Recursion (Book One of the Recursion Event Saga)

by Brian J. Walton

  “Keep going,” I say.

  “This is a very bad idea,” she says again. Quieter now.

  I stop when the farmhouse comes into view. Our car is parked outside. The house is quiet and dark—though I assume it’s always dark. Staying in the tree line that edges the property, I lead Genevieve around its perimeter.

  The barn comes into view, its doors standing open. I prod at Genevieve’s back with the gun. “Come on, we’re going in for a closer look.”

  Genevieve hesitates, I hear her take a deep, shuddering breath. I press harder and she continues.

  The old building is in disarray, half of its roof having caved in. The open door leans against only one remaining hinge. I creep toward a window, caked over with years of uncleared dirt. I crouch, peering through the glass.

  Phaedrus is standing inside. A person is kneeling in front of him. A man, I think. But Phaedrus blocks the man from my view. There are other figures in the barn. I see the Scarecrow and the woman. There are at least two others, but it’s too dark to make out their features. That makes six members of the Order. I’ve never seen more than four of them at a time. Phaedrus places his outstretched hand on the kneeling man’s head.

  “What do you see?” Genevieve asks.

  I don’t answer. The crouching man almost looks as if he is offering supplication, though I can’t imagine why. Unless this Order is really some kind of bizarre cult. It doesn’t surprise me that a group committed to controlling the tunnels might inject religious fervor into it. The tunnels do seem like magic at times. But then again, most things that we don’t understand we call magic.

  I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to clear my head. Just what am I waiting for? I have to act. For the first time since this nightmare began two days ago, I have the upper hand.

  I remove my gun from between Genevieve’s shoulder blades and level it at the window. Genevieve takes a step back, and then stops. The gun feels heavy in my hand as if the significance of this moment is giving more literal weight to the weapon.

  “Molly, who else is in there?” she asks, her voice rising in volume above a whisper.

  “Phaedrus. Maybe five others.”

  Genevieve shakes her head. “We haven’t seen that many before.”

  “Shut up!” I hiss. She’s going to blow our cover and the moment will be lost. The gun wavers in my hand and I realize I am shaking. I steady it, thumbing back the hammer when Phaedrus steps to the side and I can finally see who is kneeling before him.

  Henri.

  I take a heavy step backward and nearly stumble. Even wet as they are, the fallen leaves under my boots crunch so loudly that I’m sure the flock of starlings bursting from the nearby trees is fleeing from my clumsy footfalls.

  Phaedrus glances my direction and I lock eyes with him. He smiles, and I see his mouth move but the blood is pounding too loudly in my ears to hear him.

  A light glows from Phaedrus’ outstretched hand and I have a sudden mental vision of Henri contorting, spasming, and then collapsing to the floor. Except Henri doesn’t collapse. Instead, Phaedrus begins to convulse as if overtaken by a seizure.

  I feel unsteady on my feet. I think I’m going to faint.

  “Dear God, Henri,” Genevieve whispers, her breath hot on my cheek. She is next to me, peering through the window as well. Phaedrus is on the ground and Henri seems fine. I see him rising to his feet and I want to call to him, but his gaze meets mine and his eyes, oh god, his eyes, they are empty like the eyes of the dead.

  August 21

  Broken glass spirals past me, following some unseen current. I open my mouth to scream and all the air escapes my lungs in a rush of bubbles. I spin in the water. Above me, below me, past me—I can’t tell—a car with its front smashed beyond recognition slowly recedes into the darkness. This is a dream. At least, I think it’s a dream because it’s happened to me before.

  A figure emerges from the darkness. He’s swimming straight toward me, air bubbles streaming from his mouth and nose. He has curly dark hair, slightly balding at the top and warm, blue eyes. I am filled with a surge of hope. It’s him! But I can’t remember who he is. A husband? A lover? Nothing is clear.

  I blink and his face disappears, replaced with a gaping smile filled with rotting teeth. No, no, no, no. Not him. Phaedrus reaches his arms toward me, and one of them is bent at an odd angle.

  I blink again.

