Why couldn’t it have been a good poem at least?
They drove him to the nearest station, where he was booked and put in a holding cell—yet another room he wasn’t allowed to leave. He was thankful it wasn’t white, like the lightning that killed his father, or the padded cell at Windfree, or the Fool’s gloves, or the flash that took down RAW.
Nope, no whites, just shades of gray. There was a wall of gray bars and in it a door of gray bars. There was gray cinder block, and a gray barred window looking out on a gray parking lot beneath a dark, overcast sky. The only furniture was a bench, painted gray. There wasn’t even a cot because probably, he figured, no one would be held here for very long.
But then they told him, “Make yourself comfortable. It’ll be a while.”
So Harry sat on the gray bench. He tried leaning back against the cold wall until touching it with his back reminded him he didn’t have a shirt. They hadn’t even given him any clothes, just tossed him in here half naked, shoeless, until someone with mojo could take over the scene.
Maybe they’d try him for the explosion, because he didn’t care anymore. Maybe he’d be convicted, but he didn’t care anymore. Or maybe, for the hell of it, Harry would show them all what he could do—make a trail of coincidence in A-Time that would shatter all these walls, disarm all their weapons, lay their computer systems low, then calmly walk outside surrounded by his manufactured carnage.
He’d be like the Fool himself then, like a god.
But that would also make him just like Jeremy, wouldn’t it?
None of it seemed as funny as it had when he didn’t have a body, when he hadn’t existed for a while. Now that he was attached to the world again, it all seemed so sad.
Especially Siara.
Harry shivered, leaned forward, looked down at his feet, at the gray floor, and let his feelings go. Tears welled in his eyes, pooled in them, and dripped to the concrete. He rubbed his eyes and looked down at his hands. More tears fell, passing through his palms and hitting the floor where they made small dark wet spots against the gray.
Passing through?
It was true. The tears were passing through his hands, as if he were a ghost. He stuck his index finger against his palm. It went straight through.
What was going on?
Harry snapped his head up. He looked around. He bit his lip and his teeth passed through what should have been the solid flesh of his upper lip. He slammed his hand against the gray paint. It passed through that, too, into the cinder-block wall, out of the wall of the room, and into the A-Time air, where his fingers felt the wind of the still-maddening storm.
When he turned back to the bench, he saw himself sitting there, head buried in hands. The square walls of the cell seemed to curve and melt into A-Time terrain.
He looked to his left and the narrative voice rose:
They drove him to the nearest station, where he was booked and put in a holding cell—yet another room he wasn’t allowed to leave. He was thankful it wasn’t white, like the lightning that killed his father, or the padded cell at Windfree, or the Fool’s gloves, or the flash that took down RAW.
Nope, no whites, just shades of gray. There was a wall of gray bars and in it a door of gray bars. There was gray cinder block, and a gray barred window looking out on a gray parking lot beneath a dark, overcast sky. The only furniture was a bench, painted gray. There wasn’t even a cot because probably, he figured, no one would be held here for very long.
But then they told him, “Make yourself comfortable. It’ll be a while.”
He wasn’t in linear time. He was in a life trail. His own. How had that happened? Then he remembered. The Fool had slapped him high into the air. He must have come down in his own trail, in his own future, and mistaken it for the present.
He bolted to his feet and leapt back into the terrain. There the rushing wind nearly knocked him to the ground. The terrain had changed yet again. The past was motionless, flattened out, filled with crevices, drained of all color, making it as gray as his cell. Jeremy’s edifice still remained, the center of the vortex. The future, where Harry barely stood, still roiled and wobbled.
The future. What he’d seen hadn’t happened yet. Siara hadn’t died! Harry had been given a second chance.
A giant in greasepaint with teeth that could crack the world like an egg laughed from inside him, from a deeper place than the Quirk-shard ever occupied.
Good one, huh? You should see the look on your face! If I had a camera, I’d take a picture.
Harry shook his head in disbelief. So it was a practice run. If he’d done things differently, the school would not have exploded. But what had he done wrong?
The keystone. He hadn’t found the keystone.
