Quantum Break

by Cam Rogers

  Security footage captured a celebrity socialite exiting the restaurant with a male companion. Their gunmetal Infiniti Q60 pulls up. The valet exits the car, holding the passenger-side door open for the socialite, as her companion walks around the rear of the vehicle to enter the driver side.

  In the span of a single frame the vehicle, and the socialite, are gone. Footage shows the male companion accosting the valet. Footage ends.

  9:12:42 P.M. The Viper Room, West Hollywood. Eight miles from Melisse Restaurant.

  The venue was playing host to a well-known heavy metal act.

  Security footage and handheld recordings uploaded by a dozen attendees at the concert show the headline act onstage, mid-performance. In the span of a single frame the disappearing socialite appears onstage—flanked by two black-clad figures in PEACE shirts and Smiley masks. The cartoonish figures wave animatedly at the crowd. After a moment the socialite collapses in high distress.

  The band, now realizing what is occurring, summons security. The two masked suspects run to the edge of the stage, leap toward the crowd … and vanish in midair.

  7:12:42 A.M. Al-Salamiyah, Syria.

  Footage from a single stationary camera.

  Twenty bound men kneel, facing away from ten hooded men carrying automatic weapons. One hooded man delivers a short, curt speech to the camera. The ten men then level their weapons at the back of their captives’ heads.

  A figure appears mid-frame, wearing the now-distinctive PEACE garb. She waves happily at the camera. Within a second she is gone. The captors are given a second to react to this intrusion, before, in the space of a single frame, the weapons they were holding vanish from their hands.

  At the same time their kneecaps simultaneously explode and all ten hooded men collapse, screaming, to the ground.

  Notably the captives’ hands are now freed, and the missing automatic weapons have been laid before them.

  This scene was uploaded to a wide spectrum of sites across the Middle East. By the time Western media picked it up the file had been viewed an estimated 489,000 times.

  12:12:42 A.M. Washington, D.C.

  The simplest incident of them all.

  The United States President, in the final months of his administration, calls a late-night press conference to address the mass shooting at Riverport University and now the attack on Monarch Tower itself.

  Beyond letting the nation know what’s being done, he expresses the hope that his successor will have better fortune in curbing this uniquely American illness than he had. He concludes by assuring the press and the public that solid leads have been gained on this so-called “Peace Movement,” that a terrorist is a terrorist no matter their nationality, and that strong and decisive action could be expected shortly. The events of the night were startling, and upsetting, but Americans should not be intimidated. They would continue forward as they have always done.

  Smiley appears behind him and to the right, a large-caliber handgun leveled at the back of the President’s head. In the time it takes a secret service agent to yell “Gun!” the trigger is pulled.

  There is a pop, the President flinches, and a flag unfurls from the weapon’s barrel.

  It reads: TIME’S UP.

  Smiley vanishes before anyone can touch him.

  The President is rushed out.

  Saturday, 8 October 2016. 9:45 P.M. Monarch Tower. Martin Hatch’s Apartment.

  Martin Hatch splashed a finger of fifty-year-old Dalmore into a tumbler of Tuscany crystal. At that moment the walls of his office were transparent, providing a soothing view of the atrium and garden. Shell casings had been swept away. Tomorrow workers with appropriate clearance would repair the bullet holes. Window cleaners were, at that very moment, squeegeeing streaks of Donny from floors forty-nine through forty-six.

  “Our final chapter begins with a non sequitur,” he assured Paul. “That’s all this is. The future is written; we both know that. The events of the gala, the destruction of Sofia’s lab, her abduction … this changes nothing.”

  Paul was pacing, shaking his head, clearly wanting to rub and soothe his infected hand yet fearing to touch it. “No. The gala: a disaster. The lab: destroyed and the Kim specimen gone with it. The treatments, the research: ash. How did Jack know? How did I not foresee that? In all my explorations, deepening with each foray, how did I not see this happening?”

  “Your agitation gains us nothing.”

