Tempus: The Phoenix Man

by Matt Hilton

  This time Rembrandt’s bullet flew wide of the mark, striking the open door and whistling away into the short corridor. It caromed off the elevator doors. In contrast, the giant’s bullets dug into softer targets, thudding loudly into furniture and carpets, but didn’t find flesh. Rembrandt combat rolled away, hiding behind the corner of a heavy leather and oak settee. He bobbed up and returned fire.

  Semple screamed orders at the giant as he pulled himself around the doorframe and out of sight. All of his commands were implicit: Kill Rembrandt.

  In his body armour, his head tilted down so that his helmet gave protection to his face, the giant stalked forward, his finger heavy on the trigger. The Spectre M4 submachine gun had the capacity to fire up to one hundred and fifty rounds per minute, but the box magazine held only fifty rounds. His wild shooting meant that the giant emptied the gun in less than twenty seconds. But they were twenty seconds of desperate survival for Rembrandt. The settee was torn to shreds around him, causing him to throw himself onto his right side, pinning his own handgun momentarily. Shreds of burnt leather rained down on him, hot slugs punching through the air a hand’s span above his body as he surged on his has knees and elbows to the far end of the settee. There he came up to one knee and propped himself over the back of the settee to return fire.

  His bullets struck the giant three times, but the man’s adrenalin was up now and he withstood the impacts. Only one round drew blood, but this was from high on his left arm, between his vest and the ceramic plates covering his upper arm. The wound didn’t slow him. As Rembrandt pounced up, taking a short run for a door into an adjacent bedroom, the giant tracked him, finger on the trigger again. Rounds plucked at the air around him, and one even found purchase in the tail of his jacket, but then Rembrandt banged through the door and placed the frame between him and the giant. Thankfully the walls were breezeblocks, reinforced by poured concrete and the bullets that struck the wall didn’t penetrate.

  Rembrandt heard the giant curse, and there was a moment’s reprieve as he struggled to release the empty box magazine and find the spare shoved in his belt.

  Rembrandt didn’t wait; he swung back around the doorframe, his legs braced as he brought up the handgun two-handed. He fired, fired, fired. Then the slide locked back. Rembrandt didn’t waste time going for another magazine. He launched himself at the giant, who had shied back from the almost point blank shots to his chest armour. This time Rembrandt’s bullets had dug deep, probably wounding the flesh beneath, but not enough to finish him. Rembrandt kicked at the same place he’d been shooting, slamming his boot into the punctured vest. The giant reeled back, his grimace telling of his pain.

  Emboldened, Rembrandt followed in with another kick. The man was wearing a steel groin guard, but it couldn’t stop all the force of the foot driving in. He bent slightly, wind whistling between his teeth. Rembrandt struck at the gap between shoulder and helmet with the barrel of his gun.

  The big man proved he was no slouch.

  He jerked up with his shoulder, and the gun slid off the armour plating, and instead of the man’s neck, it rebounded from the rim of his steel helmet. The giant dropped the submachine gun, and grappled with Rembrandt. He got a hand on one side of Rembrandt’s head, and on his opposite hip. The giant lifted and turned, snatching Rembrandt away from the doorframe and hurled him bodily across the room.

  A rug rucked up around Rembrandt as he hit the floor. He struggled to right himself, kicking away the encumbrance of the rug. The giant was already coming for him, a deep-throated growl building in his chest. Rembrandt got a leg up, kicked at the man, but the giant’s fingers snapped around his ankle and yanked. It felt as if femur and hip joint would part, but then Rembrandt was being hauled off the ground. The big man drove a boot into Rembrandt’s side.

  Agony flashed through Rembrandt. He fought down the urge to vomit, and grappled with the giant’s legs. He managed to hook an arm around the back of the man’s knees, and he quickly dropped his pistol and grabbed at his opposite wrist. Effectively hobbled, the giant fell forward. Unfortunately for Rembrandt his weight was on top, and Rembrandt was forced face first into the carpet. He released the legs, pushed and pulled, and then kicked at the giant’s chin with his free heel. His first kick was ineffective, but after a couple more, the giant released his opposite ankle and Rembrandt managed to scurry away. The giant came after him.