  And now I see Henri’s face. But it’s not Henri behind those gray eyes. It’s something else. Some malevolent presence. Henri’s arms, wrinkled and liver-spotted, reach toward my neck. His hands grasp around something I can’t see. He pulls, and—...He swims away, my necklace gripped in his hand with the ring trailing behind him.

  * * *

  A thump, thump, thumping fills my consciousness and I awake to a piercing, flashing light. I try to make sense of my surroundings, but pain floods my senses. I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to make sense of what’s happened, but my memories are all jumbled. The last thing I remember is getting shot by Phaedrus. That and the Listening Station. I see it again, the antenna destroyed, as my last hope for help is destroyed with it.

  I slowly open my eyes again, squinting against the light. I am lying in a narrow bunk under a thick, wool blanket The hard mattress is too small for me. The room isn’t much larger than the bunk. I blink my eyes against the light and find its source. A luminous flashing light spills in through a window, its shade half drawn. There is a rack on the wall with my pack. I’m in the sleeper car of a train.

  I yank off the blanket. I’m only wearing a white nightgown. Somebody changed my clothes.

  I slide out of bed. Pain immediately shoots through my leg. I grit my teeth and ignore it. The compartment is small enough that I can easily reach the luggage rack from the edge of the bed. I give my pack a tug and it falls to the ground with a clatter. I open it, searching for clothes.

  The tracker.

  It’s gone. I feel a stab of panic. I dig through the pack again, just to be sure. It’s not there. And then all of it comes back to me. My realization of Genevieve’s betrayal. Her reluctance to deny it. And then the farmhouse. I remember the barn. I remember Henri, dying. I see his body, crumpled on the straw-strewn wooden floor.

  No. I’ve got it backwards.

  Phaedrus died and Henri—...Henri became something else.

  I sit on the edge of the bed, leaning over to take in a breath. Who brought me here? I pull up the edge of my nightgown. My left thigh has been bandaged. The bandage is dark on both sides where blood seeps through, but otherwise clean.

  I close my eyes and immediately I see Henri again, his dead eyes staring. They saw me. But what had happened next? I fainted, I think I remember that much. But did they capture me? Was I taken by the Interlopers?

  I push open the door to the sleeper. The corridor is empty. I stumble out and limp down the corridor. A door opens in front of me and I jerk backward. A uniformed man steps out wearing a bright blue uniform with gold trim. He must be one of the train attendants.

  He starts when he sees me, his eyes going wide. “Madame!”

  I take a step toward him. “Who did I come with?”

  The attendant has a thin face with pale skin, bags under his eyes, and an upturned mustache. “Excusez-moi?”

  “My travel companions!” I say louder, and then say it again, this time with the French pronunciation for good measure. “Compagnons!”

  He raises a thin hand and points it toward the door. “Wagon-restaurant,” he says with a trembling voice.

  I push past him.

  “Madame, you are not dressed!” I hear him shout behind me.

  I don’t listen. They’re in the dining car. Genevieve, and whoever else is with her. I limp down the corridor, clutching my thigh with one hand.

  I push open the door, stumbling through and into an adjacent car.

  A tall, suited man wearing a fedora and horn-rimmed glasses hurtles out of my path. “Pardon!” he shouts.

  I ignore him,
moving into the next car. Genevieve betrayed me. She betrayed my whole team. I wonder briefly what I will do if I find her in the dining car. An image of me throwing her from a moving train flashes briefly in my mind. But what if it isn’t Genevieve that brought me here, but Phaedrus? I saw him fall and Henri change. Phaedrus may be dead, but the Interlopers could still be after me. The thought doesn’t even slow me down.

  I stumble into the dining car. Booths are separated by glass partitions. A waiter floats between tables with a bottle of wine. Eyes fix on me, and I am immediately self-conscious. A family gawks as I limp toward them. A primly dressed father, mother, and their chubby little son. I see the boy drop his spoon into his soup as I pass.

  In the reflection of a glass partition I see Genevieve.

