by Orton, D. L.
He runs his fingers through his hair. “Yeah, I’m fine.”
“You want to grab some chow?”
“No, thanks. You go ahead. I’m waiting for Cassie. She’s gotta come out eventually.”
I knock on her door and call out. “You want something to eat, Cass? I’ll bring it up here for you.”
We hear movement inside her room, and then the door opens a crack. She peeks out over a heavy metal chain, her eyes red and her hair a mess. “Yeah, thanks, Matt. And a couple bottles of water would be great.”
“Sure you don’t want to join me?” I ask. “A little change of stale air might do you good.”
“Maybe in the morning.” She sees Picasso and her eyes darken.
He’s still sitting with his back to her, and for a moment, I think she’s going to start yelling at him again, but she just lets out a heavy sigh.
He turns and gazes up at her, his expression tortured. “I’m sorry. I was wrong. It’s not your fault. It’s mine.”
She swallows hard and starts to shut the door, but relents. “Why don’t you ever listen to me, Colt? Is it because I don’t follow orders, or you don’t trust me, or what?” Her voice is defeated.
Picasso looks down at his hands. “No. It has nothing to do with any of that.”
“Then what the hell is it?”
He shakes his head in frustration. “It’s because of the way I feel about you, Cass. I’m trying to keep that from interfering with the job I have to do. So I overcompensate sometimes and—”
“You are seriously fucked up, Colton Richter.”
“I’ll just be off to the cafeteria, now,” I say.
“I’ll be down to grab something in a minute,” he says and stands up. “But right now, I think we need to talk.”
“Of course.” I turn and walk down the hallway.
A few minutes later, I grab a stack of iffy-looking spam sandwiches—it’s that or Iraq-era MREs—and head over to the lab.
Phil’s team is in the process of packaging up the Peeper when I walk in.
He looks like he hasn’t slept in days, but he smiles when he sees me. “Hey, Matt. Where the bloody hell have you been hiding?”
His comment leaves me feeling a bit off balance. Phil never swears. “Just trying to stay out of the way, actually, but I thought you’d be too busy packing to grab dinner.”
“Thanks,” he says and takes a sandwich. “You heard that everyone is leaving?”
“Yeah, I heard.”
He steers me over to an empty workstation. “I’ve got something to ask you.” He sits on the desk and looks up at me, his lips tight. “I… uh…”
“What? Just say it, Phil.”
“Okay. I’ll stay, if you want me to, Matt.” His expression is carefully neutral. “I’ll do what I can to help with the project, of course, but that wouldn’t be the reason I’d stay.”
Relief floods into me. “Sweet Fanny Adams, you’re a wanker.” I put my hands on his shoulders. “Please stay. I want you to stay.”
He smiles. “Okay, I will.”
I pull him into a hug, both of us still holding the sodding sandwiches. “Thanks, Phil.”
A moment later, he glances around and then motions with his head toward a stool. “There’s something else I think you should know.” I pull it up to the desk and sit down. He sinks into the desk chair and leans closer. “Picasso’s thinking about sending Isabel back in time.”
“Bloody hell. I should have kept my mouth shut about Diego’s note.”
“And there’s more.” He takes a deep breath. “I didn’t want to say anything with everyone around, but I found an anomaly in the data we collected yesterday on the timeline scans. It could just be a fluke, or even an error, but it was there: a ripple.”
“A ripple?”
“Yeah, I don’t know how else to describe it. It’s a long ways away and not in the right direction, but it’s a disturbance in the space-time continuum that matches the signature of an exo-object. I showed it to Sam—you know, the red-headed kid—but he thought I was imagining things,” he says. “Maybe I am.”
“You mean some other universe is sending out tungsten spheres?”
“Well, I suppose that’s possible, but I was thinking that maybe Diego just ended up somewhere else, somewhere far away.”
“We need to tell Picasso—and Cassie.”
