Timecaster (24 page)

Neil was still in the kitchen, eyeing me like a cat when a dog came into the room. I walked past him, reaching into the cabinet, taking Aunt Zelda’s bottle of contraband rum.

I located a glass and filled it halfway. It smelled like biodiesel.

Without hesitating, I poured it down my throat.

It tasted awful, like some kind of antique medicine, and burned my throat going down. I’d never tried real liquor before, and couldn’t understand why anyone would do so willingly. Yuck. And people used to drink so much of this stuff it destroyed their livers? What the heck was wrong with them?

I spat into the sink, then turned to Neil.

“I need to sleep,” I said. “But I don’t trust you not to murder me. So I need you to take some pills.”

“I don’t want to take any pills.”

I unsheathed my Nife. “These are getting in your stomach, one way or another. Which way do you want to go?”

“Actually, some pills would hit the spot right about now.”

I handed them over, and he poured a glass of water and obediently swallowed the whole bunch. I made him open his mouth to show he wasn’t cheeking them, and sent him to go sleep on the sofa.

Then I sat down at the kitchen table and called my wife.

She didn’t answer her headphone, and I had an overwhelming feeling something was very wrong.

THIRTY-EIGHT

There were many good reasons why Vicki wouldn’t answer, but I would have thought with me on the run she’d make an extra effort to be available. I disconnected and called Sata. He picked up on the first ring.

“Is Vicki okay?”

“She’s in the guest room, sleeping. She went to bed an hour ago, Talon-
kun
. She’s pretty wiped out. Would you like me to wake her?”

“Yes. Wait. No. Could you just . . . check on her? See if she’s okay?”

“Sure, Talon.”

After a moment I heard a soft knock, and then a door opening.

“She’s asleep?” I asked.

“Yes. I can disturb her, if you wish. But she’s had a hard day. Spent the last few hours crying.”

That’s just what I needed. Guilt on top of everything else.

“Let her sleep, Sata-
san
. I’ll call her later.” I got my mind back in the game. “Have you found out anything about the technology used to timecast in the multiverse?”

“I’ve been doing some research. It’s theoretically possible to change the frequency of a timecast transmission, which would force a Van Damme to tune to a parallel universe on another ’brane. But there would have to be some sort of jamming device that overrode this ’brane.”

“I found one of those. Two of them, actually.”

I ran down the events of the past few hours for Sata, ending with my current location.

“Can you bring me one of these prism spheres to study?”

I yawned. Everything seemed a bit warmer, calmer. I recognized the alcohol buzz, which had a similar effect to alcohol pills. But this was fuzzier, and actually more pleasant. I stood up and poured myself another glass of rum, sipping it this time.

“I can do that tomorrow. But I can send you a scan now.”

“Please.”

I took pictures from various angles, both the exterior and a computed tomography scan of the interior, using my DT.

“Fascinating,” Sata said when he received the pics. “This technology is quite extraordinary. It’s both a jammer and a broadcaster. There also appears to be a tuning mechanism on it, similar to the ones used on tachyon emission visualizers.”

“Yeah. Fascinating,” I said, yawning again. I took another sip of rum. The liquid still burned, but the taste was growing on me.

“When can you deliver this to me, Talon?”

“Tomorrow morning. First I have to follow the SMF who killed Aunt Zelda. Have you ever heard of chip-blocking tech?”

“No. But I haven’t heard of timecast-jamming tech, either.”

“I thought the same thing.”

“If that black round disk on the killer’s arm uses the same tech as your prism spheres, perhaps it also jams reception somehow. You’re aware that infinite parallel universes exist less than one millimeter away from us. They’re closer to us than the clothes we’re wearing. If some hypergenius was able to tune in to a different ’brane, he’d be able to mask our ’brane by . . .”

I tuned Sata out. Even if I’d been completely lucid, I would have had trouble following him. Call it a ’brane deficit on my part. After thirty seconds of technobabble, I cut him off.

“Sata-
san
, I have to get some rest. I’ll bring you the sphere in the morning.”

“Yes. Of course, Talon. See you soon. Good night.”

