Decoherence (11 page)

 

CHAPTER 21

“Under a star-­shattered sky, wrapped in the tempest's embrace; here I find solace. Here I find grace.”

~ excerpt from
A Wild Sea
by Laya Zaffre I2—­2036

Tuesday December 31, 2069

California District 21

Los Angeles

Commonwealth of North America

Iteration 2

S
am leaned against her pillows, knocking the toes of her boots together as
The Piper
rolled in the waves. They were less than five miles from shore, but until Captain Hanshi gave her the all clear sign, she was cut off from the Commonwealth by a metal hull and some very polluted water.

Bosco rested his head on the bed and looked at her mournfully.

“Sorry,” she said, scratching his ear. “We can't play fetch today.”

He heard FETCH and not CAN'T. His tail thrummed with hope. Playing fetch on the desk meant chasing balls while the crewmen scrambled for cover. They looked on, taking bets on how long the string of drool hanging from Bosco's mouth would get.

It could get very boring in the middle of the ocean while the weather was fair.

She sighed and rolled on her side. This was the easy part. After she got onshore, things would get complicated. There were enough cash and IDs in her bag to get her a rental car. A plane would be better, but half the airports did facial and fingerprint scans. They'd let her through, but CBI Agent Rose would be tagged in the system, and there would be questions.

A yellow light in the corner of the room, tucked between the door and the wall, flashed for the first time since the trip began.

Sam sat up. “Looks like we're coming into port.”

The faint sound of a siren echoed outside. Not one of the ship's warning bells but another ship.

She licked her lips. Hitting the intership comm, she called the deck. “Captain Hanshi?”

“This is not a good time,” the captain responded. “We are being surrounded.”

“Pirates? In port?” Impossible.

“Coast Guard,” Captain Hanshi said in a clipped, angry voice. “We're being escorted out of the port.”

“What?”

“I'm very sorry. I'll refund your money.” The comm line cut off as Hanshi answered the Coast Guard's hail.

Sam looked at Bosco. “Want to go for a walk?” She pulled her tennis shoes on, clipped Melody's truncheon to her belt, and grabbed her bugout bag. The rest of her luggage would have to stay. Clothes could be replaced. IDs and money couldn't.

The halls outside were an ant's nest of men rushing to their posts, sealing doors, and tidying away stills in case the Coast Guard decided they wanted to have an inspection. Hanshi was turning
The Piper
around in LA Harbor.

Bosco followed Sam to the deck.

The lights of LA were less than a mile away. Fireworks were going off, celebrating the New Year, and a light fog made the light of the Coast Guard ships bounce in an odd way. Refracting and throwing up shadows where they didn't belong.

“Miss.” One of the crewmen grabbed her elbow. “You need to get belowdecks.”

Sam turned, recognizing Jon from Malaysia. “I . . . right.” She forced a smile. “How bad is the water here?”

Jon frowned. “What? We're not drinking it. Get belowdecks before the Coast Guard spots the dog. The captain is still trying to talk our way in. But, they see the dog, that's illegal animal smuggling.”

Sam patted Bosco's head. “Sorry. I'll go.”

Jon nodded and hurried off.
The Piper
was a well-­run ship. She couldn't guess what the Coast Guard was using as a reason to turn them away. But she'd played the games of Commonwealth politics enough to know that it could be as simple as someone's having a bad day and wanting to throw their weight around. There could be another plague scare. Or maybe they'd heard about the incident in Airlie Beach.

“Bosco,
theo
,” she ordered in Vietnamese. Bosco obediently fell into line behind her, following as she weaved through the stacks of containers to the edge of the deck. “This is going to suck,” Sam said as she looked down at the dark water.
The Piper
was moving slowly, drifting on prior momentum rather than running her motors. But the Coast Guard was circling, four small ships herding the larger vessel back toward the open sea. She gripped the iron rail and looked down.

Bosco whined.

“It's okay. We've swum farther. Remember the day on the sailboat? This will be just like that. We jump in. We swim. No problems.” She was lying to herself and the dog, which was possibly a new personal low. But every minute she hesitated, the shore of California drifted farther away.

She jumped.

Cold Pacific water pulled her under. Her feet tangled in only heaven knew what. Lungs burning, she kicked off her shoes and swam up toward the light. Everything around her was darkness. She looked up and saw Bosco's silhouette against
The Piper
's lights. “Bosco,
nh
à
y xu
ô
ng
!”