“What is it?” he shouted. “What?”
But the Fool wasn’t answering, and the ground only rumbled in response. The spot where Harry stood rose and fell with abandon, as if it had never wanted to be still in the first place. The event horizon, unperturbed by any shift in the A-Time weather, hissed closer to the end.
The world, this world anyway, wasn’t going to tell him a damn thing.
Or maybe it was, maybe it’d been telling him all along, telling him everything he needed to know. It was, after all, the world. He just didn’t know how to read it.
But what could he read? Terrain, trails—they yielded their secrets fast enough.
He looked at the imposing black column that divided time. It was made of terrain, so the answer was somewhere in there. Whatever the keystone was had to be spelled out inside the column. If Harry could get in, the events would rise in images, and he could follow the path of events back to the keystone.
He struggled across the churning trails. As he approached the tower, he felt something akin to heat radiate from its ebon surface. It burned his hand as he touched it. Didn’t just burn it, he noticed when he looked, but melted it clean away to the wrist.
Harry stepped back, howling, staring at the stub at the end of his arm. In seconds, his hand re-formed.
Jeremy said it was built to funnel timeless energy, ergon, so it’s probably sucking energy from me, too. Only, since I’m generated by my trail, it can’t suck me dry. Even if my ergon burned up completely, I’d probably just wind up back in linear time.
He eyed the tower, tried to gauge how much it would hurt if he forced himself inside, and wondered if he could stay conscious long enough to see the keystone.
Another sacrifice for position. Worth a shot.
Harry ran at it, pushing into the ooze with his shoulder. As his body hissed and melted, he tried to ignore the pain.
Eahhjjj!
He stumbled back in anguish, looking like a piece of ice, half-melted against a burning grill. When he saw to his horror how much of him was gone, he realized he wasn’t strong enough or fast enough to pull this off.
He knew from physics that force was equal to mass times acceleration, meaning that if you could get a blade of grass to move fast enough, it could bury itself in a thick piece of oak. But how could Harry ever achieve that kind of speed? He wasn’t a god, he was a Harry Keller. At this point, he was just three quarters of a Harry Keller.
The Fool’s words came back to him:
Points of entry are arbitrary. Let reason go, pick a partner, and dance.
Let reason go. How could he do that, with maybe a minute left to save the school? Or was that his problem yet again? Had he just been thinking, rationalizing too much? Clicking his teeth impatiently, he tried to stop thinking and let ideas just rise to his mind….
Alligator, alligator, hump-backed whale…
(didn’t make any sense but he loved it)
That ride’s over, want another?
(he shivered at the memory)
The sidewalk was moving. Not just moving, undulating, waving in patterns that made the asphalt crack and tear. It was just like a film he’d seen in physics of the Tacoma Narrows Bridge in 1940.
(Where the heck was that from?)
/> Oh yeah. Part of the visions he’d had right before he first entered A-Time. The image, newly conjured now, stuck with him. Wobbling bridge. Vibrations. Resonance. Wind made the bridge wobble like a wave, until the energy built up so much that it collapsed. Solid ground acting like the sea.
He looked at the rambling future terrain. It certainly had enough waves in it, but they were all over the place. It looked like a many-headed snake that, for the life of it, couldn’t decide on a single direction. A lot of power there, though, a lot of energy, if he could figure out how to direct it.
Like the Tacoma Narrows Bridge.
Could he? Bounce on a few trails in just the right spot, set up a resonance, send a wave in the right direction and ride it, like a surfer, toward the tower? If the momentum was strong enough, he might be able to use it to burst inside and melt in its mouth, not in its hands.
Why not?
Well, there were a million reasons, but reason hadn’t worked so far, so Harry put each foot on a wobbling trail and started pumping. After a second, like a bucking horse, the trails threw him. He flopped backwards onto a third writhing trail, wrapped his arms around it to get his balance back, and finally stood on its top.
Then he rode it, bending as it went down, straightening as it went up. It was like playing on a swing in his elementary schoolyard, pumping, making it swing like a pendulum: higher, higher, higher, lower, lower, lower, but all the time, faster. Soon the whole trail was practically leaping out of the terrain.
