Recursion (Book One of the Recursion Event Saga)

by Brian J. Walton

  The staircase ends in a closed trapdoor. “They’re so—” I struggle for the right word. “So vivid.”

  “There’s a simpler explanation.” Genevieve’s voice pulls me from my reverie. “You are confused and tired and these conflicting dreams are just that. Dreams.”

  I nod.

  “Right now we need to focus. We have a message to send.”

  “Of course,” I say, feeling bitterness well inside of me. But I can’t let that get in the way of what we’re doing. The Order is nearby. We need to hurry.

  I push open the trap door at the top of the spiral staircase and we climb through and into a room crammed with radio equipment. The bell is gone, replaced with a high-frequency transmitter. The radio is already on, a reel-to-reel player droning off a previously recorded message. They are numbers—coded messages—spoken by an aged voice that I recognize as Henri’s.

  Genevieve stops the transmission and threads a new reel into the device. It’s important to leave the previous messages intact because long-term transmission is essential to the procedure, so we will have to add ours to the end.

  “The message?” Genevieve asks.

  I hand her a piece of paper with a string of numbers written across it. We use a simple, numeric code with each number corresponding to a letter. It’s a simple code, but the key goes up to 10,000 digits and a unique key is randomly generated for each mission. Even if someone cracked it, our communication is so coded that it would appear to be gibberish. Genevieve reads the numbers into the recorder. The message includes the time we left Command, as well as the local time. Both are necessary for the ISD to decode the message and to know when to send help.

  Through a small window I see a wide field, overgrown with grass. A thick line of trees runs about a hundred yards from the church. Leung waits by our car, watching the road.

  Now that they have information on our mission, it is important that backup arrives after we have sent the message. Arrive earlier and we risk Recursion Events on top of Recursion Events.

  Genevieve finishes the recording. She takes the reel and splices it onto the end of the first one, then spools it back into the machine. I feel a dull ache in my tooth and my pulse quickens.

  “We’re done here,” Genevieve announces.

  A flicker of movement from outside catches my eye. I lean toward the window to get a better view of the forest. The dim outlines of three figures move in the trees.

  I can just take in their features at this distance. There are two men and one woman.

  “The Interlopers,” I say quietly.

  Genevieve hurries to my side. It only takes her a moment to confirm what I am seeing. She takes out her radio. “Leung, start the car.”

  I stuff the key back in my pack as the car rumbles to life. There’s the pop, pop, pop of rifle shots.

  I feel a puff of wind as something rushes by my hair. A piece of wall explodes behind me into splinters of stone.

  I jump back from the window. Genevieve’s eyes go wide. We both saw it. That bullet was no normal bullet. I trace a line through the air with my eyes from the impact to the window. It was traveling in a curved line right for my head.

  “Their ammo is magnetized,” I say, feeling a rush of fear. With the right kind of sample, a bullet can be turned into a magnet—the sample leading the bullet to its genetic twin. The ISD has been trying to make magnetized bullets for years, but we haven’t been able to find the right kind of sample to use with a strong enough attraction. And with few samples from Interlopers, our use for magnetized bullets is limited. But they’ve figured it out. How did they make these in only a day? They must have a tunnel nearby. Maybe there wasn’t time for them to run a mission into my past, but there may have been time to turn their bullets into magnets.

  “We really have to go,” Genevieve insists.

  I grab our bags, following Genevieve down the twisting spiral staircase, our boots clattering on the rickety wooden steps. The car’s engine roars around the side of the building. We reach the bottom of the stairs and slip back out into the narthex. Genevieve dashes to a window, crouching down. I cross the narthex to the door. Genevieve peeks out the window. There’s another pop. She ducks back down as the bullet explodes against the wall behind her.

  I hear Leung’s voice crackle over the radio. “I am going to the other side—”

  We scramble past the fallen doors and into the overgrown sanctuary. Sunlight filters in through holes in the ceiling. A bird bursts from its nest built on a statue of one of the apostles. Then there'’ a pop and the head of the apostle explodes into shattered stone.

