by Lee Bond
Granger flung his hand towards the far wall, accidentally smacking Blue Eyed Boy in the face. He smiled apologetically again and rattled his cuffed hand. “Over yon. He’s ready to call, you know. After so long, I can feel it. Check under my pants.”
Rommen gazed deep into Delbert’s eyes and started whispering the moment Garth involved himself in hunting through the pile of crud at the other end of the room… “Who is more dangerous, yours or mine?”
Granger’s eyes flicked to Garth as he tore through the pile of clothing in search of the phone and then, this time, grinned slyly, besotted eyes shining with a wellspring of awareness that came only from dancing in the dark for so very long. “Careful, Blue Eyed Boy. Those are dangerous thoughts.”
“Who is more dangerous?” Rommen demanded, gripping the sides of Delbert’s head harder, barely flinching this time when the man's grotesque skin squirmed underneath the pressure. “Garth or Samiel?”
“Given the depth of the situation you are in, Blue Eyed Boy,” Granger whispered softly, “They are equal unto one another. Christopher Marlowe to William Shakespeare. When two time-travelers go to war, no mortal is safe. If you’ve hitched your wagon to that horse, be wary, Good Boy, or you’ll wind up like me. Fat, drunk, mostly naked and chained to a motel bed. One minute.”
“Why is this happening?” Rommen looked over his shoulder. Garth was cursing up a storm, flinging clothes this way and that, and there were faint lights shimmering somewhere on the inside of Delbert’s translucent skin. “Why?”
Granger closed his eyes. He could somehow feel Garth’s fingertips brushing against the clunky metal case of the heaviest object in the world. He let loose a rattling sigh that didn’t sound very good at all. “End of the world type stuff, I’m afraid. Forty-five seconds.”
Garth’s triumphant shout echoed in the small room.
Rommen pressed harder. “What are you talking about?”
“I was classically trained, you know.” Granger nodded, eyes shut. He could feel Samiel’s presence bearing down on the room and was unbelievably pleased someone else held the phone. For the Baron’s focus to be so palpable before the call was even made … this was a very old Samiel. “Went to the finest schools. Fifteen seconds. ‘We are such stuff as dreams are made on, and our little life, is rounded with a sleep. Better three hours too soon than a minute too late. We know what we are, but know not what we may be.’ Good luck, Blue Eyed Boy, you’re gonna need it, especially if you dance with that blue-eyed demon over yon. He has the air of deceit and obfuscation about him. Any deal you make with him will be the stuff of trickery. Ten seconds.”
Rommen watched consciousness drain from Delbert’s face, so he stood and whirled quickly, just in time to hear the phone ring.
Garth tilted his head to one side. The phone was ringing, and he could feel some burden washing outwards from the cold, clammy object, but his time was up. “I should be dead and gone.”
Ring ring. Ring ring. Ring ring.
Rommen ignored the chill filling him from the boots up. “Don’t answer it.”
Garth shook his head. “Got to. This is Der Man.”
The antique ringing sound washed back and forth inside the tiny little room, huge and heavy waves of time stirring in the ocean. It was shrill, and grated on the nerves, filled the listener with dire anticipation and a kind of sick need.
Ring ring. Ring ring. Ring ring.
“Don’t.” Rommen pleaded. “If you don’t, maybe … maybe you’ll die again.” He couldn’t believe he was saying those words, but there he was. The evidence that something beyond his comprehension was happening in the world was right here, in this grungy room. “Maybe … maybe I’ll listen better next time, maybe you’ll find the right way to approach me. We … can’t let this man die.”
Ring ring. Ring ring. Ring ring.
“He isn’t dead until I answer the phone.” Garth didn’t know how he knew it, but the certainty was rock solid. “And I need to answer it to finish the connection. There’s a sliver of temporal incongruity in this hunk of junk, Rommen, and once The Line is drawn, I’ll be able to do as he does. A time-traveler in truth, though I won’t need to go nearly as far to win.”
Ring ring. Ring ring. Ring ring.
“Don’t. Please.” Rommen’s hands twitched, and he saw that Garth had seen the gesture.