“I don’t have any proof. The machine is in boxes, and the data was erased when we unplugged it.”
“Ah, bugger that. Why didn’t you print it out or something?”
“On what? Toilet paper?”
“I still think we should tell Picasso. Maybe there’s some way to reproduce it, or… hell, I don’t know, confirm that it’s there.”
“But if I’m wrong?” He stares at his half-eaten sandwich. “I’d be responsible for killing Isabel too.”
Chapter 31
Isabel: Precious & Few
I glance up from my book at a sudden gust of wind, unable to shake the feeling that something is amiss. I’m out on the deck, surrounded by five exhausted dogs, Lucky asleep in my lap. The seven of us spent the day climbing the peak to take a look around, and even Sparky, the basset hound, managed to make it to the top.
A week ago, the air was laden with soot, black rain falling all across the Front Range, but tonight it’s cool and clear. I doubt there’s much left in the cities to set ablaze, so I suspect that a forest fire must be raging to the west, consuming trees that have been waiting a hundred years to burn. But even with binoculars, I couldn’t see anything from the ridge, so I think we’re safe for now.
Still I worry. This cabin and these animals are all I have left.
The sun has been out all week charging the batteries, and tonight I’m baking cookies—and dog biscuits. I can hear the loud drone of the generator in the kitchen.
Tolstoy stands and stares out into the darkening forest, the hair on his back standing up. I set down my book, turn off the flashlight, and pat the Wally in my pocket. “What is it, boy? Can you feel it too?”
He growls, and then scans the dark house.
My pulse surges.
“Hello?” The disembodied voice comes from inside.
I let out a startled cry, slip my hand into my pocket, and slide the safety off. Tolstoy lowers his head and snarls. Lucky skitters off my lap and disappears into the cabin. The other dogs struggle to their feet with varying degrees of success.
The outline of the man’s face is visible in the shadows, his eyes big. He sweeps his gaze across the motley crew. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to frighten you. I knocked, but no one answered, so, I, ah, let myself in.” He glances at me, his lips tight, and then gapes at Tolstoy.
“He won’t attack unless he thinks you’re going to hurt me, so I suggest you step out into the moonlight and keep your hands visible.”
“Right-o.” A man with thinning hair inches out onto the deck. “I’m sorry it’s so late. It was rather a lot farther than I anticipated, and I got lost in—”
Tolstoy barks, his ears back and teeth bared.
I place one hand on the dog’s shoulder, keeping my eyes on the intruder. “Who are you and what are you doing in my house?”
He’s middle-aged and appears less grimy and better fed than most. He’s wearing a leather jacket over an oxford shirt and carrying a daypack. He clears his throat. “I’m sorry if I frightened you. I’m unarmed.” He stands there in his high-top sneakers, waiting for me to speak, and when I don’t, he continues. “I, uh, am looking for Isabel Sanborn-Kirkland.”
Tolstoy growls.
The man lifts his hands like a statue of Jesus. “Please. I’m a scientist. A physicist, actually.”
I shift in my chair, belatedly checking to see if he’s alone. “Well you’re no Einstein, that’s for sure. What on earth prompted you to let y
ourself in? People who do that don’t tend to live very long around here.”
The flashlight slips from my lap and clatters onto the deck.
Tolstoy barks and takes a step closer. The man raises his hands higher.
“You sure you’re unarmed?” I ask. “Now would not be a good time to lie.”
“Yes, I’m unarmed.” His voice is emphatic, almost desperate.
“Then stand very still, and he won’t hurt you.” I nod at Tolstoy. “Check him out.”
The dog slinks across the deck, sniffs the man’s shoes and pants, and then stretches up to smell the backpack. The guy holds his breath, his eyes huge.
A few moments later, Tolstoy returns to my side and sits, looking up at me.
I scratch his ears. “Good boy. Settle.” He whines softly and slides down onto his belly, but he keeps his beautiful amber eyes trained on our guest.