He whined, disappeared for a moment, then arched over the railing to splash down a few feet away. The cold water panicked him, and Bosco started flailing.

Sam grabbed him under the forelegs, but he was writhing. “Bosco,
d
ù
ng lai
. Stop. Calm down.
D
ù
ng lai
.”

His paw clawed at the straps of her backpack and pulled her under.

She fought to get back to the surface, but the bag slipped. It was the money or the dog.

She let the bag sink and pulled Bosco's forelegs over her shoulders as she kicked for shore. A quarter mile into the swim, Bosco climbed off her and began swimming alongside. A big, happy doggy smile on his face.

Sam frowned at him. “Now you like the water?” She snorted out seawater that washed up her nose with a wave. “See? Just like the sailboat.” Rolling onto her back, she kept swimming.

Larger waves rolled off
The Piper
's wake as Hanshi turned on the engines. Before she reached the shore, one of the Coast Guard boats caught up with
The Piper
and she watched as a ladder was dropped. Unless someone had seen Bosco go overboard, no one had an idea where she was. The Coast Guard might find her luggage, but Hanshi could lie about that. Jon had seen her above deck. In time, she trusted the crew would figure out what happened.

Her hand hit rock, and Sam rolled again, clambering up so she stood with the waves ripping around her knees. “Welcome to California.”

B
arefoot, sopping wet, and stinking of sewage, Sam walked along the shore to the curious looks of the late-­night revelers.
The Piper
had been too far out for anyone to notice which craft she was likely to have jumped off, but there were going to be ­people tomorrow morning checking the news feeds to see if some heiress had fallen off one of the luxury yachts that dotted the coast like fireflies. All she could hope for was that the alcohol would fuzz their memories enough that they didn't remember details.

“This is a shout-­out to everyone looking for a better year in 2070!” a voice roared up ahead. “This song's for you!”

Sam looked at the lights and the banner that read
KJAM NEW YEAR
'
S EVE BATHHOUSE BASH
. The word “bath” sounded promising, and parties meant food. Maybe she could find a dry T-­shirt, too. “Come on, Bosco.” His leash had been in the backpack, but he wasn't wandering. As long as they didn't meet any overzealous cops, she felt safe. Her brain finally woke up, and she smiled down at Bosco. “Have I told you today that I love you?”

Bosco looked up at her and woofed as they walked up to the party.

Over the speakers, the lyrics to “Beachwave Romance” by Brandi and the Dawls threatened to ruin everyone's hearing.

“You're like a riptide,” Sam mumbled along, hips moving in time to the music. “A riptide to my heart. Pull me down. Pull me down. Pull down.”

Someone wearing an offensively bright pink shirt turned. He was sloshed. Reeking of cheap beer and sweat. “Hey! I like this song!”

“Yeah, me too,” Sam said. “Do you know if anyone here is not drunk?”

The guy shook his head. “Maybe the dudes in black.” He started bobbing his head to the beat of the music and wandered into the thickest part of the crowd.

Sam scanned the sidelines until she found three muscly black men with black shirts that said
SECURITY
. With a smile, she grabbed Bosco's collar and pulled him toward the guards. “Hey, how are you guys? Happy New Year!” She shot them her best please-­tourist-­buy-­my-­overpriced-­trash smile. “Can you help me?”

A heavily built man with his head shaved frowned at her. “You find a lost dog?”

“No,” Sam said. “This is my puppy. He got loose, and I ran after him without his leash. Or my shoes.” She grimaced and nodded down at her sandy feet. “The fireworks spooked him, and he went straight through my screen door and down the beach. Do you have, like, a lanyard or a rope or anything I can put on him to walk him home?”

The security guard blinked. “Yeah. Sure. The radio station has a bunch of stuff they're giving out tonight. Want some flip-­flops?”

“That would be amazing.” Sam upped her smile.

Bosco barked, and the guy jumped about a foot off the ground.

“That dog's big enough to start a tsunami. Where'd you get him?”

“He's a rescue,” Sam said, petting Bosco so he would calm down. “He's friendly, but he's loud.”

“Yeah.” The guy nodded his head to the side. “This way. I'm Dante.”

“Sam,” Sam said.

“You got a weird accent,” Dante said.

Sam smiled. “I was born up north. In Toronto. I came down here to get away from the snow.”