  “Something works against me here. This is wrong.”

  “Paul.”

  “It’s wrong.”

  “Paul.”

  Paul’s head flicked up, wild.

  “You are prepared. Failing mental cohesion was always going to jeopardize Lifeboat. You laid down clear steps for moving forward. You don’t have to think anymore, or worry. Trust those steps.” Martin sipped, letting the liquor mellow in his mouth before tracing a warm line down his throat. “Let’s get on with laying a strong foundation for the development of Project Lifeboat. Let’s get on with saving the world.”

  Rage boiled at the underside of Paul’s skin, but Martin’s words filtered in. Soothed the part of him that was still most like his old self. “Yes.”

  “Let’s debrief.”

  Martin moved behind his broad desk, the heavy crystal tumbler clinking on the surface of black glass. He tapped a virtual key, transforming the eastern-facing wall from clear to opaque before coming to life as a videoboard, dividing and subdividing into multiple newsfeeds. Dozens of talking heads covered the events at Monarch Tower.

  “Our people in Washington have contrived to keep the FBI from our door for a few more hours,” Martin said. “It will be all we need.”

  “Sofia,” Paul uttered.

  “They took her to the swimming hall, naturally. The helicopter was abandoned and a car stolen. It’ll be a relief to finally take possession of Will’s rusting prototype when this is over.”

  “Jack thinks he can change things.…”

  “I’ve taken steps to bring Sofia back safely and claim that machine for ourselves. I respect the structure of causality as much as you, Paul, but I do wonder if we should have just seized the machine years ago and been done with it.”

  Paul was raving. “She was shot in the leg.”

  “Sofia?”

  Paul shook his head. “No, the woman with Jack. Beth Wilder. When I first met her she told me her name was Beth. She had the same wound. It was fresh. I bandaged it for God’s sake.” He thought of Will’s machine gathering dust at the bottom of that dry pool across town. Monarch had known about it for years, all part of keeping tabs on Will. “She goes through the machine. Everything that happens, happens. It doesn’t matter.”

  “Paul? Look.” Martin flicked through the various newsfeeds. All of them reporting a second Peace Movement strike on a Monarch target within twenty-four hours: the Tower itself. First, the university lab, and now the grand unveiling of Monarch’s new innovation: chronon technology.

  Martin flipped through the feeds.

  “… what is ‘chronon technology’?…”

  “… said the hardware demonstrated an ability to be anywhere, at any time…”

  “… patient in perfect suspension, and a great advance in medical…”

  “… despite the attacks share prices have skyrocketed in the wake of documents and footage released…”

  “… terrorist groups interested in the technology…”

  “… Hatch was unavailable for comment…”

  “… Chronos, of course, being the Greek god of time…”

  “… a field of study once widely derided, now seems to be vindicating itself with a vengeance…”

  “… States military is said to be interested in exploring applications of the…”

  “… this technology renders borders useless…”

  “… threat to global peace, some say the survival of our species…”

  “… wearing Smiley masks as a joke. Authorities urge people to not…”

&nbs
p; “The stage is set,” Martin said, turning to face Paul. “The world knows what Monarch can do.”

  He flicked to a different set of feeds and recordings.

  “… hard put to explain the ‘Peace’ events, or who this enigmatic group is, but we are assured the footage and the events are authentic…”

  “… footage verified by experts. Washington has refused comment…”

  “… fear and paranoia across the country tonight, with many still convinced the events are an elaborate hoax…”

  “… First Family to an undisclosed location…”

  “… speculation that the ‘Peace’ events are a viral campaign to promote Monarch’s new tech…”

  “… what is stopping Peace Movement terrorists from appearing anywhere, anytime, with guns or, God forbid, with nuclear weapons?”

  “… are our leaders safe? Can anywhere be secured from hostile forces with this technology? With us now is…”

  “The audience is groomed, and ready,” Martin continued. “Speculation is rampant. Sidebar: we expect gun sales to spike sharply as a result of this.”