“So you don’t have a gun.” I slip the safety back on the Wally.
“For the third time, yes, I’m unarmed.”
“In this day and age, it pays to triple check.” I glance at the other dogs. “Excitement’s over, guys. Settle.”
They reluctantly go back to their down stays. All except Sparky. The basset hound rolls over on his back against Brontë, the golden retriever, and lets out a string of sorrowful yowls, his stiff leg sticking up like a ship’s mast, but his tail wagging.
The man shifts his weight, apparently breathing again.
I pick up the flashlight and stand it up next to my chair. “Who are you?”
“My name is Matt Hudson. I’m a physics professor at CU—or rather, I was.” He regards the resting dogs and relaxes a bit. “Are you Dr. Sanborn-Kirkland?”
I consider lying, but see no point. “Yes, but I’m divorced, and I never used the hyphenated name in the first place—despite Mr. Kirkland’s forceful insistence and continued exasperation.”
“Dr. Sanborn, then?”
I nod. “Who sent you, and how did you find me?”
“I have some things to discuss, and I’ve brought you a gift.” He starts to opens his jacket, but stops when Tolstoy growls. “May I?”
“Yes, but I would advise against taking out anything that appears to be a weapon.”
He swallows and pulls a small silver bag out of his jacket, pinching it from the top.
“Coffee?” The word tumbles out before I can stop myself.
Tolstoy looks at me and tips his head, unsure of my reaction.
The man’s face softens. “Yes. Real coffee... Costa Rican.” He holds it out with both hands, like an offering. “It’s for you.”
A minute later, I shut the heavy drapes in the kitchen, switch on a light, and start the electric teapot.
Thank goodness for Diego’s solar panels.
I set the teapot on the table along with mugs, spoons, and a small jar of sugar. “Have a seat.”
“Thank you.” He hangs his jacket on the back of a chair and sits, his hands in his lap. “Nice place you have here. And very difficult to find.”
A timer dings, and I take the cookies out of the oven, careful not to turn my back. “You seem to have managed. Where did you get the coffee?” It’s Tres Ríos, Diego’s favorite.
He watches me moving around the kitchen. “It was a gift, and I’ve been saving it.” His face flushes bright red.
He’s lying.
I set a plate of cookies on the table and sit down. Tolstoy flops down next to my chair, and Lucky leaps into my lap. I stroke her soft fur, my hands still shaking.
“Why are you here?” Just as I finish speaking, the teapot whistles.
The man jerks his body around and knocks a mug onto the floor. “Damn it!”
Tolstoy jumps up snarling, his ears back and teeth bared. After I convince Lucky to take her claws out of my thigh, I turn to Tolstoy. “It’s okay, big guy. Settle.” My protector lies down.
“Sorry about the cup,” he says, “but couldn’t you put him outside?” I can see the sweat on Professor Hudson’s clean-shaven upper lip, and now that he’s taken his jacket off, it’s easy to tell that he doesn’t do much manual labor. His hands are soft and uncallused.
Where has this guy been for the last year?
“Please, Dr. Sanborn. As I said, I’m a scientist. I mean you no harm. In fact, I came to ask for your help.”
“Men are afraid that women will laugh at them, Professor Hudson, but women are afraid that men will kill them.” I pick up the mug, check it for damage, and set it back on the table. “The dog stays.”
He blinks, looking a bit pasty. “Of course. Please forgive me. As I’m sure you’ve deduced, I’m not much of a frontiersman—or a rogue—and I’m very sorry I frightened you.”
“No harm done.” I reach over to the counter, pull out a drawer, and take out the severed end of a nylon stocking. I spoon coffee into it and set it in a cup. “So tell me, professor, what’s happening in the outside world?” I pour hot water over the grounds and inhale the rich aroma.
God, I’ve missed the smell of coffee.
I push the cup toward him and make another. “Is it down to sticks and stones as Einstein famously predicted—or just styrofoam and plastic?” I take a sip of a world that no longer exists.