Delbert’s words about time-travelers and war conflicted with images of precisely how dangerous Garth Nickels was. There’d be no winning, not in this kind of setting.
He dipped his head. “Fine.”
“I need to do this, Rommen. Anymore deaths, and I’ll go mad. This is the only way to trump Samiel.” Garth rolled his shoulders, took a few shadow jabs against an invisible enemy, then opened the clamshell phone and put it to his ears. “Hit paydirt with K-Dirt.”
The voice literally falling out of the speaker was laden with … Garth couldn’t quite put his finger on it. Arctic dread was certainly there, because every word spoken shivered down his spine, but there was also a kind of … indefinite weight that tried crushing him down to the ground. “Who is this?”
“Your number one fan.” Garth flashed a broad wink at Rommen, who was nudging Granger’s unconscious body with a boot; everywhere pressure met translucent skin, shivers of light quivered. “I thought it was about time we spoke.”
Garth ‘Nickels’ N’Chalez pulled the phone away from his ear as a stentorian roar bellowed out of the speaker with enough force to set the windows rattling. It was beyond loud, and would definitely attract the attention of the motel manager in a few minutes, but the effect it had on poor Delbert Granger was interesting, to say the least; the very moment the shriek boomed forth, the unconscious Special Agent’s translucent and corpulent form started quaking, as if the man himself were trying to regain control of mutinous muscles.
Rommen skipped away from the juddering body, tripped over a Federally issued shoe and was back up on his feet before anyone could say anything, though he did spare a brief moment to rub his forehead where it’d smacked the floor. He made eye contact with Garth, who shook his head briefly and pointed at Delbert.
“Oh my God.” Rommen covered his mouth, but couldn’t pull his eyes away.
Delbert Granger, once tied to this … Baron Samiel … his body was shaking itself to pieces, miniscule but ferocious tremors literally sloughing pieces of his form right off, see-through shreds of flesh and bone breaking loose from the body. When they fell far enough away, they split into motes of firelight that floated up a few feet before winking out, like stars going nova.
“This is how the world ends, gentlemen.” Granger -horribly brought back to consciousness by his end- spoke softly through slack lips, even as his skull continued falling to pieces. “Not with a bang, but a whi …”
And then his head turned to burning dust in the air.
Rommen found that he had had quite enough. Fresh air was in order. He shot Garth a long, meaningful look before stepping outside to lean against the railing.
The scream died out. Garth stuck a finger in his ear and wiggled it around a bit before rejoining the conversation. “That was impressive.”
“Why are you still there?” Samiel’s dread voice was quizzical. “I see Granger’s line, and it is gone. But you persist. Who are you?”
“Doesn’t really matter. What matters is,” Garth waved the phone around in the air, just on the off chance that Samiel possessed the ability to see into places where he’d never been before, “is that I’ve got this here phone now. Since it, and you, didn’t shiver me timbers, I’m gonna go ahead and guess that you no longer operate as fully as you intended in this line.”
“You still die. Months from now. You still die.” Samiel was insistent. “That part of your line still exists. I can see it.”
“Oh, Baron.” Garth tsked. On the other end, his greatest foe rumbled angrily. No matter. It was time to give the Emperor-for-Life some of what he’d been wanting this whole time. “Tell you what. I’ll make you
a deal. You stop what you’re doing with Drake Bishop, right now, and I won’t interfere in any more of your business. Do that, and we’re quits.”
“Impossible. I will never quit. You are not beyond my reach, Nickels. You may seem familiar to me, but you aren’t. It’s merely echoes from this moment, eddying backwards and forwards through The Line, kicking up dust. I’ve never met you before now, but this … fracture … has spilled into the before of me. So no. I won’t desist. You will die. I will find a way to sever you from your line. Enjoy your alone time, ‘Nickels’. It won’t last forever.”
The Line went dead. Garth flashed a faint smile at the phone before closing it up and putting it into a pocket. It was time to talk to Rommen.
Rommen moved a few steps to the right when Garth came to lean against the railing. “What now, boss?”