  “How are the events of the gala being framed?”

  “To our advantage. It’s been married seamlessly to the narrative of the university attack, linking it to the Peace Movement. It’s proving helpful in directing sympathy toward Monarch. So: our two key objectives are achieved: the world knows Monarch is the only organization pursuing chronon development, and the ruthless terrorist group that murdered their way into our university lab is now taking liberties with the laws of the universe.”

  Martin finished his drink at a swallow and stood, adjusting his jacket.

  “Phase One: the university event successfully framed us as a target and the Peace Movement as the easily recognizable villain. Phase Two: with the aid of your explorations and foreknowledge we were able to choreograph the Peace Movement’s baffling, simultaneous events immaculately. Result: Peace’s every meaningless detail is subject to rampant media speculation: the targets, locations, timing, masks … the name. Showmanship and confusion are performing the vital task of drawing bandwidth away from reason, building alarm and metastasizing public panic. A terrorist—foreign or domestic—could materialize anywhere at any moment. We have taken the first steps toward creating a world in which nowhere and no one can ever feel secure again. All eyes are now on the Peace Movement and Monarch Solutions.”

  “A good start,” Paul agreed. “We’re close now.”

  “Now we escalate further. Your announcement was released minutes ago to all the major news agencies from an anonymized address.”

  The wall switched, this time to a single image: Paul Serene, behind him two men in the black garb and smiley masks of the ghostly Peace Movement.

  “I am speaking to you.

  “I am Paul Serene. I am listed among the dead.

  “My life ended last night, along with many others, on the campus of Riverport University. Murdered by men and women like those standing behind me. Or so it was reported.”

  Subwindows flashed open, showing a collage of newsfeeds and Web sites sourcing information on Paul Serene, recent photos of a younger man compared to the older one doing the talking.

  “The Meyer-Joyce field. Familiarize yourself with that name. It will soon become the focus of what little remains of your life.

  “The Meyer-Joyce field maintains causality, the flow of cause and effect and the linear passage of time. Early yesterday morning, on Saturday, October eighth, at four twenty-two a.m., I modified an experimental Monarch Solutions device … and mortally wounded the Meyer-Joyce field.

  “Some of you have already witnessed the early effects of this: power fluctuations, visual anomalies, lost time.

  “Before long you will all experience the consequences of M-J field degradation. Reality, causality, probability … all these things will soon begin to forget their own rules.

  “Close to the end will come escalating horror the likes of which you are ill-equipped to imagine. Trapped and isolated within a shrinking, schizophrenic reality—a reality just for you—lovers will forget you. Mothers and fathers will not know their children. The dead will return as if they had never left. Legions of the living will vanish. That which was will have never been. Your tiny souls will unmoor, to drift and drown upon a sea of Everything.

  “Die alone in perfect lunacy—or live forever within a horrifying final moment that never, ever stops. The choice is yours.

  “This is the cessation of all things. The dying of time.

  “We are Peace, and Peace we bring you.

  “It is time for suffering to end.

  “The universe has five years to live.

  “You will not hear from us again.”

  Martin clicked the wall to silence.

  “The terror will amplify as events play out. The world will not be able to deny that reality is slowly unraveling. When the public learns that there is no solution—”

  “Monarch appears at the gate carrying the Grail.”

  “Project Lifeboat: the only viable way to survive—and undo—time’s end.”

  “But only with the combined and unquestioning support of governments worldwide.” Paul took a deep-chested breath. “I’m ready.”

  Martin crossed to his friend, laid both hands on his shoulders. “You are performing the greatest kindness, Paul. You are saving all that was, is, and shall be. And these people”—Hatch pointed to the wall screen and its two dozen talking heads—“will live to revile you for it.”

  Paul smiled, but not with joy. “Only if I succeed.”

  “I’ll leave you to prepare.”

  “You’re going?”

  “Not for long, old friend. Never for long.”

