The Kip Keene Box Set: Books 1, 2 & 3

by Nicholas Erik

  “You haven’t looked at the drives before?”

  “They were not for me,” Franz said. “But I suspect you understand their importance, now.”

  “Maybe it’s got a bead on the time ship,” Strike said, leaning against the wall, “and some fancy new abilities, I’d assume.”

  Franz nodded, assembling the requisite parts on a nearby table. The brief metallic scent of solder burst through the air as he attached the leads to a USB input. This was repeated when he attached various batteries to the remaining wires.

  Keene looked at the rat’s nest of silver contacts hanging off the desk and gulped, contemplating where they might wind up.

  “It’s an elegant system. Ever heard of electroshock?” Franz said.

  “They use that to fry bipolar people back into shape,” Strike said. Keene shot her a look. “I’m just saying.”

  “This is a similar concept, but instead the electricity is used to push information into the mind.”

  “Spare me the details,” Keene said. He pulled up the metal chair and sat down.

  “No,” Franz said. “On the ground. And keep your hands away from metal.”

  “Why?”

  “This requires a lot of power. We do not want you to spread the current.”

  Franz took a roll of black electrical tape and began taping the exposed wires to Keene’s temples and forehead.

  “You sure this is going to work?”

  “Sure? No. This is science.”

  Keene shifted on the hard ground, his tailbone aching, silently shouting down the urge to tear the wires from his head and bolt through the house. Instead he sat still, not even blinking as Franz applied the final lead.

  “A question, before we begin.”

  “If I can answer it, I will.” Franz’s fingers hovered over the mouse, waiting to click the fateful start button.

  “Do you think Lei can be saved?”

  “I do not know.” Franz’s thick eyebrows knitted together. “She seemed…troubled, my friend.”

  “If I don’t make it—”

  “Geez, with the melodrama. It’s like you’re a high school girl going to prom with her super-crush,” Strike said.

  “Yeah, uh, got it. Just saying, I’m glad you’re my crew. My friends.”

  “I think I liked you better when you were a mopey asshole,” Strike said. But she flashed him a quick grin.

  “You gonna tell me about the tattoo—”

  “Not a chance, buddy. See you on the other side of—whatever the hell this is.”

  Keene nodded at Franz. The old man clicked the mouse, the noise echoing out like it was projected across a canyon.

  Keene’s body seized, and his head snapped back through the air as his vision filled with colors. His last sensible thought before the electricity stole control of his body was that electroshock therapy was nothing in comparison.

  No. This had to be far more painful.

  After trying to pin Keene’s flailing arms and slobbering head down with little success, Strike gave up and sat on his chest. It worked, even if it felt like she was riding a runaway washing machine filled with rocks. Keene’s torso jerked and snapped, his head whiplashing off the floor.

  “I don’t know about these instructions,” Strike said, raising her voice to be heard over Keene’s gyrations and guttural utterances.

  “I suspect in Mr. Keene’s time they had a chair or some commercial venue to perform this task,” Franz said. “Perhaps with sedation.”

  “That would’ve been nice.”

  “We take what the circumstances allow.”

  “Coming from the man out of the firing zone.”

  A glob of spit flew through the air and landed on Strike’s neck. She fought the inclination to punch Keene in the face and knock him out. But she figured that would be unsporting. And kind of piling on, given the circumstances.

  Instead she sat and stared at the ceiling, trying not to get nauseous as the light bulb bobbed back and forth.

  Amidst the chaos, her phone rang.

  “You got this?”

  “I’ll handle him,” Franz said. “Attend to your matters.”

  “I mean, he’s bucking hard here, old man, I’m just warning you.”

  “It’s okay.”

  Franz got on his knees and pressed down on Keene’s sternum when Strike rose. “Not bad.”

  “It shouldn’t be long now.”

  Strike nodded and left the room, answering her phone. “What do you want?”

  “Striker? What’s up with Keeney?” Linus said. He sounded excited, which was a first for the past few months. His interjections of inappropriate come-ons and college dorm-room stoner speak had largely abated since he had been forced to kill an infected and insane Derek Dash in self-defense. “He didn’t answer.”

  “We’re kind of busy.”

  Strike would be loath to admit it, but that idiot kid was better than the mopey zombified geek they’d been sharing the yacht with as of late. If Linus needed to get laid before, he really needed it bad now, although that wouldn’t cure him of the psychological ills ailing his soul.

  “Oh, that’s cool. Sorry.”

  “Since we’re talking…”

  “Right, right,” Linus said. Clicking and tapping filled the background. “I found something. I was running facial recog software—really clean tech, if I say so, myself—and a hit popped on Lorelei.”

  “And?”

  “And, uh, she was in Guangzhou around the time Fox died.”

  “We know Lorelei killed Fox. She stole a bunch of stuff from Franz. We think she’s after some sort of time ship—you know what, it’s been a busy last couple of hours. We’ll call you back.”

  “Wait.” Linus paused awkwardly, filling the silence with an unnecessary throat clearing. “I found some weird footage on the dark web. People are saying it’s digitally edited, but I looked at the metadata and it checks out.”