  If an observer had chosen that moment to enter the room the tableau would have appeared absurd: two men on hands and knees, one chasing the other around the room. But the comical nature of the scene would have belied Rembrandt’s desperation to avoid the other’s clutches. If the giant were to get a hold on him, there was no way he could prevail. Nimbler, he managed to get a lead on the giant and scrambled up.

  Rembrandt vaulted the shredded leather settee and landed alongside the first dead giant. He saw the truncheon and went for it. Grasping the weapon, he spun to confront the living giant, only for the truncheon to be yanked out of his hand. The leather strap still attached the weapon to the dead man’s wrist. Rembrandt reared up empty-handed and set himself to meet his enemy. The settee separated them, but for only an instant. The giant bent, got one hand beneath it and flipped the heavy piece of furniture towards Rembrandt.

  Rembrandt was forced to jog backwards, the huge settee rolling, and then sliding at him, while the big man followed, stomping in pursuit. Rembrandt cast around for a weapon.

  He saw a lamp on a sideboard, and grasped it. He hurled it, flex and all at the big man. The lamp struck his shoulder ineffectively, but it was enough to cause the man to turn his face away in instinct. Rembrandt snatched out a drawer from the sideboard, and grasping it by its handle he swung it at the man’s helmet. The drawer was old, an antique, and was made to last. It cracked solidly against the helmet, and the kinetic force transposed to the skull within. The giant groaned in pain. But then he lifted his head and flashed a toothy grin. When Rembrandt next swung the drawer, the big man swiped it aside with his forearm, and his other hand pistoned into Rembrandt’s chest, knocking him backwards.

  A wall checked Rembrandt’s stagger. He slapped his palms against it to help check the collision, but that left him open for the giant’s follow up blow to his gut. Rembrandt bent over the fist, clenched his muscles, but it didn’t help. The wind blasted out of him, and so did a spray of acidic vomit. The strength went out of his knees and he began to fall. The giant had other plans. He caught him with one hand at his throat, and one between his thighs and again Rembrandt went airborne.

  The floor was less forgiving than earlier, but that was probably a result of Rembrandt carrying more bumps and bruises than before. His head ringing, he lay stunned on his back. His hands curled towards the agony in his guts. The giant stooped over him, peering down in distaste as if he were dog muck to be scraped from his boot.

  ‘Always thought you were a weakling,’ the giant grunted. ‘Makes me wonder why you were always the Guvnor’s favourite.’

  ‘That’s why you always hated me?’ Rembrandt muttered. ‘Because you weren’t the teacher’s pet? What’s wrong: didn’t the Guvnor pat you on the head enough for your liking?’

  ‘You got all the best jobs, me and Herb got all the crap.’ The giant glanced wistfully at his dead companion. ‘It should’ve been us leading the teams, not a prick like you. I should’ve made sure the last time, finished you off for good. Well…don’t let it be said that I don’t learn from my mistakes.’

  The giant lifted his heel and aimed it at Rembrandt’s throat, in a facsimile of the manner in which Rembrandt had slain the cannibal, Warren Frome. He had a last gloat at the man writhing beneath him, foot poised in the air. Then he stamped down.

  Chapter 39

  April 5th 2018

  Central Command, Tempus Facility

  ‘Vincent, don’t you realise that by taking this action you’re dooming us all? Not just us in here, but every man, woman and child in the country, maybe even the world.’

  ‘Sh
ut up, Elizabeth, and keep you hands on the keyboard where I can see them.’

  Major Coombs stood with one thumb hooked into his jacket pocket. It was a nonchalant pose, and at odds with the gun in his opposite hand. The barrel of the gun was only loosely aimed, and it drifted back and forth between Doctor Heller and Professor Doherty. Standing alongside the taller major was George Fox. The young technician’s hair was greasy, or it was wet with sweat. He had a bold fingerprint on the left lens of his spectacles. All of the other technicians had been ushered from the lab. Having discovered that Rembrandt was back and sought revenge on those responsible for trying to have him murdered, Coombs and Fox had overseen the transvection of Herbert Mitchum and Gerald Granger, snatching them from Old City moments before the devastated landscape was transformed to how it should have looked in a London contemporary with 2002. Unlike Rembrandt’s fellow team members, Herb and Gerald weren’t natural inhabitants of Old City, and therefore not reliant on the nuclear wasteland to give them form and substance. They once existed in this time and place, and so they could be brought out. Coombs could have sent any of the soldiers under his command to foil Rembrandt, but he suspected that they would have failed. Herb and Gerald had a personal beef with the man, and were best suited to the job of slaying him. Also, Rembrandt’s death would be easily concealed when men loyal to Semple were responsible. Some clever manipulation of the Tempus chamber brought out the two brutes, then after a quick briefing by Coombs, they’d been sent back into the transvection chamber, for a short trip to Governor Semple’s private quarters. They were happy to accept the “seek and destroy” mission when discovering who their prey was.