“Unfortunately, I don’t really know. I’ve been holed-up inside a mountain for the last year, and not much makes it past the government censors. I did get a chance to fly to DC a couple of weeks ago, but the only stops we made were at military bases, and they didn’t look much different to me.” He takes a drink of his coffee. “Maybe people were a tad thinner than I remember. And the new President is a wanker.”
“Have there been any more nuclear attacks? Or news of fallout spreading?”
“Not that I know of. The politicians are twits, but I don’t think they’re that stupid—at least, I hope they’re not.” He stares down at his hands.
“So what is it?”
He looks up. “There is a particularly nasty strain of Ebola spreading in the larger metropolitan areas. They’re predicting billions of deaths in a matter of months, although I haven’t heard of any outbreaks around here.”
“Please tell me that someone is working on a vaccine.”
“Actually, we are—in a manner of speaking.”
“Is that why you’re here?” I squeeze all the air out of the small silver bag, reseal it, and set it in front of him. “You do know that vaccines are not my area of expertise.”
“Yes, I am aware of that, and that’s not why I’m here.”
“So tell me, Professor Hudson, why did you come all this way to share your precious coffee?”
“As I said, I’ve been working on a secret government project—” He shifts in his chair. “to build a time machine.”
I let out a mirthless laugh.
“I’m afraid it’s true. The time machine is our only hope. We’ve been spending twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week looking for a way to avoid the looming apocalypse, and we’ve finally found the slimmest thread of hope: one tiny change—twenty years in the past—that could save the world.”
“Okay,” I say. “So what’s the difference?”
“You and Diego Nadales are happily married—and have been for nearly twenty years.”
I set down my mug, and coffee splashes onto the table. “He’s dead.”
He peers into his coffee cup.
I stand up. “I think you should leave now, Professor Hudson—or whoever the hell you are.”
He stares at me, a pained expression on his face, and then he exhales and takes an envelope out of his pocket. “Please check in the bottom drawer of Diego’s desk. There’s a wooden puzzle box with a hidden compartment, and—”
My heart stops. “How do you know about that?”
“Diego told me about it before we bloody killed him.” He drop
s his gaze. “Here.” He holds out the letter. “He asked me to give this to you.”
Chapter 32
Matt: The Top of the List
“What happened to Diego?” Her striking green eyes are red and swollen, but her voice is strong and defiant. “Where is he now?”
She’s a fighter. We should have brought her in sooner.
I wait for her to sit down at the table. “We don’t know. The time machine malfunctioned, and he’s presumed dead.”
She’s quiet for a bit. “So who sent the shell and the note to him?”
“His parallel from another universe, we think.”
She sets the seashell down on the table. “How did it get here?”
“Let me start at the beginning and tell you everything?” The cat stares up at me, flicking the tip of her tail.
Isabel nods once, her lips pressed together.
I take a sip of my coffee and begin. “Over a year ago, an artifact—a hollow tungsten sphere, actually—was discovered in the wreckage of a hotel fire.”
“The Brown Palace. I was there the night it burned down.”
“Ah, yes. I recall reading about your rescue—and Diego’s subsequent arrival in the hospital ER. Sweet Fanny Adams, if that wasn’t the world’s most romantic marriage proposal.”
She presses her lips together and glances down at her lap.
“I’m sorry. This must be very painful for you.” I give her a moment. “Shall I continue?”
She wipes her face on her sleeve. “Yes.”
“The sphere contained things from another universe—and probably the future.”
“What was in it?”
I hesitate. “Information.”
She gives me a scathing look, as if she sees right though me. “I thought you were going to tell me the truth.”
“Yes,” I say, “I’m sorry. It’s a bit difficult to believe—and I’ve seen it with my own eyes.”
“Try me.”
“It contained an electronic device that hasn’t been invented yet and some technology that may help us survive the impending disaster.”
