to do was shuffle her chair close to Cara’s. She could probably reach the knot with her fingers. She began working her way towards her daughter, explaining what she was trying to do as she went.

  “God, Mum, you’re a genius! I knew if you woke up, you’d get us out.”

  A man’s voice said, “Stop it, please. I think I’m going to be sick.”

  Sandra looked to see Matthew propped against the control desk, swaying unsteadily. In his good hand, he held a gun.

  “Persistent bugger aren’t you?” he said. “But there’s no escaping this time. Those bastards wouldn’t take me with them. They said I’d slow them down. But I had the last laugh because someone fucked with the cars. They’re all useless.” He gave a short, bitter laugh. “So there’s no way out of here. No escape.” He wagged the gun at Sandra like an admonitory finger. “Not for you. Not for me. Not for anybody.” He raised the gun and aimed it at Cara’s chest, keeping his puffy, slitted eyes fixed on Sandra. “But you, bitch, you really need to suffer some more.” The mouth within the swaddling bandages was smiling.

  -oOo-

  A woman fell off her bicycle and rolled aside. Jay heard the bike crunch beneath the massive wheels of the APC. He prayed there were no bones crunching along with it. But he did not slow down.

  “Chief Inspector, what are you doing?” It was English’s voice coming from a speaker somewhere. Jay looked for a microphone but couldn’t see one.

  “Can you hear me?” he said but no reply came. The APC grazed the side of a building, shattering the structure with a tearing screech. He stopped scanning the dashboard and focused on keeping the speeding machine on the road.

  “If you’re thinking of approaching the compound on your own, I suggest you abandon the idea. The road ahead of you is blocked and my men will stop you if they have to.”

  “Shit.”

  He could see the FBI up ahead, two APCs across the road, and armed men everywhere. It would be suicide to attempt to crash through. He turned the wheel hard and plowed straight into the nearest building. It offered almost no resistance as he crashed through insubstantial inner walls, the APC bouncing over beds and furniture. He hit the ceiling with every bounce and the APC shuddered as the machine gun on the roof was ripped off its mounting. A large wardrobe loomed ahead and was smashed to splinters as he charged through it, into a flimsy wall, and out into the street again. He pointed the vehicle in the direction of Polanski’s HQ and gunned it. He doubted that English would be very happy that he’d avoided his trap so easily.

  As he passed a point parallel to the roadblock, a handful of FBI agents came rushing into the street in their black armor and helmets. They opened fire with automatic weapons and bullets pinged off the vehicle’s sides. He was past them in a moment but had time to notice one man shouldering a rocket-propelled grenade launcher. Swearing, he threw the APC into the nearest building, tunneling through it like a thirty-ton mole. A massive explosion hit him from behind as the grenade slammed into the building and detonated. He burst out into another street in a shower of debris and flame. Having completely lost his bearings, he took the first turn that led away from the men with guns and hoped it was right.

  He barreled along, trying to put distance between himself and any pursuit. He took another turn and another and found himself in a street full of running people. There were scores of them—men, women, and children—all carrying bundles and overstuffed bags, all running the same way as he was going. He searched for a horn but didn’t find it. He kept going, making them jump out of his way. Then he realized what he was seeing: Polanski’s people, fleeing the lob site.

  He slammed on the brakes and threw the APC around. The heavy vehicle skidded in the mud, sliding into a three-quarter turn before it stopped, rocking on its springs. He slapped down the accelerator pedal again before he had a chance to dwell on how close he had come to rolling it, and the APC took off, barging into another rickety dwelling as he fought with the wheel to get it back on course. Now he was driving straight into the oncoming crowds and trying desperately not to kill anyone.

  The lob’s happened, he realized. Jesus Christ, the lob’s already happened!

  And there it was, Polanski’s HQ. People were still coming out of it. It can’t have been long ago. They’d have started leaving as soon as it happened, he thought, slowing to a halt outside the building. There’s still time.

  He became aware of a commotion building around him. People were pointing and shouting, not at him but into the sky. He stretched across the seats and peered through the side slit to see what it was.

  Oh crap! He dragged himself back behind the wheel and hit the gas again. Outside, a drone was turning in the sky like a giant eagle, swooping towards its prey. The APC lurched into motion, bounding across the street towards Polanski’s headquarters. A couple of men with guns started firing at him, bravely barring his way. He shouted ineffectually at them and kept going. In his mind’s eye, he saw the little puffs of smoke from beneath the drone’s wings as two small missiles pushed ahead of the robot aircraft, two missiles accelerating away from it at high speed, tipping their noses down towards the fat, lumbering APC as it scampered for the shelter of the ramshackle shanty.