  Coombs held no personal animosity towards James Rembrandt. He simply couldn’t allow the man to go through with his plan to kill Semple. To seal the breaches meant accomplishing a daring plan with hard-hitting consequences for all involved should it be successful. If it came to pass then Coombs’s personal scheme for surviving the impending destruction of his career would be foiled. For his evacuation plan he needed Terrence Semple alive and well, and Rembrandt out of the picture.

  To George Fox, he said, ‘Is there any way we can check if Gerald and Herb have got him yet?’

  Fox nudged Elizabeth, taking delight in his newfound power over his old boss. ‘Bring up the CCTV feed from outside Governor Semple’s private quarters.’

  Elizabeth scoured both men with her gaze. ‘Do you want me to concentrate on calibrating the Tempus chamber or not? I can’t do both!’

  Fox huffed. He pushed past the doctor, leaning to reach the computer keyboard. He deftly patched into the security camera in the hallway between the elevators and the entrance to Semple’s rooms. An image blinked to life on an adjacent screen. Coombs moved in for a better look, further crowding Elizabeth. The doctor also turned her scrutiny on the CCTV feed.

  Coombs tapped her on the side of the head. ‘Concentrate on your own task, I’ll handle this.’

  ‘Keep your hands off me, you bastard,’ Elizabeth snapped.

  ‘Can’t you sing a different tune?’ Coombs sneered.

  Fuming, Elizabeth continued at the keyboard, her face averted from Coombs. He pressed in tighter; his crotch barely inches from the side of her head. He smiled down at her, causing a look of disgust from Doherty. He winked at the old man. Then he turned to the image Fox had brought up.

  The door to Semple’s quarters was partly open.

  There was no clear view into the room, but what could be seen was vivid enough to show a commotion had erupted within. A smashed lamp lay on the floor, a carpet was rucked up, and it took Coombs a moment to recognise a large dark object was actually an upturned settee. There was no sign of life. Closer to the camera lens in the hallway, there were dark splotches on the floor that he took to be blood.

  He exhaled slowly.

  Whose blood?

  A flicker of shadows brought his attention back to inside the room. The shadows deepened, became a solid figure clad in anti-ballistics armour and helmet. The figure was moving quickly, albeit backwards. The man crashed into the door, slamming it shut.

  Coombs frowned.

  Again he considered dispatching his regular troops to Semple’s quarters; again he discarded the idea. He’d already given the order to evacuate the facility and most of his troops had already left, and it was best that no one was around to witness Rembrandt’s death but Semple and his henchmen.

  ‘How are those coordinates coming along, Doctor?’

  ‘Done,’ said Elizabeth with one last flurry of activity. ‘But once more I must beg you to reconsider this course of action. There’s no telling what ramifications will come from entering a third dimension.’

  ‘I’m touched that you even show concern for me, Doctor. After all, our relationship hasn’t been on the best of terms lately.’

  ‘You arrogant fool! I’m not talking about your welfare. I mean what will happen here. Isn’t it bad enough that you brought those lumbering brutes out of Old City, opening yet another bloody breach, without ripping into the fabric of a third place?’

  Coombs puckered his cheeks in a mock smile. ‘From what I’ve gathered from the esteemed Professor Doherty, it isn’t the entering of a dimension that’s the problem, it’s the coming back. This is so long and farewell, my dear.’

  Elizabeth stabbed a hand at the screens depicting the destruction of the country. The ugly smear of black and grey now fully enveloped all of Scotland and much of the north of England. It was as if the rent in time and space had fed upon its own power, growing larger and more volatile. The landscape was not only enveloped in ash, but fires raged through decimated cities, power stations and nuclear plants among the facilities hit. As rivers boiled dry, contaminated seas rushed in to fill the watercourses, bringing further destruction to lands not yet hit by the anomaly through flash floods. Roads were choked with fleeing humanity, but they were being swallowed along with everything else. It was a doomsday of truly Biblical proportions. ‘You stand to spread this hell wherever you go. Don’t you see? There’s no escape.’