Dante nodded along with the music as the DJ switched to “Flare and Burn” by the Brute Beats. “I used to live in Portland.”

“What's it like up there?”

“Rainy.” Dante led her behind the speakers to rows of boxes filled with T-­shirts, flip-­flops, beer cozies, and key lanyards that flashed neon rainbow. “Have at it. Anything you want.”

“You won't get in trouble?”

“Nah, perks of being security. I'm allowed to give solar ladies like you whatever I want. You run into trouble, you give Dante a call.” He flashed her the two-­fingered peace sign and went back to watch the partiers.

Sam rummaged until she found a T-­shirt that would fit. It was the same bright pink the drunk had been wearing, but it smelled clean. Next to the boxes, there was an arctic-­blue duffel with the words
CABRILLO
MARINE AQUARIUM
. She stuffed two more shirts, a second pair of flip-­flops, and a handful of the flashing lanyards in. After all, Dante had said she could take what she needed, and any change of clothes was good.

It took a few minutes to tie enough lanyards together to make a leash with a decent length, but Bosco accepted the new, hair-­thin restraint with amiable animal grace.

Clicking her tongue, she led him away from the party toward the public showers. Fireworks were going off in the west, and while the onlookers oohed and aahed, Sam watched the beach blankets for unattended shorts. She found a long white swimsuit cover sitting alone in the sand; it wasn't too thin and would work after she rinsed the sand off. Closer to the showers, she found a pair of tan capris that were only a size too big and a light blue skirt, both sitting under a sign that said
LOST AND FOUND
.

“One more thing to discuss next time I remember to go to confession,” she told Bosco as she shook off the clothes and stuffed them in her purloined bag. They rinsed off as best they could in the tepid showers with the water pressure of a light drizzle. Bosco shook himself off. She changed into the shorts and one of the pink T-­shirts and stuffed her salt-­hardened jeans into the bag. “Okay, Bos. Where to?”

Bosco looked up at her with mild mastiff alarm.

“We need a car. I'm thinking . . . city impound?” If LA was like San Diego, the impound lot had cars that had been sitting there for decades. All she had to do was get one and get it out of the lot without anyone's asking for an ID or an explanation. “Sure. No problem. We can do this.”

Mac, where are you when I really need a rescue?

 

CHAPTER 22

“One of the great traditions of war is to turn one's enemies into one's assets.”

~ General Levi Dankir speaking to the graduating class of Antwood University I3–2056

Day 199/365

Year 5 of Progress

(July 18, 2069)

Central Command

Third Continent

Prime Reality

A
stack of thin, paper-­sized plastic pages dropped beside Mac's hand.

“That's everything we have.” The man who went by only the name Donovan sat down in the chair across the table from Mac with a glare. “Do you really think you can solve a murder like this?”

Mac picked up one of the ultralight datpads with a grimace. “For me, it's a five-­year-­old cold case. And, no, I'm not likely to be able to solve it without the rest of the data.” He flipped through the files. “Where are the other case files?”

Donovan shook his head. “There aren't any.”

“If Sam was right about the serial killer, there are at least four more victims you don't have files on. I thought your ­people had everything.”

“We do, from the point of time where the two iterations converged.” Donovan held up a hand. “The iterations are acting abnormally because of the upcoming decoherence event. Instead of running parallel and bumping, we're spiraling around each other. Twisting and tangling like a storm system. It's making everything difficult. Usually, we operate with some form of linear time on the other side of the portal. Right now, going through could land you anywhere at any time.”

Mac rubbed his forehead as he sorted it out. “So even though it's early January there, it's not in this iteration?”

“Unless my team collapses your iteration at an earlier date, there exists an early January in your iteration. We just can't find it.”

“My wife's going to kill me,” Mac muttered. This wasn't taking three hours to get groceries because he'd stopped to fix someone's flat tire. Sam had to be beside herself with worry right now. “I could wind up back home before I'm kidnapped.” That wouldn't go over well. At all.

He'd probably shoot himself if he ran into himself . . . that sentence shouldn't have made sense, but it did.

“I wouldn't worry about it.” Donovan smirked. “You're never leaving.”

“Commander Rose has promised she'll let me leave when this investigation is finished.” Even as he said it, though, Mac studied the other man. He was very similar to the man who'd traveled with Nialls Gant to kill Sam before they moved to Australia. Tall, muscular, hardened by a lifetime of brutality that had scraped the light from his eyes and left him as flat and cold as any killer Mac had ever seen.