  -oOo-

  “I’m really glad you’re awake,” Sandra told Matthew. “I
thought you were dead.”

  “I’m not going without you.”

  She felt rather than saw his finger tightening on the trigger.

  “Set us loose and we’ll get you to safety,” she said quickly. “Kill either one of us and the other will leave you here to die.”

  He snorted with surprise. “You are incredible,” he said. “Absolutely in-fucking-credible.”

  “You think I’m lying? Cara, have I ever not kept my word about anything?”

  “There was that time you said I could go to Susan’s party and then you—”

  “About anything important?”

  “Well, I suppose not.”

  Sandra glared at her and turned back to Matthew. “I give you my solemn word. I will get you out of here if you set us free.”

  “Really? Your solemn word? Well, in that case …”

  “You’re such a fucking arsehole. You’d rather die for sure than take a chance on surviving?”

  “If she doesn’t keep her word, I’ll never speak to her again.”

  They both turned to look at Cara. She’d spoken with such complete conviction that even Sandra believed it.

  “Do you want to die? Is it worth it for some petty bit of vengeance?”

  “She broke my fucking jaw,” he said and it sounded so childish and petulant that even he must have heard it because, with a lot of cursing, he limped and hobbled across the room to Cara. He put the gun on the floor and, struggling with his one hand, untied her. She, in turn, untied Sandra while Matthew snatched up the gun and hobbled away from them.

  “All right, I’m trusting you. What’s the plan?”

  Sandra rubbed the blood back into her limbs. “First we get out of this building. Then we find a car. One that hasn’t been sabotaged. Give me the gun.”

  “No way.”

  “You’re going to have your good arm around my shoulders. If anyone tries to stop us, I’ll need the weapon.” She held out her hand. “We don’t have much time.”

  He hesitated for only a moment. “Ah, what the fuck.” He tossed her the gun and she caught it. To his evident relief, she did not shoot him.

  “Now,” she said and froze.

  A rattle of gunfire came from outside. They barely had the chance to exchange questioning glances when the ground shook and the building rattled. A bomb. Sandra turned to throw herself on Cara who was standing, rigid and wide-eyed behind her. Before she could take one step, the wall behind Matthew blew in and a cloud of smoke and heat blasted in to envelop him. A shockwave hit her from behind and threw her into Cara. They both tumbled to the ground, tangled together.

  When she could turn again, Sandra saw a massive flame-scarred military vehicle with a black crucifix come smashing though the half-demolished building, braking hard as it slewed to a stop right in front of her. She scrabbled in the rubble and smoke for the gun she’d dropped, touching its cold steel just as an FBI agent in full body armor leapt from the cab and rushed towards her. Without hesitation, she fired two rounds into his chest.

  Chapter 29: Timesplash

  One summer night in Ohio, Polanski had been on the run from a local cop. It had been a betrayal, one of several he had experienced in his life. Sometimes the cops were OK. They hated the SOBs and they feared the FBI as much as anyone. Cops had helped him get away before, but not this one. This one was mean and smart and had chased Polanski across three counties. Yet that summer night was one of Polanski’s fondest memories. He had taken a moment to rest on his back, with the cool grass beneath him and a warm breeze on his skin. Above him, a perfectly clear, moonless sky was painted with the glory of the Milky Way. Thousands upon thousands of stars filled every inch of the heavens in such profusion that he was overwhelmed by the wild extravagance of it. And, as he lay there, his arms and legs spread in complete surrender to the moment, the illusion of up and down left him and he experienced the world as it truly was. Just for a short moment, gravity held his body to the surface of a staggeringly huge sphere and he was looking across at a galaxy of unimaginable scale, filled to bursting with stars.

  It was the closest Polanski had ever come to a true religious experience. In that brief but timeless episode, he felt an all-consuming awe at the wonder of God’s Creation. He believed he had been given a tiny glimpse of how God Himself might see His Universe, and he held that gift close to his heart always.

  Yet there, clutching the hard, cold components of his mortar, drifting weightlessly within a plastic bubble, a bubble itself drifting—or flying, or keeping perfectly still, he could not tell—in an infinite black void, he believed God was showing him another aspect of His Creation. The world of Man was filled with light, glorious suns lighting up the darkness like a host of Angels. But this place—the pseudospatial void—had nothing. It was nothing. As if God Himself, spooked by its emptiness, hesitated to say the words, fiat lux.