  I hazard a glance back as I run. The three Interlopers move quickly around the broken pews and struggle through the dense undergrowth. Two of them are the same as from the Paris Station, but a tall, thin woman has replaced the squat Interloper (who I’m sure was killed when I blew the Paris Station), and Phaedrus is nowhere to be seen. The tall one—Scarecrow—pulls aside his coat, revealing a rifle slung over his shoulder. He lifts it, firing off another round.

  I duck behind a pew, just as the top of it explodes into splinters. Too close. I stay low, scurrying across the dirt-covered floor. I see one of them step up onto a pew and out of sight.

  I crawl away, staying out of sight underneath the pew. The dirt-strewn floor is wet from a recent rain. Rocks and dirt cling to my hands and jacket. There’s a crack of wood and the sound of someone falling. I see the legs of what I assume is the fat one scrambling on the ground.

  “Stop playing around!” the Scarecrow barks.

  “Come here kitty, kitty, kitty.” It’s the woman. Her voice coos from the other side of me. But where’s the fat one? I thought he came after us as well.

  I shiver. How did I go from being an agent of the most secretive government organization in the world to being trapped by a group of psychopathic time travelers? I am suddenly aware that my knowledge of The Order—their motives, operating procedures, and weaknesses—is next to nothing. I know that at least some of them can fall from six stories and get up like they only received a bruise. I also know that they seem hell-bent on the elimination of the ISD and, for some reason, myself in particular. Finally, I know that they have my magnet from the Paris Station'’ vault. With that, they cannot only track me across huge distances but also turn bullets into Molly-seeking missiles.

  I hear a gunshot and one of them shouts. There’s a crash of glass. I roll out from under the pew and see Genevieve disappearing through a shattered stained-glass window. I fire at the Scarecrow.

  “Go after her!” the Scarecrow shouts. The woman takes off after Genevieve while the Scarecrow fires back at me.

  I duck behind the pew again, visualizing the arc of his bullets through the air in my mind as they shatter the pew behind me.

  The Renault’s engine revs and I hear the sound of tires spinning. The roar of the car’s engine grows louder until it fills the small church.

  I peek over the top of the pew. The sanctuary is filled with the roaring of the engine as the Renault drives through the hole in the wall and into the church.

  I stand, firing wildly, and sprint for the car. Out of the corner of my eye, I can see the Scarecrow running for the car as well.

  I pull the passenger side door. It has suicide doors, and it swings open toward the back of the car. The Scarecrow is opposite me, yanking on the latch to the driver’s side door. Leung struggles with it, trying to keep her door closed. She locks eyes with me, and then hits the gas. The Scarecrow leaps onto the roof of the small car.

  He swings his gun toward me and I grab his wrist, pushing the gun away as he fires.

  Leung shifts into first, nearly throwing me off the car. The Scarecrow tumbles forward onto the hood.

  The car surges forward as Leung hits the gas and crashes into a pew. I am thrown off the car and onto the pew. My breath evacuates my body and the world goes momentarily black.

  I hear two shots and open my eyes. The windshield of the Renault has shattered. Leung a
ccelerates backward as the Scarecrow scrambles into the car with her. My pack tumbles out as the car whips to the side, and then the Renault surges forward, angling for the opening in the church.

  I climb to my feet, running after the car. I leap through the opening in the wall and the bright sun blinds me for a moment.

  “Molly!” Genevieve shouts.

  Without thinking, I dive to my right. I hear the pop of a gun and then a blazing pain goes through my left thigh.

  I fall to the ground, opening my eyes. The fat Interloper’s gun is angled on me. He turns, running from the church. The thin woman is ahead of him. They’re both following the Renault as it disappears, bouncing over the hilly ground.

  I find Genevieve crouched behind a gravestone. The other two Interlopers are running back toward the trees—most likely for their own vehicle. I try to stand, but pain shoots through my leg. I crawl for Genevieve.

