Steamrolled

by Pauline Baird Jones

  The automatons began to pull ahead as he fought the compulsion, despite his ambivalence. He’d wondered if they were programmed to “escort” him or just there because the monster couldn’t resist sending his minions off for one last march, but they appeared indifferent to him, forging ahead with typical mechanical unconcern. And then they began to vanish, one by one, and he realized he was the expendable one and he wondered how much of what he’d seen had happened by chance and what was part of the monster’s plan.

  He spotted a familiar landmark, or as familiar as anything was in this place, and managed to veer toward it. In a weird way, it seemed his prior programming helped. The monster had sent him to Twitchet’s warehouse so many times, the resistance lessoned some, enough for him to stagger inside and shut the door. He leaned against it as the pressure in his head, the pain in his chest tried to force him back outside. And then, as always, he wondered if this had been the plan all along? That he’d gone to the one place the monster wanted him, knowing he’d fight the obvious, the easy. No surprise he had trust issues with the sadistic bastard, but it was hard to see how this place mattered now, except as a last reminder of Olivia, a final torment before dying. Was the monster letting him know she’d been taken while he’d been left to die?

  With sweat beading on his body, swept by equal measures of longing to live and die, he realized he needed a distraction. Whether this place, which might be suffused with Olivia, could provide it, he did not know. He forced himself to look around, trying to focus on what was different, rather than who was gone. It looked much like it had in real time, but with some, slight changes. These he’d come to expect going in and out of the alternate realities. Sometimes the changes were bigger. He’d learned if Olivia wasn’t working with Twitchet, then his machine was a paper dream, that it hadn’t been built. The monster—a confirmed misogynist—always looked to Twitchet for his information.

  He’d done nothing to dissuade him, or inform him. If the monster had asked? That might have been harder, but he hadn’t. Not once.

  No sign of the machine. Not sure what it meant. Had he hoped to use it to escape? He didn’t know, didn’t know which thoughts were his and which were planted by the control device. With a different kind of pain tightening his chest, he staggered over to the desk that was Olivia’s in most realities. The echoing space felt profoundly empty, as if more than the people had gone. He knew, because Doctor had taken pleasure in sharing the information, that all the inhabitants of this scooped out piece of time had been used to perfect the mind control device, thousands of them dying painful deaths before the device had begun to work properly, then dying painful deaths anyway because they weren’t needed anymore. Two monsters, separated by time and space, who’d still managed to find each other. It seemed to be the way of monsters.

  He dropped into what might be her chair—the desk for an assistant was consistent through the realities he’d visited—wondering if he imagined her scent lingering in the air. He hoped with as much of himself as he could, that no version of her had existed in this cut out world. He studied the top, tried a few doors, felt ridiculously relieved to find no signs it had been used. The master had brought her here, probably several versions of her, so what did it matter if this Olivia hadn’t been tortured and experimented on?

  He’d brought this on her, brought it on so many. Why did he try to postpone his end? Why extend the misery? Why linger in the guilt the device and the monster wanted him to feel? He deserved to die for what he’d done, even it had been against his own will.

  It’s the end.

  “It’s the end.” He repeated the words aloud, was surprised that part of him still fought the inevitable. Was that part of his punishment? Without the control device to open a path out, he was trapped here. Maybe he couldn’t feel relief because he knew the master could, and probably would, just take another version of him to torment and use. Maybe he couldn’t feel peace because he didn’t know what had happened to the Olivia he’d seen in the cage. Maybe he couldn’t feel peace because the monster wished it. The weight of what he’d been forced to do, the lives he’d damaged should have crushed him. The pain was more than the monster could inflict—unless that was the plan, too. Did he watch from somewhere? How deep into his mind could the monster see?

  He’d been through too much to let any of it show on his face, but he’d never known how much the monster knew about what went on beneath the stoic. He must know more than Smith wanted. How else had he divined Smith’s particular interest in Olivia? He knew to the depths of his being that if the master had taken anyone from this place, it was Olivia.

  And he knew one other thing that might, or might not, be true: that there was a way out, if he could just find it.

  * * * *

  With the horizon eating its way through the snow globe, it was hard to keep to the zombie shamble. Harder to see some of them head into hungry maw and vanish without making a sound.

  “We could turn them around with one of the bugs,” Em suggested at one point, but then a bunch of them blinked out of existence, including their not-zombie companion.

  If the inhabitants were leaving in the order they’d arrived, then he and Em should, eventually go, too, either to where they’d come from, to some place in their normal lives, or into oblivion. Two problems with waiting for that to happen though not knowing the end result felt like the biggest of the problems. He could live with the first two, but he couldn’t live with Em being blinked out of existence. Not that he would live with it, in the strictest sense of living—

  I’d quit while you’re behind, Robert-oh-my-darling.

  Right. He moved on to the other problem with waiting on events, which was that he didn’t think their turn to be blinked would arrive before the horizon ate its way to them. It seemed to move at almost the same pace as the zombies. It was possible, he supposed, that getting eaten by the horizon wasn’t fatal. Of course, they could try leaping into it and hope they didn’t leave some essential body part on the other side of its line of demarcation. He wasn’t sure that was possible, so he’d call that the choice of last resort.