He hung up. I noticed my glass was empty again, and I filled it once more. The rum not only improved my mood, but it mellowed me in a way I’d never quite felt before. It was quite superior to the synth pills. I wondered what other natural products were better than their synthetic counterparts. Maybe I’d have to give Harry McGlade a call, buy some denim jeans from him. Or more liquor. I was pretty sure he dealt in alcohol as well as paper and cotton clothing.

I checked Aunt Zelda’s cabinets, found a bag of genetically modified potatoes. They were bacon-and-cheeseflavored. I preferred the roast beef variety, but these weren’t bad. I ate two raw. I followed them up with a genmod apple, which tasted like pie à la mode. Delicious, and nutritious, fortified with every essential micronutrient.

Sadly, the rum bottle was almost empty. I took it with me to the living room, where I checked on Neil. He was snoring on the couch, and his breasts had already doubled in size. By morning, he’d be a D-cup. Served the little bastard right.

Then I weaved into Aunt Zelda’s bedroom, collapsing on her bed, feeling it form-fit to the contours of my body.

I was tired. Too tired to even take off Teague’s boots. I drained the rest of the rum in one gulp, then shut my eyes, spinning into sleep.

A noise woke me up.

I looked around, unsure of where I was. Light was peeking in through the bedroom blinds, so it was morning. Aunt Zelda, and Neil, and the fix I was in all came rushing back to me. I sat up, listened for whatever had awoken me. I heard the air-conditioning hum. Neil’s footsteps, creaking outside my doorway. Snoring, from the living room.

My adrenal glands kicked into overdrive.
If Neil was snoring, how could he be walking outside my door?

I went on the offensive, leaping out of bed, ducking through the door, running into—

“Teague. Son of a bitch. How’d you get in?”

“Smart magnet.”

Teague trained his Glock on my chest, but made no immediate effort to shoot. He had a neck brace on, the healing disk humming. Other than that, he looked the picture of health.

“You track me?” I asked, noting he had a new TEV unit on his shoulder.

He set it down and shook his head. “When you mentioned the name Neil, I remembered the wimpy guy who came to the office, talking about his aunt being murdered. She the one on TV?”

“She’s in the fridge.”

“That’s cold, bro.”

“About forty-five degrees.”

We stared at each other.

“I didn’t kill her, Teague. I didn’t destroy Boise, either.”

“Maybe you did; maybe you didn’t. Frankly, I don’t care.”

“So what do you want?”

“Who’s there?” muttered Neil from the other room. “Holy shit! I have tits!”

Teague said, “Ever since we were kids, we’ve always competed with one another.”

“You won most of the time.”

“You won the girl. That beats everything else.”

“She wasn’t a prize to be won, Teague. She made her own choice.”

“WTF?” Neil said. “They’re real!”

Teague put the gun in its holster, and for a brief moment I hoped we were actually going to reconcile. It surprised me how good the idea of it felt.

My elation slipped away when he raised his fists.

“I’m better than you, Talon. And I’m going to prove it.”

I put up my dukes as well. “Like you proved it in the cornfield?”

Teague’s eyes narrowed. “I’m taking you in. No guns. No weapons. I’m going to break your neck, and leave you in front of the Cook County courthouse. And there’s not a thing you can do to—”

I hit him with a jab in the nose, then followed with a right cross to the chin. My right was weak; the arm had gotten number overnight. Teague shrugged off the blows and snap-kicked me in the ribs, sending me stumbling down the hall. I fell onto my back in the living room.

Neil stood over me, his hands up his shirt. “I need some time alone,” he said. “I’ll be in the shower.”

He still appeared groggy from the sleeping pills, so much so that he didn’t even acknowledge Teague when he passed him in the hallway.

Teague advanced casually, rolling his shoulders. Besides my bad arm, I ached in about a hundred places. Unlike Teague, I hadn’t had the luxury of an ER visit. He probably wasn’t feeling any pain at all. Me? It even hurt to blink.

I stared up at my former friend. “You win,” I told him. “You’re better than me.”

He seemed to consider the comment. Then he offered me his hand.

I took it. After Teague helped me up, he punched me in the gut so hard it knocked the wind out of me. I doubled over, unable to suck in any air. Teague yanked my Nife from my utility belt sheath, threw it against the wall, where it stuck, and then followed it up with a kick to the chest. I managed to twist away in time, taking the brunt of it on my bad arm, but it still knocked me onto the couch. I sat there for a moment, trying to get my diaphragm to work.