  She is sitting at one of the far booths. I push past an attendant, ignoring the staring faces of the other diners. I near Genevieve’s booth. A man in a suit sits across from her, a hat pulled low to cover his features. One of the Interlopers? They’ve never dressed like this. The man says something and Genevieve’s head spins in my direction.

  “Molly!” she exclaims, standing.

  I ignore her, shoving her against the edge of the glass partition separating the dining booths.

  “Please, listen to me,” she says.

  “You listen to me,” I hiss. “You’re going to take me to them, and then you’re going to pay.”

  “I don’t know what you’re referring to,” The man in the booth says in a cultured British accent, “but someone’s going to have to pay for this Prosecco and it bloody well isn’t going to be me!”

  A hand touches my shoulder. I turn and see Ishimwe. A smile spreads across her face. “It’s good to see you, Gardner.”

  I stumble, nearly falling, and grab the booth for support.

  Peter is gazing at me from under the fedora. “Oh fine,” he says with a mocking huff. “I’ll pay for my own.”

  * * *

  “We thought we might lose you,” Genevieve says.

  I lean against the bar in the dining car. Peter had loaned me his coat, but my nightgown is still eliciting stares. After my outburst, the conductor personally came to speak to us. I was afraid he would stop the train and throw me off, but Peter persuaded him that I was his sister and was “sick in the head.” I wanted to throw him to the ground for that statement, but it worked.

  I sip my gin and tonic—Peter’s solution for my “ailment”—and try not to meet Genevieve’s gaze. I feel ashamed for doubting her. It’s clear now that she has saved my life, rescuing me from capture by the Interlopers when she could easily have left me for dead.

  But I still have questions.

  “You weren’t giving any information to The Order?” I ask.

  “Oh, God no,” she says. I study her face. She holds my gaze and it seems sincere, but something is still off.

  “How long was I out?” I ask.

  “A day and a half. You’ve been feverish. But you were able to walk when we brought you on the train. You don’t remember that?”

  I close my eyes. I remember a busy platform, stumbling through a crowd while holding onto Peter’s shoulder. I open my eyes. “A little, I think.”

  Peter and Ishimwe are both still sitting in the booth. Peter is sipping his wine and Ishimwe is leaning back. “When did they find us?” I ask.

  “They arrived at the farmhouse after we left for the Listening Station and hid when the Interlopers arrived,” Genevieve says. “If you hadn’t fainted ,then they might not have found us.”

  “And the Interlopers?” I ask.

  “They heard you, too. The four of us barely made it into the car in time, but we were able to get away and find you a doctor.”

  “Did Leung?” I ask, not able to finish my question.

  Genevieve shakes her head. “They still have her.”

  “Vic wasn’t with Peter and Ishimwe?” I ask.

  Again, Genevieve shakes her head, no.

  Outside, a magnificent river flashes through a mountainous gorge. Where is Genevieve taking me?

  I grip the edge of the bar, my knuckles turning white. The narrow space of the train car makes her feel too close—like she is towering over me. I feel suddenly vulnerable.

  “Who were you talking to?”

  “When?” Genevieve asks.

  “The morning after the Station fire,” I say. “I heard you on the phone, but you were speaking in English. You wouldn’t have been speaking in English to your contact in the French Police. Tell me that you weren’t talking to Phaedrus.”

  “I wasn’t.”

  “But you weren’t talking to the police.”

  Her silence is an admission of guilt. She may not be working for the Order, but she’s not entirely with the ISD. Genevieve leans closer to me across the bar. “Can you believe me when I say that I am, and always have been, your friend?”

  I take a shuddering breath. My chest feels tight. I see betrayal in her eyes. Maybe it’s not what I had assumed. But it’s there. And it stings. Still, I need her to speak, so I nod.

  “You should get dressed,” she says. “The dining car has a dress code and I don’t think they’ll let you stay in here like this much longer.”

  * * *

  I pull the door shut behind me and lean against it. I let out a sigh, feeling tension slowly begin to subside. Pain takes its place. My jaw is throbbing. My thigh burns from the gunshot wound. The rest of my body aches. My stomach has turned into a hard knot and lack of food has me on edge.