  As they shambled along, the city phased in and out of what could be the “real” New York—though one he suspected was in or around 1894—or it could be another alternate reality. They didn’t talk much, since the zombies didn’t, so Robert was able to focus all available mental resources on the problem of how to get Em safely away. Blynken ran data with him, including sharing the data they’d obtained from inside the bug. While it was interesting to examine the changes made to the basic Dusan design—presumably to make it harder for nanites to seize control—it didn’t help with the most pressing problem of how to escape. They pursued a dogged course for the warehouse, though he didn’t see how it accomplished anything but postponing the inevitable.

  If the transmogrification machine is there, it might be possible to use it to escape. Blynken tried to sound hopeful and failed. He’d even lost his Em vocabulary as they brainstormed together.

  One thing he found interesting, though again, wasn’t sure how useful it was, it seemed as if a few of the zombies emerged from the zombie state without assistance, a couple of times during the phasing in and out process. It was as if the devices controlling them were failing at a different rate than their disappearances. In some ways, it looked as if time was unwinding, at least in this place, but the failing devices seemed to indicate some other force in play—a force that didn’t seem to be impacting Em. She hadn’t done a time wobble since they left the warehouse the last time. That should mean something, though he didn’t know what.

  Time would only impact her if a time paradox were in play.

  And you know this how?

  I’ve been doing data searches on time theory to try to find a solution.

  That was good.

  It is what you’d call a long shot. Our databanks are significant. Even at the hyper speeds we can achieve, the chances of any of us finding the right information before this reality coll
apses is three million, five hundred thousand and fifty-to-one.

  So, you want me to shut up and let you think?

  I am able to talk and search, Robert-oh-my-darling.

  That was good, because he had another question, though probably one without an answer. What would cause the devices to fail, do you think? They must be failing if the zombies are coming out of it on their own.

  The design has been downgraded as to be so rudimentary, the only vulnerability I can identify would be the power source.

  The anachronistic power source. It made sense, well an odd sense. If time were rolling back, and if that power source were part of the, he hesitated, wrong time, then it would take its turn to disappear—which seemed to imply it arrived in several batches at different times, as had the people.

  Constilinium should not be available for any purpose. It has not yet been stabilized for industrial or commercial sale.

  So if someone was messing with time, which it looks like they are, they are using a power source from the future in their primitive mind control device. Which supported his theory of varying arrival times. Time Council. Time pins. Time trackers. Could someone from this Council be trying to stop Em’s evil overlord? If someone were attacking from the future—which he knew was possible because of Delilah’s encounters with time wardens—they could be drying up his source of Constilinium, or, at least impacting his timetable. And that could ripple back in time, causing the evil that this faux Faustus had done to unwind. Were the flashes of New York they saw, could that be the real time trying to assert itself over this slice of life? And if it was, was there a way for them to stay in the real New York? Em had vanished for a few seconds, but it didn’t stick. She’d re-emerged in this one, which seemed to mean no, it wasn’t possible.

  “There it is.” Em’s voice broke into his thoughts, exhaustion—or something else—taking the buoyancy out of it.

  They were alone on the street, he realized, though neither of them shook off the shamble. It was all either could manage, even with what boost the peeps could provide. He didn’t know how long they’d been going, didn’t know how many actual hours it had been since they’d eaten or slept or done anything normal. Their isolation did allow him to put his arm around her waist when she swayed a bit, as if too tired to take one more step. Even Blynken felt tired, as if he’d expended all he had keeping Robert going.

  He knew the peeps could do remarkable things, but they lived inside the humans they helped and even they had limits on how much damage they could repair when the human had no reserves, nothing for them to work with. It was the reason he’d lost nine years of his life and become a little brother. It was, in a weird way, the reason he was here now, with Em. Despite it all, it seemed a fair trade, those nine years for Em. He had to find a way to keep her or, if not that, to save her. To send her back to her real life.

  We will find a way.

  He wished Blynken felt more confident. One of them should.

  They approached the door, the pace slowing some. Robert wasn’t sure what Emily hoped to find on the other side. He wasn’t sure what he hoped to find. They’d come, he realized, because they needed a destination, something to aim for. Not exactly a plan.

  “It’s strange,” Em said, giving him a crooked smile, “I have this urge to ask a question, but…”

  “But what?” Robert turned her to face him, feeling the same urge only he knew what he’d ask. Can you, could you love me? Can you forgive me for what I’ve done to you? Will you let me in your life forever and ever?

  “It’s kind of lame. Not the question you want to end a life time question ban with.” She leaned in, lowered her voice, though there was no one around to see or hear. “I kind of need to, you know, find a loo. I should have gone before I left that building, but the girls were on my heels like a couple of puppies. And then there were the earthquakes and stuff.”

  He managed a chuckle, a weak one. Trust Em to kill high drama with the practical. And it helped. The momentary lightning of his feelings dialed back exhaustion and some other stuff he didn’t want to name, for fear of giving it back its power. Any gain, however slight, was better than no gain.

