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 about 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…
Outside, on the street he couldn’t see, but knew so well, he heard familiar sounds. People, wagons, horses…
The man half lifted the girl and leaped toward that back wall, as if leaping an obstacle only he could see. They landed, staggered and went down, rolling until the back wall stopped them, the man trying to cushion the girl. With his arms around her, he stared at Smith for what seemed a long moment. “It’s the way out.” He paused. “I think.”
Then Smith got it. They had crossed a boundary, the boundary of the alternate New York. They were outside the prison. He scrambled up, his freed hands reaching for weapons as he felt conflicting urges to flee and stay. Wasn’t sure which was him and which the device, but before he could join them, the floor shook, the other New York appearing like a dark shadow over the normal one, then the real New York vanished. A premonition of danger, a prickling at the back of his neck, made him look back as the three other sides of the prison closed on his position. This silent approach felt worse than incoming automatons. He’d have welcomed the noise, something to fight, not this silent, uneven approach. The stairs to Emelius’ quarters vanished in the big “bite” of this demented Big Apple. With nothing to fire on, his hands sagged to his sides. It felt both right and wrong for it to end here, where he’d found—and lost—his heart, and where he hoped he’d found his soul again. He started to sit again, finding some comfort in being in her spot, her place. A tremor almost shook him into the horizon and then it flickered, and he saw the real New York come and go in brief flashes, like a vintage movie. Then the remaining horizon flickered in a different way and he felt the dampening affect of the control device lessen, as if were losing power. Or an older model?
Memories began to surface, seeping up with painful force, memories of more than one surgery, of failed devices. With the memories came the knowledge of who and what he was and with that memory came rage.
He would not, he could not die in this place.
He focused on the flashes, trying to find the pattern, hoping to time his leap. Felt the silent approach from all sides as the reality closed shop…he felt the burn along his back and knew he had to try or die…
THIRTY-FIVE
How odd to see himself as he’d been. Faustus had been to this time, this moment, many times but he’d always avoided seeing his past self. He’d never articulated why, other than a vague worry about causing a paradox he couldn’t control.
Now he needed to see himself, decide if his past self was up to the job. He’d decided to let go of the future, but the doubts came flooding in now that he faced the moment of choice, as he approached the point of no return. Here where it had all ended was where it would begin again. From this time he’d launch his assault on the base, from here he’d wipe the nanites from existence, from here he and Halane would be reborn.
But this self who had never known Halane might not have the drive to make it all happen, even with the information he hoped to leave for him to find. For this self, Halane had never existed. He belonged to the changed time, the alternate reality that had formed following the massive reset. Could this man love Halane as she was meant to be loved? Could he fight for her and fight to keep the Time Service from ever happening?
And like a taunting voice in his head, he heard,
could Halane love this man or ever want him? Did she ever want you as you were? You still don’t know.
I do know she’d hate what I’ve become.
He felt that squirming shame again, the urge to crouch and hide from a woman that didn’t exist anywhere but in his heart.
There’s the control device,
the voice suggested slyly.
He jerked in instinctive rejection, even as his mind considered the possibility. Doctor was gone, but if the nanites ceased to exist, he wouldn’t need him, just a Dusan device…
I couldn’t…shouldn’t…
It’s for her benefit, too. So she won’t be disappointed in you. You want her to be happy, don’t you?
He’d done all of it for her, sacrificed to give her back her life, so of course he wanted her to be happy. And he wanted her for himself, his reward for restoring her to her life. He ought to get something for not forgetting her, for bringing her back to life.
You deserve to be happy, too. Can you go back to what you were and be content? Can you give up the power? Your experiments on the specimens? The deaths? Remember how it feels when one of them died, how it pleased you? Can you forget that? Never do that again? Or worse, try to hide it from her?
It was true there had been compensations during his long journey, adjustments that hadn’t been all pain. Credit for his achievements that he’d been unable to wholly give up—the reason he’d kept Tobias alive and in the forefront of his machinations. He smiled, remembering all he’d done.
If she loved you, then she’d accept you as you are, but you don’t know, do you? If you’d had time, she’d have loved you, so why not help her get there faster? Then you won’t have to give any of it up. She can join you and experience the pleasure with you. Something added to the gift of her life.
Tobias had fought him, had fought the device—the memory pained and he pushed it away. Halane wasn’t Tobias and he wouldn’t make her do things she didn’t want to do, he’d just be hastening the process of her loving him, bringing her to it sooner. He’d never use it to hurt her or to make her do anything she didn’t
want
to do. And once she felt the power, she’d want that, too, though only as much as was suitable for a female. She would be his mate, his companion, his consort. She was quite clever and might prove helpful in restructuring the universes, once they were free of the nanites, and with Time leashed to their service and command. All those worlds and specimens at their mercy…he felt the pleasure of it coil in his belly. Perhaps he wouldn’t give it all up, that kind of sacrifice wouldn’t be good for their long-term relationship.
He studied his earlier self with something that might have been pity for what he would never know, for what he’d never feel.
And then he shot him, well, stunned him though it satisfied that new part of him to see his old self crumple to the ground. Been more satisfying to kill him, but he didn’t want to cause a paradox. No, he couldn’t kill him…yet.
* * * *
Doc had a sense of missing something as Hel’s hologram formed in front of them. It looked the same as Doc remembered, right down to the pissy expression.
How sentient is she anyway?
It wasn’t pertinent to the op, but Doc felt like she was allowed her moment of curiosity.
She isn’t aware like we are, but she is close.
Can she help us? Will she help us?
“How may I help you, my Lord?” Her tone was as close as a computer voice could get to a simper.
If the fate of all time—and Robert—weren’t on the line, Doc might have done something about it, but she’d donned her big girl panties this morning. She shifted a bit. Expected them to fit better though. Hel’s mouth twitched like he’d picked up the thought. She half expected him to think something about her panties, but he didn’t. Maybe he’d put on his big boy pants.
“I have reason to believe there are more hidden rooms on this outpost and it is most urgent that I find them.”
You could take the guy out of the Leader position, but couldn’t quite get the Leader out of the guy.
“There are protocols—”
“Is there a protocol for how to handle a time attack?”
How did he mix charm, serious, and authoritative like that? Doc felt like she should take notes.
The hologram was sentient enough to get wide eyed. “The Final Solution—”
“It is possible that this enemy has subverted the outpost’s fail safe.”
“There are protocols in place to protect against—”
“It’s coming from the future, from some place on this outpost. The protocols might not work. We need your help to stop it here before it can start.”
His sincere aspect was helped by the fact he meant every word, but he was still great at it.
Even in a crisis, the hologram managed to preen a bit. “I will endeavor to meet your request, my Lord. Though I cannot assure your access.”
“Link to us while you do it,” he said, mixing a dollop of charm in so it sounded like a request rather than an order.
Doc expected her to bristle, but it seemed she liked the idea of linking to her “Lord.” Hel’s lips twitched as if he caught the thought. Doc was a bit surprised when she got included, even though Hel had asked for it, felt the hologram’s surprise when she made first contact with Doc’s peeps. Hel’s nanites weren’t sentient, which suited him. There wasn’t room for more personalities in there with his ego. With a mental yank, she connected with the nanite data stream, felt both engulfed and extended by it. Faster than light, she zipped through the outpost, through rooms no one in this time had known existed. A HUD appeared highlighting about twenty hidden labs scattered throughout the outpost. It seemed the Garradians had more secrets than anyone knew.