  He should have brought a flashlight with him. He should have brought a luminous watch. He had no idea how long he had been in in this weightless nothing, bumping against the wet, cold plastic walls of the sphere, clutching his tubes and rods until his arms ached, listening to the soft, unvarying whine of the air conditioner. It could have been hours. That damned woman might have sabotaged the lob after all and he might be stuck forever in this Limbo, or until his air ran out, or the heater failed. He had counted his heartbeats into the hundreds, but his heart was beating fast and his counting was uncertain. He had given up in the end and waited, sometimes squeezing his eyes tight shut, just so he could see something, anything.

  If he was truly traveling, he had no sense of it. He’d asked Matthew to explain it once, but the teknik had spouted jargon—psuedo- meta- temporal gobbledygook. He should have asked Sandra. He had a feeling she could have taught him to understand what happened in a lob. But maybe understanding wouldn’t help. He was a goldfish in a bowl, set inside a block of frozen obsidian. That was all that made sense.

  The light, when it came, blazed like headlamps straight into his eyes. Blinded and shocked, he floated yet for another instant, then the ground hit the sphere, and the tubes and rods and plates in his grip smashed into his body and his face, cutting and bruising him. He held on tighter, and flew and whirled helplessly. The metal parts battered his arms and chest and slipped away from him, clanking together and beating against him. All he had left was the mortar shell, and he tucked it into his belly and curled around it. He hit the ground with his shoulder and then the bipod hit his head, causing a flash of pain brighter than the dazzling daylight. All he could think was, Don’t let it be broken. Don’t let it be bent.

  He lay in a tangle of plastic sheet and twisted wire. Carefully, he set the shell beside him and sat up. It felt as if he had tumbled into a rocky ravine, and yet he was on the gentlest of grassy slopes. Even so, the sphere was wrecked and torn. The tiny part of him that had hoped he might go home felt the desolation of the new reality. In less than twelve minutes, he would be pulled back into that Godforsaken void to die there. His frozen corpse shattering on impact when it arrived home.

  So be it.

  He did a quick inventory of the mortar parts. The shell, sight, remote, and the bipod were all with him, but the tube was a few yards away, up the slope, and the base was even farther. It looked as if the heavy base had torn through the sphere first, followed by the tube, a fact which had probably saved him from serious injury or death. At least, in the short term.

  He got to his feet. Blood trickled into his left eye from a cut on his forehead. He had many other cuts and bruises and his right knee hurt when he bent it, but, all in all, he was fine and able to carry out his mission. He stopped for a moment and put his hands together.

  “Thank you, Lord,” he said. “I know you had the perfect opportunity to stop me right there, and I hope I can take the fact that you didn’t as a sign of permission for what I’m about to do. Amen.”

  When he lowered his hands, he noticed that they seemed to leave shimmering vortices in the air around them. He touched the cut
above his eye and wondered how much damage had actually been done to his head.

  He began to gather up the mortar parts, taking them to relatively flat ground nearby. He soon realized that the shimmering was not in his eyes, but was connected to everything he moved. The ground shimmered beneath the mortar parts, his footprints shimmered in the grass, his body left a trail of shimmering air as he limped from place to place.

  He was off to a slow start in assembling the mortar and aligning it with Mount Vernon. At first, his hands were shaking, slowing him as he fitted piece to piece and tightened nuts. Beyond these merely physical impediments, he found the world of 1736 so different from 2066, that he was constantly distracted by it. He could not see the settlement of Alexandria at all from where he worked. He would dearly have loved to wander about and find it. The field he was in was broad and peaceful. A couple dozen cattle grazed at the edge of the surrounding forest. He could not be certain, but one of them appeared to be twitching, moving back and forth in an unnatural way. He had no time to stare at it to be sure. The main thought that preoccupied him was the idea that all of America had been like this little corner of Virginia back then. The air was clean, the rivers pure, and the only tyranny that of the English lawmakers and tax collectors—which seemed benign compared to the iron fist of his own government. And, when the boy he had come here to kill had grown into the great leader he was destined to be, even that tyranny would be set aside. Then, for nearly two hundred years, the American people would be free.

  And they will be again, he promised himself as he made the final adjustment to the mortar’s angle. All the calculations had been done beforehand. He just needed to point the tube to the right compass bearing and set its angle to get the correct range. He turned on the remote and checked his watch. Three minutes left. He had taken longer than usual to set up, but that was OK. He still had plenty of time.

  “Greetings, friend.”

  His heart lurched and he whipped around. A man in tan moleskin breeches and a voluminous linen shirt was striding towards him. His thigh-length waistcoat was undone and a black coat was slung over his shoulder. On seeing Polanski’s shocked reaction, the man slowed and stopped. He wasn’t armed, Polanski noted.