  Saturday, 8 October 2016. 9:56 P.M. Monarch Tower. Chronon Labs, Floor 50.

  Horatio had taken Nick to a bank of elevators away from the chaos of the atrium, straight up to floor fifty. They stepped out into what Horatio called the chronon labs. The place was a mess. Glass everywhere, the cross-hatch frame of the utterly destroyed false ceiling empty within a larger, vaulted chamber of ceramic white. At the far end of the chamber that contained the labs, above the frame of the false ceiling, the smoking wreck of an expensive demountable was being picked over by yellow-suited technicians. Nick kicked a flimsy mound of fire retardant foam, watched it scatter and drift.

  “I’ve been inside Monarch’s system for months,” Horatio was saying. “Installed a rootkit back when the Tower’s systems were still being finalized. Even so I haven’t been able to get a lot of dirt on the chronon division or Hatch.”

  “Why did you think there was dirt?”

  “Beth made a convincing case.” Horatio headed left, away from the burning demountable and fire crew. “Beth and I both know Hatch and the chronon division are up to hinky shit, but I’ve never found anything really mediapathic, anything Reuters would pull a muscle to grab.”

  Aside from the thick frosting of busted glass, the lab seemed intact. Horatio was fumbling in his pockets as he walked, pulled out a crumpled note, checked it.

  “Stuff related to C division and Hatch exist on a separate server that I’m not privy to, that exists only on floor fifty, but I do have the big man’s password. This has been my only chance to get onto fifty, and it took the whole tower shitting itself to make that happen. The meeting room up ahead was reserved for daily powwows between Hatch, Sofia, and C division. Daily updates, daily course corrections. Any terminal there would have access to the C div server.”

  Nick caught up to him. “You think there’s stuff on there that might … bring Monarch down?”

  Horatio shrugged. “Been here a few years. It’d be shitty timing to find something now, don’t you think? But … yeah, I think so.”

  Nick glanced around, not liking this at all. “How long you need? We get caught we’re goin’ out a window.”

  Horatio pushed open the meeting room door. “After today I’m out of here. This is my last chance.”


  Long mahogany table. Whiteboards on two walls. Central teleconference dome. Five-thousand-dollar seats. Vidscreen.

  Terminal. Built into the flat of the table, right in front of the door.

  Horatio sat and got to work.

  “Listen, Horatio—”

  Horatio slapped his security card on the desk, kept typing. “Five minutes.” He took a thumb drive, jacked it into a slot in the table’s polished surface. Smoothed his note, typed.

  Waited.

  The screen lit up with Monarch’s geometric logo.

  “Yes.” Horatio dived in, keyboard clattering.

  Nick took the card. “I’ll keep the elevator ready. Five minutes.”

  If Horatio heard, he didn’t respond. Nick was just out the door when Horatio said, “Jesus H. Macy.”

  Nick came back, peered over his shoulder. “What?”

  “Wait. I need to … I need to copy this. And … fuck me. Wait.” Keys clattered. Files were copied to the thumb drive. “So Hatch has been pushing for the development of Project Lifeboat—this grand plan that’s already racking up cost overruns and has a five-year dev schedule it is never going to meet. The Lifeboat team is talking chronon harvesting and storage technology orders of magnitudes more efficient than what we currently have, technology to allow whole teams of specialists to move through chronon-free zones for months or years on end and pylon technology to preserve causality within a much wider radius than what we’re currently—”

  Nick twiddled the security card. “And?”

  “And there’s a second group involved with the project. From outside Monarch that nobody but Hatch seems to know about. Hatch has been corresponding with them since day one. Project Lifeboat is above top secret, but this other crew—and it looks like they’re scattered all over the planet—are getting regular updates. From what I can tell nobody in Monarch knows these guys exist. What the fuck is Hatch up to?”

  “Copy it and let’s go.”

  “There’s also reference to a second time machine. In a … swimming pool?”

  Nick craned in. “Say that again.”

  “A swim—”