The energy in the bucking trail was soon as high as Harry could make it and still stay on. As it crested a final time, Harry leapt toward the tower. He flew into it, as if hurled by a slingshot.
Some days you’re the windshield, some days you’re the bug.
But even a bug, if thrown hard enough, can crack a windshield. Which is exactly what Harry did, his head and body making a horrible sound as they penetrated the sickly ooze.
He was in. The pain was ridiculous, like being stabbed by a thousand needles, a million paper cuts, like being bitten by a thousand snakes, being burned alive, inside and out, or having acid shoot through all your veins at once. His legs were gone already, so were his hands, but all he really needed were his eyes and ears. As his A-Time form boiled and melted, he scanned the ugly black walls.
The scene he’d seen play out in Siara’s future rose before him, only this time, golden strands clung to the events, tying them to the rest of the tower.
It was 7:59, and the second hand swept toward twelve.
The minute hand shivered and clicked into place. Eight o’clock. It was time.
She peeled the banana, took a bite, and started chewing. Most of the crowd was still applauding, but a few saw her eating and laughed. Her mother turned from the crowd, the smile fading from her face.
“Siara,” she whispered. “What are you doing?”
“Siara!” her father hissed from the front row. “Get down!
What is wrong with you?”
But her mouth was full, so she didn’t answer.
More and more of the crowd were watching, not the engine, but her. Dree, Jasmine, and Hutch looked worried. Her mother looked frozen with shame. Her father was furious.
He leapt out of his seat and came up the side stairs.
“Siara, stop this nonsense immediately!”
At about the same time, Pete Loam also saw her. He unbuttoned his jacket and came at her from the opposite direction.
“Excuse me, Miss.”
She was done eating. All that was left was the peel. She reached out and dropped it just in time for her father to step on it. He flew forward, slamming Pete Loam in the chest.
Loam’s open jacket flared on either side of him, making him look like he had small but well-tailored wings as he sailed backward into the whirring engine. There were chugs and sparks as he hit. Tubes came loose and flew about like raging spaghetti.
Siara’s father was just getting up, nose bloodied, when a single spark hit the end of one of the small canisters, igniting the hydrogen in it, and sending it sailing like a guided missile into the heart of the huge hydrogen tank.
Harry, barely a skull, spotted what he needed: a golden line, barely visible, connecting one event directly to the explosion. Scanning backward, he followed it back to its source:
.knat negordyh eguh eht fo traeh eht otni elissim dediug a ekil gnilias ti gnidnes dna ,ti ni negordyh eht gnitingi ,sretsinac llams eht fo eno fo dne eht tih kraps elgnis a nehw ,deidoolb eson ,pu gnitteg tsuj saw rehtaf s’araiS. ittehgaps gnigar ekil tuoba welf dna esool emac sebuT. tih eh sa skraps dna sguhc erew erehT .enigne gnirrihw eht otni drawkcab delias eh sa sgniw deroliat-llew tub llams dah eh ekil kool mih gnikam ,mih fo edis rehtie no deralf tekcaj nepo s’maoL
.tsehc eht ni maoL eteP gnimmals ,drawrof welf eH .ti no pets ot rehtaf reh rof emit ni tsuj ti deppord dna tuo dehcaer ehS .leep eht saw tfel saw taht llA .gnitae enod saw ehS
“.ssiM ,em esucxE”
.noitcerid etisoppo eht morf reh ta emac dna tekcaj sih denottubnu eH .reh was osla maoL eteP ,emit emas eht tuoba tA
“!yletaidemmi esnesnon siht pots ,araiS” .sriats edis eht pu emac dna taes sih fo tuo tpael eH
.suoiruf saw rehtaf reH .emahs htiw nezorf dekool rehtom reH .deirrow dekool hctuH dna ,enimsaJ ,eerD. reh tub ,enigne eht ton ,gnihctaw erew dworc eht fo erom dna eroM
.rewsna t’ndid ehs os ,lluf saw htuom reh tuB
“?uoy htiw gnorw si tahW !nwod teG” .wor tnorf eht morf dessih rehtaf reh “!araiS”
“?gniod uoy era tahW” .derepsihw ehs “,araiS”
.ecaf reh morf gnidaf elims eht ,dworc eht morf denrut rehtom reH .dehgual dna gnitae reh was wef a tub ,gnidualppa llits saw dworc eht fo tsoM .gniwehc detrats dna ,etib a koot ,ananab eht deleep ehS
.emit saw tI .kcolc’o thgiE .ecalp otni dekcilc dna derevihs dnah etunim ehT .evlewt drawot tpews dnah dnoces eht dna ,95:7 saw tI
There it was, right there. It was so obvious. Simple. Elegant. Too smart for the crass football player. Harry had to wonder if it was Siara’s influence that gave Jeremy the idea
As soon as he saw what he needed to see, Harry let the burning take what was left of him, his head, ears, and eyes. Having made the final sacrifice, having destroyed himself yet again, he found himself returning home, as he’d guessed, to linear time.