  “Glad to hear your fetish porn was authentic,” Strike said. She glanced back at the closed door to the workshop, the muted cries and banging coming from within making it hard to concentrate.

  “It was Lorelei. She just disappeared into thin air in the middle of Guangzhou. Poof. Like Harry Potter, dude.”

  “Right,” Strike said, like it was natural and to be expected.

  “Uh, you heard me, right?”

  “I did. Good work, kid. Gotta go.”

  Strike hung up and wondered just what the hell had happened to the insane world—so vicious and cold and illogical—she had always known. For the Devil she knew was more of a friend than the one she didn’t.

  Time ships. Former allies turned enemies travelling to Guangzhou.

  What was so damn special about Guangzhou?

  A scream pierced the walls, and Strike’s thoughts snapped back to more immediate matters.

  Another cry sounded as she bolted through the door, where she found Keene sitting stiff and upright, his eyes open.

  “How do you feel?”

  “You’re glowing,” he said. “I don’t know if that’s good or bad.”

  Strike stared at him, eyes wide, and shook her head.

  This Devil she was getting to know was becoming a real problem.

  9 | In the Machine

  The streams of diagnostic numbers continued to cloud Kip Keene’s vision. Seeing them overlaid on the ocean was a disconcerting effect, making him feel part machine—one where a critical error had wrecked the system.

  While the numbers were crisp, rendered in a utilitarian machine typeface, the same could not be said for his eyesight—or any of his other senses, which now held a hazy and tenuous grip on reality.

  The SS Bank of Legends lurched over a wave. Keene’s stomach turned, and he shut his eyes.

  “Feeling all right there,
partner?” Strike’s voice came to him in warbles and echoes.

  “I…don’t know.”

  “A resoundingly reassuring answer.”

  “Stop talking.”

  “What?”

  “I’m gonna throw up if you do.”

  “That’s about the shittiest—“

  Keene dry heaved, his insides seizing in a tight ball. Searing pain coursed through his muscles, pouring over his body like acid. Cold sweat clung to the tips of his hair. His temples pulsed, like something within his mind was trying to burrow its way straight through his skull.

  He retched again, his body pitching on to the floor. Shivering, he contorted and slammed against the ground, the force of impact overshadowed by the molten lead running through every nerve and synapse.

  Breathe.

  Breathe.

  He tried to pull in air, but the mere attempt made him sick, sending him gasping and choking, his abs twisted so hard he could swear that he’d torn a muscle. A pair of hands came down, trying to keep him still, but his involuntary motions fought them off as he flopped on the yacht’s wood panel floor like a beached whale.

  With a final jerk where his torso launched off the ground and then hurtled back to the wood, Keene stopped moving and lay still in a limp ball of sweat and sick.

  “I think Fox poisoned me from beyond the grave.”

  “Anything good,” Strike ventured in a soft tone. “Any changes, I mean?”

  “I feel like I’m dying.”

  “That’s a change. Not a good one, but a change.”

  Keene opened one eye. Light tears blurred his vision, but it wasn’t the same sort of kaleidoscopic rollercoaster he had experienced for the past couple of hours. This was almost within the boundaries of expected human experience.

  He craned his neck up at Strike and gave her a weak smile before flopping back to the floor.

  “Some change.”

  “Linus got a bead on Lorelei. She disappeared in the middle of Guangzhou. Thin air. Seems like a popular location this time of year.”

  “How long ago?”

  “About a month.”

  “One step behind.” Keene groaned. “Always one step behind.”

  “Infectious optimism.” Strike sighed. Keene felt the back of her hand touch his brow. He groaned and gave his head a weak jerk, like a horse indicating its displeasure at being patted on the nose. “Fine, fine. Just wanted to make sure you weren’t dying.”

  “I’m touched.”

  “I figured.”

  “So I guess that means we need to go after her,” Keene said. His gaze settled on the black box and the various instruments of destruction that, when used in concert, opened a time portal to an unknown world. If he had any other options, he would have gotten to his feet and jumped into the ocean, as far away as he could get from this device.

  “I’ve honestly had enough time travel,” Strike said. “One time too many.”

  Keene closed his eyes, pretending the black box disappeared when he couldn’t see it. “Just…”

  “Just what?”

  “Get it ready.”

  Strike’s footsteps floated away, upstairs, leaving Keene all by himself with a thunderous migraine. A thought dawned on him.

  The numbers are gone.

  He opened each eye, blinking to confirm whether it was true. Maybe this meant the firmware had finished upgrading and had accomplished something other than grant him the delightful experience of a miserable afternoon.

  He closed his eyes again, squeezing them shut in the manner he had been taught, all those years ago, on Apollus. The neural implants began to fire up.

  “Ok,” Strike called, her boots banging against the hardwood stairs, “I brought the kid.”

  Keene gave her a weak nod and shut his eyes. “Just give me a second.” The diagnostics began to whip through the black space, the neural implant system coming online. Vitals and other basic details lined the edges of his vision.

  So far, nothing new.

  “Well?” Strike said.