A physical fight between them would result in at least one bruised rib even if Mac fought dirty. Donovan held himself like a person who knew how to fight, and the cruel smile twisting on his lips was no comfort.

And a seed of doubt crept in.

“Do you doubt your commander's integrity?” Mac asked.

“Rose would never allow anything to jeopardize our truth, the real timeline of humanity. The best you'll get from her is an offer to bring your girlfriend over.”

“Wife,” Mac corrected. “She's my wife.” Even if traveling back in time meant the wedding was still several months away. “And she wouldn't like it here. Your food is terrible.”

Donovan shrugged in acknowledgment. He looked at the stack of files. “Can I help?”

Mac sighed. “Have you ever investigated a murder before?”

“No.”

Figured. “I'm going to read through all of these and looks for details I missed. Foreign objects listed in the autopsy, traces of chemicals that are unusual, fingerprints on the belongings of the victims that don't belong to the victim. I also need to look for similarities. The killer chose these women for a reason.”

Donovan grabbed one of the files and turned it so he could read. “Don't they all look the same? Maybe that's the link.”

“It's
a
link,” Mac agreed. “But most killers have a pattern for choosing their victims. Serial killers can't go on a dating site and filter out victims that don't look right.” He stopped. “Well, that's a lie. They can do that. I worked a case in Chicago where one did. But the method for picking each of the victims was the same. Dating site, bars, grocery stores, biking trails, car sales lots; the killer is a predator. Predators go back to where they know they can find prey.”

“So the more times the killer has a successful kill from a method, the more he repeats it?”

Mac nodded. “Usually, yes. If the killer were being completely random in his victim selection, we'd see a wider range of victims. They'd probably be isolated to a single area. Instead, we have a roving killer who targets these women for their looks.”

“Maybe they're useless?” Donovan suggested, tossing the file back on the table with a shrug. “Unwanted women. Working women? What do you call them in your iteration?”

Mac frowned in confusion. “Are you suggesting they're sex workers? Homeless? I'm not sure what you mean, actually.”

“Some ­people aren't as valuable to society,” Donovan said with an arching hand gesture. ­“People who no one cares about?”

“I'm a bureau agent, and my field is forensic medicine. There's no insignificant death or person.” He glared down at the files, fighting the desire to get up and run away.

Deep down, he knew the type of ­people Donovan meant—­he'd been one. Isolated and overlooked. He'd cut off contact from his family, avoided making any friendships, drowned out his common sense and worries with ever increasing doses of sleeping pills. Until Sam pulled him out of the abyss of depression, he'd been taunting death. Welcoming it, even.

Mac shook his head again. “If you aren't going to help, please leave. I'd like to get this done sooner rather than later.”

Donovan shrugged and left Mac to himself. Once the door closed, Mac looked around, then sighed. There was nothing else he could do but sit in the room with the files, so he did. Reading through the details over and over, scant though they were.

The only thing that stuck out was the fingerprint on Jane Doe's body.
His
fingerprint.

Drugs had created a hazy bubble around him the morning Jane came to the morgue. He remembered a few colors, the red of Sam's lips, and the green of the grass, and the cloying smell of antiseptics masking the sickly-­sweet scent of death. He'd probably forgotten to put his gloves on before wheeling her into the lab.

Probably.

D
onovan was smiling, which was enough to make Rose nervous. Senturi was avoiding her eyes. The whole team was working hard to pretend they didn't know each other.

The air on her arms prickled, a primitive alert system that backed up what she was already sensing. Something was going to go horribly wrong today. She'd felt the same way the morning before they'd lost Wagner. The same gut-­churning sensation had nauseated her the day Senturi was shot.

Now the awareness was an itch impossible to scratch. It grated against her nerves, heightened all her senses until the faint scent of deodorant and clean sweat became overwhelming.

Senturi finally made eye contact. “You doing okay, Commander?”

She gave him a tight nod. “How's your shoulder?”

“The doctor gave me the all clear two days ago. It's a little sore, and I'd like to avoid getting shot again, but I'm fine.”

She looked at the members of her team, trying to find some clue to what was about to happen.

Senturi frowned at her. “Problems?”