Siara was on the stage, now near the curtain’s edge. She looked at the clock, remembering the one Harry was stuck on before he fell, remembering the poem she’d written about Sisyphus as the minute hand, pushing up in one direction, falling back down, forever, carrying not rocks but the burden of time.
It was 7:59, and the second hand swept. The minute hand shivered…
…and collapsed back into place. It was still 7:59.
It shivered again but again didn’t reach the twleve. It just sat there, shivering, waiting, as if for once Sisyphus had said to himself, “Screw it, I’m not taking another damn step.”
Siara stared.
And for some reason, despite the singing voice insisting she should do as she was told, she smiled, nodded, and, with a mouth full of banana said, “Screw it. I’m not taking another damn step.”
16.
As Harry Keller burst into the auditorium and saw Siara, he figured he wasn’t done just yet. He thought he’d have to barrel into her and wrestle the peel from her hands before someone stopped him.
He didn’t, though.
The instant Siara laid eyes on his shirtless, insane form rushing down the aisle, leaping gracefully over some obstacles, tripping awkwardly over others, she cried out, “Harry!” and yanked the iPod earbuds out.
Harry felt a wave of vertigo pass through him. He didn’t see it, not exactly, but he felt the vast structure in A-time, the grotesque thing Jeremy had worked so hard on for so long, crash and crumble into pieces so small that whatever remained was swept away by the time trails as they rolled and shifted back into place atop it.
It was over. Really over.
Sorta.
>
Having heard Siara’s screams, the auditorium fell silent. Despite the whirring and the lights up on stage, all eyes were on Harry and Siara as they raced toward each other. A few yards to go, Siara, wanting to free her hands, tossed the banana peel. It landed a few feet in front of Harry. He, of course, slipped on it and fell into her, nearly knocking her over. But then she hugged him so tightly she literally squeezed the air out of him.
“You’re alive! You’re alive! You’re alive!” she screamed, burying her head in his shoulder.
Harry could only smile and gasp. “Yeah, I guess I am.”
“When time stopped, I knew it was you. I knew it.”
Harry shrugged. “Well, I didn’t stop time. It was just a piece in the clock. I made it wear out a little sooner than it was supposed to. It was part of something called a keystone, but I can explain that later.”
Their eyes met. He could see how totally happy she was to see him and wondered if she knew the feeling was mutual. A pleasant tingling ran over his senses, the first nice and gentle thing that had made his head swim in ages.
So is this finally the part where I get the girl?
The auditorium doors burst open. Didi and Gogo appeared. If that weren’t enough, Siara’s mother and father were climbing down from the stage, not looking very happy. Soon all three men were in the aisle, coming up fast from either side.
Harry knew they’d pull him away in a few seconds, but there was something he needed to do first. He moved his head forward; Siara moved hers. Their lips were a fraction of an inch apart. He inhaled the sweet breath she exhaled, and they kissed.
Feeling vaguely embarrassed by the intense silence that had filled the auditorium, he pulled gently away. “Siara…um…everyone…and your parents…”
But Siara didn’t seem to care much.
“You’re alive,” she said. “How are you alive?”
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