  “Why did they leave?” I gasp.

  Genevieve looks down at my leg. “Molly, you’re hurt!”

  “We need to know what they came for,” I gasp.

  “I don’t know,” Genevieve says. “But one of them went up into the tower.”

  I struggle to my feet

  “Molly, your leg!”

  I grab a fallen tree branch. Using it as a crutch, I hobble toward the church.

  Through the open doors.

  Across the narthex.

  My leg burns.

  I throw open the doorway into the antechamber.

  Take hold of the railing of the circular staircase.

  Drag myself step by step, each one a new agony.

  Push up the trap door.

  Smoke curls from a myriad of holes in the radio. They took out the radio, which had only been broadcasting for a matter of minutes. If our message even made it to the relays ,then it would be a miracle.

  * * *

  I limp through the woods. My pack, retrieved from the church, drags at me. As we walk, I lean against Genevieve’s shoulder, putting most of my weight on her. Our breath explodes from our mouths in plumes. The sun is now high in the sky, and it warms my skin, providing some relief from the chill in the air. I realize with surprise that this is the first time it’s actually been sunny since we’ve arrived. I check my wound. I sacrificed a sleeve of my shirt for a bandage and the thin cotton is growing a deepening red. We'’l need to change it soon.

  “Maybe the message got through,” Genevieve says. “Maybe Command will send help.”

  “There wasn’t time.”

  “The message could have gotten through,” she says.

  I shake my head. “Even if they send help ,it may not make a difference. With the Paris Station down, we have no way of knowing how long it will take them to get here. There’re several routes. It depends on which Stations have available agents. It could take weeks, even months.”

  “We can’t think that way,” Genevieve says.

  I pause and straighten, peering around the gloomy woods.

  The rain has stopped since the attack on the Listening Station, but the muddy ground sucks at our feet. The farmhouse is only a few miles from the church, but between the mud and my injury, it has already taken us several hours.

  “Are we close?” I ask.

  “Another half a mile.”

  I feel a wave of dizziness. “You’re sure?”

  “I’ve sent reports from the Listening Station many times,” Genevieve says. “Come on, you’re tired. That is all.”

  As we continue our limping pace, I try to work out our next steps. Leung may be in danger, or she may have gotten away. The Interlopers have, once again, tried to thwart our next step. And this time they have succeeded. Something about this mission, from the moment I emerged in the fire, has felt wrong. But I can’t figure out why. If only my mind was clearer. It must be this wound. Or my lack of sleep. I’m losing too much blood.

  I appraise the injury and my impromptu wrap. It’s not that bloody. The bullet must have missed an artery—thank God. I’m lucky the magnets aren’t strong enough to guide it straight to my head.

  Still, this is our third day without a proper meal. And I haven’t been able to sleep without being plagued by dreams. I’m not thinking right. I need to get back to the Paris Station, to Vic.

  But Vic is missing. And the Paris Station is now a hole in the ground.

  I need to focus. My hand goes to the collar of my shirt and reflexively touches the ring underneath.

  Whose ring is this?

  I can’t remember. My chest tightens. There is something wrong going on and I can’t figure it out.

  “Do you remember what we were talking about in the church,” I say. “Right before the attack?”

  “That’s enough about your dreams,” Genevieve says. “And this is proof. They came after the Listening Station. Not you. I don’t know what could be clearer than that.”

  The dreams. How could I have forgotten? Is Genevieve right about them? Are they just dreams? She’s right about the fact that they weren’t coming for me at the Listening Station. Unless they only care about the Station because I was the one sending the message. That makes sense. It has to. They only seem to care about the ISD because I am an ISD agent and they are after me. But that doesn’t explain how they’ve accomplished everything. I can feel my breath quickening.

  Two conclusions become suddenly clear. First, they have someone on the inside. And second, they are trying to draw me out. They must have a reason for changing my past, and maybe it’s to lead me somewhere. Into some new kind of trap. The phone conversation. I thought it was odd that she was talking to her contact in the police in English. But maybe she was talking to somebody else.