“Well, there’s no evidence of a crime, or a body, so we don’t need to worry about anyone crying foul play once they decide to investigate.” Garth said this lightly, saw it was the wrong tone to use with the emotionally distraught man, and shrugged. Oh well. He wasn’t here to be a people pleaser.
“You know what I mean.” Rommen stared off into the distance, feeling terribly small. And perhaps a bit foolish. In hindsight, everything Garth Nickels had ever done had been aimed at a moment like this. He could see it quite clearly now.
“I do.” Garth –always a bit merciless, always a tiny bit nihilistic- toyed with the idea of carrying things just a bit further. Letting Rommen know that not only was time travel inherently possible but that he was also not real would be just the icing on the cake. “You won’t like it.”
“I already don’t like this whole night, boss.” Rommen wished he were anywhere else in the entire world right then. Christ, he’d rather be back in ‘ghani, fighting insurgents. At least those guys were an enemy you could see. If you were capable, you could even understand their reasons.
But not this stuff. This stuff was beyond his pay grade. He didn’t think there was anyone in his unit who’d be able to handle it.
“Welcome to my fucking life, pal.” Garth inhaled the fresh San Francisco air. It was nice, breathing in this stuff. It was almost like really being here. There was something about the air in the future. It was all reprocessed and full of … stuff.
“So, what?”
The question lingered in the air.
Garth patted the pocket that held the phone. “This thing has a sliver of the temporal incongruity in it, Rommen. It’s the thing that gives Samiel his abilities. It needs to have a bit of the stuff to give it the power of temporal communication. Now I’ve got it in my possession, I’m in the free and clear for at least two more months. No more Zigg-heads, no more unscheduled assassination attempts, none of that.”
“This Samiel character doesn’t sound like a man who gives up that easily.”
“Well, that’s coz he ain’t.” Garth nodded assiduously. “But it don’t matter. I’ve got a connection up The Line, now. From the moment of my assassination to four hours ago. So from there to here, I can adjust and change things as I see fit.”
“Huh?” Rommen palmed his eyeballs. The world had gone mad.
“’s how he does it. He communicates with previous moments of himself and now I’ve got this phone, I can do the same. Not as long term as him obviously, but that don’t matter neither.” Garth tapped the phone significantly. “Now, I’m prolly going to be … distant for the next little while. Preoccupied. That’ll be on account of, uh, the time-travelly mind stuff. Arranging for optimal output of a specific line.”
Rommen let the statement wash right over him. His mind wasn’t built to contain ideas like this. “What’ll I tell the others?”
“Mmmm.” Garth dug the phone loose. “You’re a smart guy. I’m sure you’ll think of something. I’ve gotta make a call. To the future. No. That’s terrible. It’s time to make a call, to the future. Jeez. Time to drop a dime, in time. Fuck my life. I am off my fucking game here. How he … Look, I’m gonna forge that connection now. See you in a few months. Well, I’ll see you in a few months. I’m not technically going anywhere, but my focus … yeah. You know what? See you in a minute.”
Garth walked away a few feet, phone in hand, dialing a number. Rommen watched with hooded eyes, straining to detect anything out of the ordinary; Samiel’s presence still rumbled through him, a rough, angry deity reaching out from some inevitable point in the future, powerful, raw, intent. Would Garth’s future self-manifest in the same way?
Rommen decided that if it did, that would be the end of Garth Nickels. It wasn’t that much of a stretch, not really, not when he’d already come to the conclusion that his employer –thanks to the reach of his technology- was going to have to be closely watched.
With this new power? With the ability to arrange his own future the way he chose?
No one should have that kind of influence.
Eyes hooded, Rommen caught sight of the call being made. Senses straining for any hint of Samiel’s kind of presence, all he caught was a faint feeling of lightning and the indication of thunder. Hardly noticeable, if he hadn’t been looking for it.
Garth ended the call. “Let’s go.”
Rommen frowned. He understood now what his boss had meant. The fiery drive that'd once been evident from the crackling energy in Garth's eyes was nearly diminished, a flickering candle where before it'd been a volcano of pure intensity. Somewhere up The Line, controlling the past. For a better outcome.