  ‘I prefer to think that the destruction will be contained here,’ Coombs said. He indicated the professor. ‘It’s like you pointed out, Doherty, this anomaly originally gained momentum having been pulled through from the Old City dimension, but now it is mostly down to the fact its feeding off the disasters it has caused here in this world. I doubt it will have the momentum to follow us through another wormhole.’

  ‘I no longer know,’ the professor admitted in a small voice.

  ‘Well it’s a chance I’m willing to take. George is accompanying me, as will Terrence when we’ve located him. It’s such a shame you will have to stay behind, but we need someone at the controls.’

  ‘And you trust me not to transvect you into the middle of a mountain someplace?’ Elizabeth said.

  ‘I do,’ Coombs said. ‘But just in case I’ve misjudged you, don’t forget your Hippocratic oath. You swore not to harm anybody, Doctor.’

  ‘I also swore that I wouldn’t play God.’

  Coombs peered at the screens. ‘Strange you should say that: do you see God’s hand in this?’

  ‘I see only the work of devils,’ Elizabeth replied, and did not take her gaze from his for a long time. Then she snorted. ‘And cowards.’

  George Fox broke in. ‘Major, I think you should see this…’

  Coombs checked the monitor showing Semple’s rooms. The door had opened again. One of the giants took a step into the hallway. He turned to face the room. Another figure burst from within, face set rigidly as he pounced and locked his arms around the big man’s waist and powered him backwards towards the elevator doors.

  ‘Shit!’ Major Coombs pressed the gun to Doctor Heller’s back. ‘Get that machine of yours ready. George…with or without the governor, we’re leaving.’

  Chapter 40

  April 5th 2018

  Governor Semple’s private quarters, Tempus Facility

  A heel to the trachea was enough to kill
any man. Rembrandt had proven the efficiency of such a blow when executing Warren Frome. But it was also a precarious strike to deliver when an opponent retained any kind of fight in them.

  As Gerald Granger stomped down, Rembrandt thrust up and out with both hands. He hooked his thumbs at the back of Granger’s ankle, his fingers around his shins and redirected the stamp. The big man’s heel scuffed painfully across his hairline and struck the floor, but at least Rembrandt’s throat was saved. He held onto the foot for grim death. At the same time he rolled up and kicked with both feet at Granger’s ribs and knocked him off balance. The giant windmilled his arms to avoid falling, and Rembrandt swarmed up.

  ‘Sneaky,’ Granger said, as he settled his footing.

  ‘I haven’t even got started,’ Rembrandt said.

  He ducked and grabbed at the shattered remnants of the lamp. As a blunt instrument it was practically ineffective against the armoured man, but that wasn’t Rembrandt’s intention. He smashed the lamp base on the ground and picked up a long slither of ceramic. It came to a needle-sharp point, and was as keen as a razor along both edges. He held it in his right hand like a combat knife.

  Granger seemed unimpressed. He was safe in his ceramic plated vest, arm and leg guards and steel helmet. He lumbered forward, throwing a solid right at Rembrandt’s head.

  Rembrandt ducked.

  Granger’s arm jutted overhead for a split second before it was withdrawn.

  A split second was all it took for Rembrandt to jab upward. The needle tip found the underside of the giant’s forearm, where the armour plating failed to save him. The shard was so sharp the big man didn’t realise he was wounded until the blood gouted from his severed radial artery. He reared away, making a noise like a wounded animal as he clutched for his arm with his opposite hand.

  Rembrandt made an equally bestial sound, but his was one of attack. He swept in, bending his leading knee to jab at Granger’s inner right thigh. He missed the femoral artery, yet still pierced skin. The tip of the shard broke off and stayed lodged in flesh. Granger lurched sideways, colliding with the upturned settee. In a mild panic, he swept the couch aside and clambered over the corpse of his pal, Herb. Rembrandt followed, slashing this time at the narrow ribbon of flesh exposed between helmet and shoulder. Granger shouted in a mix of rage and horror, and stumbled away.