  He had vowed to let her go to the bathroom without him, so he had to keep his word. “There’s probably something in there, even if it’s just private corner.” Because he didn’t know what facilities a 1894 warehouse had. It’s not like they’d explored that part of the warehouse the last time they’d been there. Where ever it was they’d been. Now that he considered it, he wouldn’t mind a loo break, too, though it surprised him he had any fluid to void. It had been a long time since they’d last hydrated, at least it felt like a long time. Even the peeps didn’t know how to count their progress through time and space. “We can repair to opposite corners.”

  Her grin brightened, like sun peeking through clouds. He pulled the door open, ready to say, “After you,” when his Delilah black ops instincts kicked on, a bit like a mule, actually, at least how he thought it would feel to be kicked by a mule. He pulled her behind him, yanked the door into a position to provide partial cover, while he processed why he felt a sudden urge to commit physical mayhem in a very Delilah-like manner.

  A figure shifted in the shadows. The shadows where Olivia’s desk would be. Light and shadow played across him, partially hiding his face, but Robert still recognized him.

  “Smith.”

  * * * *

  Smith felt something clutch his chest at the sight of the pair, though he wasn’t sure why, felt the horizon tip, as if time bent for several seconds. He gripped the arms of the chair, fighting the compulsion to pull his stun weapon. Subdue and capture! The words screamed in his brain, but what was the point? Why should he care? If this was a test from the monster, he intended to fail. The pain in his head built and the figures wavered, slowly came into focus. A woman peered around the man’s shoulder. Her eyes, dark and wondering, sent another jolt of something through him, though it wasn’t pain, or not entirely. He felt it to his knees as he grasped the chair arms. Silvers of the rough wood cut into his hands. Her eyes widened and she clutched at that man, as if she felt the same internal weakness hit her.

  There’d been so many spec—people—so many people he’d collected or dealt with. Had she been one of them? No, the eyes in his memory had smiled. Her eyes didn’t smile, but still he sensed he recognized them. A name pushed through the fog induced by the mind device. “Angeline?”

  “He doesn’t act like a zombie,” she said. “His eyes are different.”

  “He’s the evil overlord’s minion,” the man said.

  Smith had to smile at that, though it was an effort. He managed to grit out, “That suits him more than master.”

  “I don’t suppose an evil overlord would choose to be called evil overlord,” the girl said, “but wow, how lame, not to mention a total stereotype. Not that I’d expect anything else from a guy who chooses Faustus as a nom de plume.”

  He sucked in deep as the urge to subdue and capture surged through him again, harder this time, as if the name had triggered a programmed response. He heard the slight cracking of wood and felt something warm and wet trickle down one finger. But he also felt an echo of something from deep in his memory. He strained for it, but it danced, just out of his reach, as if to taunt him.

  “If this is one of his games, then you and he should know, I won’t play. Not anymore. Kill me. Delete me. I do not care.” He said the words, but still had to fight the need to act, to do. Perhaps if they’d threatened him, he would have given in, but they just looked at him, her gaze more curious than worried. The man was dangerous, leashed but ready to act to protect the woman. He forced himself to breathe in, to breathe out, the sound labored in the heavy, fetid air of the warehouse.

  “Evil overlords do engage in sadistic games,” the girl said, her tone more curious than ominous. “But I don’t think he’s running the joint anymore.”

  “He left you to die,” the man said.

  Something a
bout this man stirred memories, too, but different ones. It felt as if he should know him. From these memories he felt…frustration and some admiration. He should remember. Why couldn’t he remember? He touched the scar on the back of his head. Was it erasing his memory? Taking from him even that that had been left? He knew there was more, so much more than he’d been allowed. Sensed it behind the blocking force. He’d clung to what he could remember, hoping against hope that it would show him the way back.

  “You have a scar,” the man said, “a control device.”

  “You should go.” The warning squeezed out through gritted teeth. “I am armed and I am not sure how long I can keep from—” Sweat ran off him now, in thick rivulets that soaked his clothes. It ran into his eyes, stinging and blurring his vision, but he didn’t dare lift a hand to wipe it away. He didn’t dare.

  “I don’t think he means the loo,” the girl said. She looked over her shoulder, as if distracted by something, though Smith couldn’t imagine what could be more distracting than someone who might shoot you. “We’re running out of space back here.”

  As if it heard her, the back of the warehouse disappeared. The ground shook. The air sizzled like an electric current gone wrong. For several seconds he thought he saw another warehouse laid over the top of this one—

  “Do you trust me?” the man asked the girl.

  She smiled, the sight sending electric current through Smith. “Of course.”

  He shoved back the door. “Run.”

  Smith thought they’d run away from him, away from the approaching horizon, but the man pulled her straight toward it, ran them both at it. While he fought the almost overwhelming urge to stop them, to pull his weapon, and fire again and again, the horizon shivered, as if it had taken a blow, and then they were all in that other warehouse, both different and the same, and the pair ran straight at the back wall, which was back again for some reason…