  I open my pack, pulling out one of the few items of clean clothing: a simple, gray wool dress. I pull off the nightgown and step into the dress, zipping it up. It feels good to at least be in something clean. My outfit from the day before is missing, probably too blood-stained to keep, and my boots are gone with them. They probably wouldn’t pass dress-code ,anyway. I pull out a pair of ballet flats—or flatties as they’re called in the fifties—and slip them on.

  I limp to the small washbasin in the corner. I splash some water on my face and then catch my reflection in the tiny mirror above the sink. My eyes are puffy. My hair hasn’t been washed or brushed in days. A shower would be heaven, but I remember from my last visit that these trains only have a shared toilet. There are no showers on trains in the 1950s, not even for first class. At least I know that I won’t be the only one in the dining car with a bit of travel grime on them.

  I make my way down the corridor, passing the same attendant that I had accosted moments earlier. He smiles nervously and steps out of the way, pressing himself so closely against the wall that he practically disappears into it.

  Back in the dining car, Genevieve has returned to the booth, sitting next to Ishimwe and Peter, who smiles up at me as I near the table. He pushes a cup of coffee toward me, “First a gin and then a coffee; daily tonics for your health. Not always in that order, but then again, why not?” He grins.

  I slide in next to Ishimwe. She grins at me. “I told them not to worry about you. You always pull through.”

  I take a drink without answering. I’ve always like Ishimwe, and Genevieve has been longest friend in the ISD, aside from Vic. But I can’t let that cloud my thinking. I need to determine their allegiances, and soon, but then the warmth is filling my mouth and my defenses melt with the bitter flavor and the rush of caffeine. It’s Nescafe, and no Starbucks latte, but it’s still heaven.

  I set down the cup. “Phaedrus, is he—”

  “Alive?” Genevieve nods. “Yes.”

  “How?” I demand.

  “It’s,” she lets out a sigh, “complicated.”

  “You should have this.” Peter sets the tracker on the table. “We used it after the farm to make sure we were keeping our distance from the Order. That is, until they dropped off the map.”

  “They’re gone?” I ask.

  Ishimwe nods. “Poof,” she says, demonstrating with her hands.

  I look back at Genevieve. Her gaze fixed on me. I know that she brought me back out here bec
ause there is safety, both in numbers, and in public spaces. And I see what they’re doing now. Giving me coffee, returning the tracker. They want me to feel safe. But I don’t care about feeling safe. Right now I want answers.

  “Where are we going?” I ask.

  “We are on the Arlberg line headed for Ostrava,” Peter says.

  “Ostrava?” I ask. “So we’re—”

  “Going home,” Genevieve says.

  “We can’t!” I say. I grip the edge of the table until my fingernails blanch. “I need to go after them. I need to find out what they want with me. They can’t track me now, Remember?” I can feel the desperation in my voice. I can’t lose my focus. I take a breath. “Get me off this train,” I say.

  “We can’t,” Genevieve says.

  I lurch forward across the table, making our drinks clatter on the table. I want to grab her by the throat, but I stop myself. The Austrian family is staring. The chubby boy’s mouth is hanging open, as if he knew what I was about to do. I slowly lean back.

  “There’s something I need to tell you,” Genevieve says. “You were right that I wasn’t speaking to my police contact that morning in Paris.”

  I feel my stomach tighten.

  Genevieve’s expression doesn’t change. “I’m working for someone else,” she says.

  I straighten, trying to maintain some composure. Peter is leaning back in the booth, his fingers steepled, regarding me with one raised eyebrow. Ishimwe looks away, her smile gone. “Who?” I demand.

  “We’re called Elementalists.”

  “We?” I ask.

  “All of us,” Ishimwe says, not moving. Peter nods.

  My mind is swimming. I’ve never heard of this group. “How long?” I croak.

  Genevieve wrinkles her brow in confusion. “I was never turned, Molly. I have always been an Elementalist. We all have.”

  “You’re going to have to say a lot more than that.”

  Genevieve raises an eyebrow. “Such as?”

  The questions spill out. “Who are you? What do you want? Why infiltrate the ISD?”