Rommen didn't think that 'better outcome' had anything to do with America, it's people, or the survival of their way of life.
He was beginning to think Garth Nickels didn't care about anyone or anything except himself.
Which raised a final question for Rommen deShure.
What would Uncle Sam do?
But what did that mean? The be-cruel-to-be-kind methodology of Uncle Sam was dead and buried and had been for some time now, replaced with the loving embrace of Maiden America. He was supposed to turn the other cheek now.
Rommen followed after the empty shell that was now his boss, mind whirling with dark, difficult matters.
***
Samiel –all of him, from every point he’d dared to make- looked at the unassailable line. Stronger than ever, it’s color had switched from green to blue and they had no idea what that might mean, other than the fact that Garth Nickels was now free to operate in the 21st century, right around Drake Bishop.
Just as he'd said. It was awful.
“Why does he want me stop with the Bishop?” They asked themselves.
None of them had an answer. They all suspected that their previous thought –that Nickels had always been there, just behind the scenes, forcing Bishop to jump in unpredictable ways with every attempt at coercion- wasn’t merely hypothesis, but truth.
On one of his multiply-selved hands, it was good to know that it wasn't the Universe that sought to undo his efforts at every turn but someone like him; he'd always struggled with the notion that something as powerful and majestic as a Universe, mulishly fighting against what was best for it. It'd always seemed so ... stupid.
On the other hand ... he had an enemy that was, as far as his equipment could tell, just as powerful as he.
That couldn't be allowed. Couldn't be permitted. They were surprised they each of them were as cool and collected as they were. Well, with the exception of the Ultimate, who, until this very moment, truly had been a spot of undigested intellectual potato lurking deep in the minds of every version of Samiel.
But not more!
The Ultimate. He was real, just as imagined!
As he’d … feared.
He was all the way up The Line, shrieking and howling into the temporal void, a mindless animal they’d eventually all become. Unlike those of them that were still fresh in the trenches, he wasn’t dealing at all well with these disruptions, but they were choosing to take a more pragmatic viewpoint, for a change.
They did all they could to block Ultimate
Samiel and his galactic temper tantrum out of their minds so they might focus on resolving this regrettably monikered time-traveler's influence. Prior to Nickels’ involvement, that specific patch of 21st century had always been fragile, even without Bishop's weird synergy thrown into the mix: Samiel not incorrectly held the belief that the ... thinness ... of The Line in that time was his fault, all thanks to his arrival.
Whichever one of him decided to step up and handle the threat personally would just have to remember that, and act accordingly. They couldn't go down there and start tossing ODDities and high-tech weapons around all willy-nilly like, not unless they wanted to cause the Line to spontaneously degrade, as had happened many times before.
But they were smarter than this. They'd been through this kind of thing before. They were in their element. The man called Nickels thought he'd been cagey by throwing up that temporal blockade, but the time-traveler was wrong!
Sure, he had two months in which to do whatever he chose, but that particular brand of temporal freedom was a two-way street!
Samiel -in every Line, in every iteration- licked fleshy lips drawn taught as fishing lines. "Do what you want down there, worthy foe. Be careful, though, be careful! You can't get carried away down there! Not without rupturing that bubble you're hiding in."
That was the ticket, that was the key.
This interloper might not know it, but he'd inadvertently followed the line back down to the most dangerous point, thinking he'd settle there on his own. But ... that was wrong.
2016, San Francisco? Unsafe! The Line was at it's most fragile there, thanks in part to Samiel's arrival in this odd place and made weaker still thanks to all his efforts in capturing Bishop.
But it was that very same weakness that made the 21st so tricky to work with that'd led 'Nickels' to that particular point in time, that specific location. He'd voluntarily tossed himself onto the most turbulent spot in history, and sooner rather than later, he'd discover just how rough those waters could be.
Samiel resisted the urge to rub a fat thumb across the brilliant blue Line that was Nickels' history. There was no telling what sort of awful things might happen to him. "You're safe. For two whole months, you're safe as houses. But ... not before, and ... not after. I've seen you're death, Nickels. It's still happening. Will still happen. And I can work with that."