“Pathetic,” Teague said.

He was right. I’d gone through all of this—all the fighting and running and searching—just to die in prison. The worst part was I’d never find out who set me up. It was like fumbling the hyperfootball on the nine-hundred-and-ninety-ninth yard line.

Teague grabbed my shirt and lifted me up off my feet, a power play that served no real purpose other than to make me feel helpless. Which it did.

“You know what, Talon? I’ve changed my mind. I’m not going to break your neck and let you die in jail.”

Through my fear, I managed to sputter, “Th-thanks, man.”

Teague brought my face to within inches of his.

“I decided I’m going to kill you myself,” he said.

THIRTY-NINE

His eyes were so cold, and his face was so calm, when he said it. Had he always been this way? Could my lifelong friend somehow be a closet psychopath, and I just never realized it?

Teague’s hands closed around my throat, his fingers digging in. I kicked him between the legs as hard as I could. He’d come prepared this time, wearing a jockstrap. My foot bounced harmlessly off his cup.

His thumbs found my carotid artery. If he blocked the flow, I’d pass out within seconds. Panicked, I scratched him across the eyes, then cupped my hands and clapped him on either side of the head, forcing air into his eardrums.

He howled, releasing me. I found my bearings and staggered to the Nife handle sticking out of the wall. Just as I snagged it, Teague grabbed me by my utility belt and flung me across the room, like I was a toy. I kept my hand extended, the Nife away from my body, but I dropped it on impact. The weapon went skittering into the bathroom.

I scrambled on all fours after it, seeing Neil in my peripheral vision. He was in the shower, a lopsided grin on his face, soaping up his new boobs. In fairness, they were pretty spectacular. And they would have been even more so, if he didn’t have all those curly chest hairs.

Teague grabbed my ankle, and began lifting me up. While his strength wasn’t that of Rocket, it was pretty impressive. He must have been hitting the roids for quite some time.

I stretched for the Nife, then stopped myself. The handle was facing the wrong way, and the only part I could reach was the blade. Grabbing a Nife by the blade was about as safe as sticking your hand in a spinning blender. But it was either that, or let Teague rip me apart.

Once I made my decision, I didn’t hesitate. I aimed carefully, then slipped my left index finger under the blade, clamping my thumb on top, just as Teague jerked me upside down.

He positioned me over the ComfortMax toilet, my head inches from the bowl.

“Here’s a good death for you,” Teague said. “Like the piece of shit you are.”

He dunked me. I held my breath, trying to judge if I still held the Nife. I could feel my fingers touching one another, and I didn’t know if that was because I’d dropped it, or because the blade was microscopically thin. I turned my wrist slightly, and noticed the extra weight.

So I had the Nife. Now what?

Teague lifted me up out of the water. I gasped for air, then choked when the automatic bidet kicked on, spraying warm water in my face. I couldn’t adjust the grip on the Nife using only one hand; plus I couldn’t see. Working by feel was a surefire way to lose a few fingers.

“Round two,” Teague said.

Before I could catch my breath, he dunked me again. I coughed, then couldn’t control my lungs, which sucked in toilet water. It hurt more than just about anything that ever happened to me, burning my nose and throat, causing my diaphragm to rapidly spasm. Even worse than the pain was the panic. The need for oxygen was so primeval, so reptilebrain, that it overrode all other brain functions. I lost all rationale, all personality, and became a starving animal whose sole reason for existence was to breathe again.

Teague lifted me up once more. I vomited water, tried to take in air, gagged, choked, vomited again, and finally got some sweet, sweet O
₂
into my aching lungs.

“Round three,” Teague said.

Not looking, not even caring, I brought my two hands together, feeling for the handle of the Nife. Miraculously, my right hand found it, and then I was bending at the waist, reaching upward, slashing at Teague with the blade.

I was dropped, suddenly, landing on my back. While in the middle of a coughing fit I managed to get to my knees. I checked my hand. My right held the Nife. My left still had all of its fingers, though the thumb was missing the very tip.

Teague wasn’t so lucky. He stared at his right arm, and the bleeding stump where his hand used to be. Then the toilet automatically flushed. We both looked, and watched his severed hand disappear down the drain.