“No. Just . . . too large a team, maybe. We can do this detonation with half the ­people. There's no security to worry about.” She finished tightening her gear and headed for the jump room. The lights were too bright. The air too cold.

“Commander Rose!” Emir's voice cut through the noise.

Her emotions froze into a cold steel shield. Turning, placid smile in place, she nodded to him. “Sir.” With alarm, she noted the bulge of a bulletproof vest under his suit.

“I'm coming with you,” Emir announced. “On a slight delay, of course.”

“I have to protest,” she said as politely as she could. What she wanted to do was shout “
Are you crazy?
” A civil war would erupt if Emir went missing. They were already on the edge of one. The world government was splintering already. Only fear of Emir's pruning them from the future kept the peace right now.

“Sir, we do not have enough control in this iteration to ensure your safety.”

“I'll keep Captain Donovan with me,” Emir said in a placating voice. He wasn't going to change his mind—­not that she expected him to.

And Donovan would see this as a sign of favor. The poor fool. He didn't realize how close he was to being collateral damage.

“How far from our arrival point will that place you?” she asked

“The iterations are frayed at this convergence point. It almost looks like a node is trying to form.”

Rose shook her head. “There's no nodal event on this date. Not in the history of any of the iterations we've been to.”

He smiled, eyebrows raising. “I know. Isn't it exciting? I wonder what we're creating.”

Dread of uncertainty filled her. She didn't dare voice her question:
What if
we
aren't the ones creating the node?
What if someone else, on the dark side of history, was changing everything?

She shivered. Life would be so much better once they'd collapsed the rogue iteration. They'd go, destroy the nodes, destroy the MIA, and move on. She'd spend some of her very limited company credits to buy a hot meal.

By tomorrow, it would all be over.

D
onovan stood at Emir's right hand, surveying the busy kingdom of the control room. Techs in scrubs, agents in jump gear, and Emir in his power suit . . . there was a fluid nature to it. What was the natural spiral found in nautilus shells called? A golden ratio or Fibonacci or pi? The math of time was the same. At the center, there was always a central point on which everything else turned. Emir fancied himself to be that axis. Donovan knew better.

He caressed the tiny bumps on the butt of his gun as Commander Rose prepared her team. Black hair framed the stretched copper skin on her bony face. Oh, how he dreamt of this day. Of finally taking her down, beating her into the dirt, where she belonged. Her black eyes caught his look, and he smiled. There was fear in her eyes. She knew she was hunted. Knew with some animal instinct that he was coming for her.

It didn't change anything—­in old nature videos he'd seen that the gazelles saw the lions before they attacked, too, but they went down nonetheless.

The jump sequence began, and Rose's team moved in to secure the building. Senturi looked up, and Donovan nodded. The traitor would do his job.

Emir clapped his hands as the portal closed. “Thirteen minutes until our entry. Are you ready, Captain?”

“Always, sir.”

A tech scurried across the room and handed Emir a datpad. “Excellent. Absolutely excellent. Come along, Donovan.” Emir handed the pad back to the tech and walked down to the portal. “Begin the jump sequence.”

“Sir?”

“We've made contact of sorts with the other iteration.”

Donovan could have wrung that man's scrawny neck. “Sir?” He kept the reproach and disapproval out of his voice, but only barely. “This is not part of the agenda.” Emir was going to ruin everything. The man simply delighted in making his life difficult. He was going to frag up everything to what, feed his manic ego some more?

Emir waved his hand with a tut-­tutting noise that drove Donovan to the edge of rage. “One of our ­people intercepted a communique from a man named Marrins. He's trying to blackmail my other-­self.” He chuckled with self-­indulgent cruelness.

“I can't imagine that matters, sir. The iteration will cease to exist in a matter of hours.” And Rose would be obliterated with it. A tragic accident. He'd wear the black armband, give an appropriately joyless speech at her memorial, and move on without a trace of guilt.

It was her fault, after all. She'd brought them an extra node to ensure this iteration's stability. And MacKenzie was easy enough to get along with. A big, stupid fellow who would follow Donovan anywhere he led.

Emir patted his arm. “Indulge me, Captain. It has been a long time since I was able to safely explore all the worlds the Prime touched. I'm curious.”

“Yes, sir.” Donovan hid his anger well. He was nothing if not adaptable. He'd let Emir wander, it would give another layer of verisimilitude to Rose's coming “accident.”