  I stop and pull off my pack, dropping it to the ground.

  “What are you doing?” Genevieve asks.

  “I need a drink of water.” I open the pack and begin digging through the supplies until I find the tracker. I flip it on. The compass swings due northwest—the direction we’re heading. I check the display below the compass:

  000000.15

  She’s leading me right to them.

  I slip the compass back into my pack and straighten. I’ve known Genevieve for the last five years, since she first trained me as an agent.

  I pull aside my coat, revealing my shoulder holster. “How long have you been working with them?” I draw out each word carefully.

  “Why would you even suggest that?” she snaps. But I see Genevieve’s eyes flicker to the gun, to the trees around us, and then back to the gun.

  I’m right.

  “I heard your phone call yesterday morning.” I practically spit the words out through clenched teeth—anything to shut her up. “I know you leaked the exact time and location of our operation to The Order.”

  She shakes her head, her eyes still on the gun. “Never.”

  “Then why are you leading me into a trap?”

  She jerks her head back toward me. “How do you know?”

  “I checked the tracker. They’re at the farmhouse.”

  She takes a step back. “We have to leave, maintenant!”

  I grab Genevieve’s collar. “You’ve been saying that this whole time and I’ve listened. But I’m not listening anymore.” She stares back at me, her face set. I know I’m being reckless. But I’ve been running too long. It’s time to go on the offensive. I can’t just run, because wherever I go, they find me. My only advantage up until now is that I could do the same to them. But now I also have their mole.

  “They can track you, Molly. They already know you’re coming!”

  I let go of her collar and take a step back. “I’m going to make it so that they can’t track us now.”

  Her eyes narrow. “What are you going to do?”

  I reach into my pack, taking out my multi-tool.

  I open it up to the pliers.

  “You should be glad that only field agents have magnets,” I say. “I don’t think you would like it if I had to do this to you too.” I hold up the pli
ers. “But I would do it.”

  I open my mouth, putting the pliers inside. With my other hand, I reach into my mouth and count until I find the third molar on the top.

  “Molly, wait!”

  Genevieve grabs at me but I step back out of her reach. I unholster my gun with my free hand and point it at her.

  I feel myself trembling, but I know I have to do this. Otherwise, they can keep following me. They can keep tracking me. Even if I fled to another tunnel, they could keep checking tunnels until they found me again. It has to be done.

  I close the pliers down on my tooth and pull, my muscles straining.

  At first, there’s just a dull ache from the pressure of the pliers, but then I feel it budge and everything becomes agony. The pain spreads from my mouth to my head and neck and shoulders. It shoots down my right leg in hot tendrils. For a moment, I don’t think I’m going to be able to pull it out. I’ll just keep pulling and pulling and the pain will never end. But then it yanks free.

  I take a halting step back, dropping the pliers to the ground. My tooth, small and bloody, lies on the ground next to the pliers.

  Genevieve is staring at me in shock.

  I spit out a wad of blood onto the ground and lift the gun.

  “Walk,” I say through a mouthful of blood.

  * * *

  The pressure of my gun pushes Genevieve through the woods. My hair clings to my face in the damp air and I brush it aside. The pain from my tooth has diminished to a dull ache. I must have destroyed the nerve, but still, it’s a new wound that I have to deal with. Now, maybe because of the pain in my mouth, I am suddenly more aware of the burning pain in my thigh. I’ve found a new stick for a crutch, but even that is becoming more difficult. The adrenaline must be leaving my system—that’s not good.

  “Molly, listen to me.”

  I don’t respond. I will not let her dull my focus now that it’s finally been regained.

  “You’re making a mistake.” Her voice is rising in pitch. “How could you even think this of me? I trained you, after all! Mais enfin! Ne sois pas stupide! You know we haven’t been prepared for any of this. I am only looking out for the best interest of our team, je te jure que c'’st vrai!”