  “I’m checking.” The language translation module functioned fine. The body heat, illness and injury assessment modules also worked. A map of the Lost City of the Incas, uploaded by Fox when she saved him in the jungle, was available to access in “Available Resources.”

  He checked it to make sure no clues had been embedded.

  Nothing. The same map that had helped him save Strike and stop Catarina from destroying the world appeared before his eyes, floating in the ether.

  “You’re cross-eyed,” Strike said.

  “He does look kind of drunk,” Linus said.

  Keene closed the map, the hallways and ladders fading into the air. The firmware took him back to the main screen. A single question mark floated at the bottom of the menu. He instructed his mind to select it.

  A buzzing noise played, and ERROR in large red letters flashed across the field of view, right across Strike’s face.

  She, of course, couldn’t see this. “What’s with the look? You got something to tell me?”

  Keene read the follow-up message. PLEASE ACTIVATE SONGBIRD. He glanced at the black box, seated on a bureau next to the bed. A light blue glow emanated from the Songbird’s eyes.

  “You can share. We’ll probably even believe it,” Strike said. “You’re from another planet, remember?”

  “Hard to top, dude,” Linus said, nodding in agreement. “Hit us.”

  “I think the implants are working.”

  “Funny, you look the same,” Strike said. “Ugly as ever.”

  Keene leapt to his feet and rushed to the black box. He recounted the assembly steps in his mind, arranging the nano-fusion cores first in the slots, followed by a healthy vial of stone dust from Atlantis’ rattlesnake fountain—taking extra care not to breathe any of the toxic substance in.

  He took a deep breath and placed the Silver Songbird statue on its pedestal, waiting for the inevitable blur, the time displacement, the brilliant flash of light.

  But nothing happened. Keene glanced around the room, noting that his companions were looking on at his frenzied activity with bemused expressions of wonder. Maybe his recent and mysterious upgrade was the key.

  Keene navigated the neural implant menus with his brainwaves, selecting the “?” again. This time, no ERROR message appeared. A small chime sounded—audible only to him—and then he was booted back to the main menu.

  He blinked, and the menu disappeared. No vertigo or sensations to indicate that this was new. A light whirring came from the box, but nothing like the mess in Franz’s office.

  Keene stared at the bright beams of light streaming from the bird’s eyes. Still nothing. Maybe an imperceptible flash of light. But that could have been a blink and the remnants of the migraine. No whirling tornado or black hole came to suck him through the temporal ether.

  It seemed like a big bust, after the show he’d gotten back in Franz’s lab. Keene scratched his head and stared at Linus and Strike, cocking his head like a dog confused by the current state of affairs.

  “I guess the magic box is out of order,” Strike said. “Anyone got a plan B?”

  “It said to activate the songbird,” Keene said, his voice distant and plaintive, “I don’t get it.”

  “Maybe a little sun will help,” Strike said. She pointed to the stairs, and Keene decided to follow her lead, get away from the mysterious messages and arcane technology and see something simple.

  The sun. You could rely on that to be just as advertised. Bright, always there, predictable.

  That would do him some good.

  Keene headed out on the deck, feeling the warm rays caressing his face. He took a deep breath and forced a smile. His churning thoughts subsided into a gentler, more manageable swirl. The orange sphere shone off the empty sea.

&nb
sp; He scanned the horizon, turning his head right to left.

  Which was when Kip Keene’s heart dropped through the deck, straight to the bottom of the ocean like a ten-ton weight.

  An armada of ships, sails fully extended, red flags streaming, barreled towards the yacht’s stern.

  But not just any ships.

  Pirate ships.

  10 | High Seas

  The loud, brassy boom of a cannon exploded through the still air. A large splash nipped at the yacht’s wake, springing Keene into full-on survival mode.

  Wherever he had landed, these waters weren’t friendly to time travelers. He dashed to the navigation room and pulled up the anchor. Far-off rifle shots punctuated the air, sounding like pop guns given the several hundred yards separating the yacht from bloodthirsty bandits.

  The anchor retracted, and Keene urged the SS Bank of Legends forward, pushing it as fast it could go. The yacht’s control screen shouted warnings at him, but these went unheeded as another cannon shot boomed out.

  Keene braced for impact, but it missed, falling harmlessly into the sea.

  He darted out of the control room, the craft charting a straight-line course at full-speed. Getting back was the safest measure. Wherever the Songbird had sent him, this clearly wasn’t right. Being target practice couldn’t have been Fox’s grand plan for him.

  He took the stairs two at a time, tumbling to the ground as the yacht lurched over a wave. Keene rolled forward, hitting what felt like a pair of legs. He looked up.

  “Strike?”

  “We said get some sun, not launch a bunch of fireworks off the deck.”

  Keene scrambled to his feet and whirled around. Linus was still here, too. He reached out and touched the kid’s shirt. The yacht—and everything inside—had made the trip back to the marauder infested ocean along with Keene.

  “Uh, hi, dude.”

  “You’re here,” Keene said.

  The boat hit another breaker at close to full speed. The trio stumbled. Regaining her footing, Strike headed for the stairs. “You’re gonna burn all our fuel at this rate.”

  Keene grabbed her arm and pulled her back. “You don’t want to go out there.”