Decoherence (8 page)

 

CHAPTER 14

“The human body is exceptionally adaptable, the human mind even more so. An individual can be made to accept almost any circumstance if the one who controls their environment is careful.”

~ personal study notes found in the margin of the textbook
Principles of Rule
by Anton Fiarro I6-­2062

Day 188/365

Year 5 of Progress

(July 7, 2069)

Central Command

Third Continent

Prime Reality

B
reathing in the recycled air of home, Rose felt the stiffness in her muscles finally ease up. Chow tonight was a simple grain salad with parsley, peppers, and diced chicken. It wasn't particularly savory or inspiring, but it was nutritionally balanced and . . . she poked at the quinoa as she fumbled for an adjective. Homey? Reassuring?
Safe.
That's what it was: The salad was safe.

Familiar as the recycled air or the hum of the generators outside.

Soothing as the steady flow of encrypted data across her console.

This all felt right. Deep down in her bones, Rose knew this was how life was meant to be. This was the safest path for humanity. The true line of time and history. Every time she stepped away from it, things felt jagged, like rolling across a floor of broken glass.

She took another bite of her supper as she scrolled through the data from the iteration they had stumbled through. The major change point in history seemed to have been a world plague. In the Prime, political tension had kept the borders closed. In the other iteration, peace talks had allowed for free travel and the death of billions.

Ironically, the worldwide tragedy meant that there were more resources available, including the awful forest she'd been forced to walk through. Trees, land, food, jobs . . . the other iteration didn't need population control because they had an embarrassment of riches. All fairly well distributed by the local governments.

Rose tried to imagine living like that, having a house rather than a barrack room with a shared mess hall and a communal shower like she had until she'd reached the rank of commander. Or vacation time to go climbing in mountains where the land wasn't irradiated by war. It was nearly impossible to picture.

Her eyes watered at the thought of more trees giving off poisonous fumes.

With a shake of her head, she went back to reading the reports. There had to be a reason the Plague Iteration had gained dominance. And it wasn't because of the plague or the trees. She'd seen iterations that were spiraling toward universal extinction. Those were easy to deal with, and they'd always been on the far reaches of the probability fan.

She flicked through the files. Sorting out the primitive work the Plague Iteration Emir had done. She saw that he had identified a few nodes—­hypothetically at least.

Her door chimed, and Dr. Emir entered.

Rose stood. “Sir? Is there a problem?”

“Nothing significant,” he said as he circled his hand, gesturing for her to sit back down. “I came to ask for your impressions of the new iteration.”

“It's an unpalatable, backward hell, sir. Years behind us in terms of development and with significant nodal shifts. I'm not sure how we're connected.”

Emir nodded and paced the three-­step space between her wall locker and her bed.

“It will make removing the nodes difficult, sir,” Rose said, the problem had plagued her on the way home. “It's unlikely they'll congregate in any one place, not this early in the development of the MIA.” She hesitated a moment before plunging onward. “Sir, our theories—­”

Emir's sharp glare cut her off.

“I thought,” she said, carefully rewording her sentence, “nodes were nearly static across all iterations. History-­changing events are very rare. The nodal ­people are all individuals of a certain age at the time of nodal events, who have the personality traits that drive them to seek change and who score high as influencers for their spheres.”

Another spear of a glare hit her.

“I may have misunderstood, sir, but this shift doesn't . . .” She couldn't say the rest. Her tongue wouldn't move. The air wasn't in her lungs. Some baser instinct and drive for self-­preservation locked her up. “I just don't understand the situation, sir.”

“That is painfully obvious, Commander,” Emir said in a tone of deep disapproval. “After all these years of training, I would have hoped you had a better grasp of the basic mechanics that hold the universe together. What is the one thing that gives our iteration precedence over all others?”

“Nodes, sir.” The answer was a rote one she'd learned when she'd first been pulled from military intelligence to work for Dr. Emir. “But we have the nodes but no longer have precedence.”

Making a sound of disgust, Emir shook his head. “Were you subjected to brain trauma on your last mission? You sound like a child! Think of what you've said. Think.” It was an order.

Rose took a deep breath. “The answer is that Prime has fewer nodes than the other iteration—­but that simply isn't possible, sir. We have all the nodes. All of them. At this stage in the evolution of history, the other—­”

Emir held his hand up for silence.

“Sir?”

He sat on the edge of her bunk, looking almost weak.

A frail body, ravaged by age and the lack of proper nutrition. It was moments like this, when his iron will failed, that Emir looked almost vulnerable. It affected Rose the same way a change in the gravitational constant of the universe would affect the orbit of the Earth. She wobbled. “Sir?”

Emir took a deep breath, inhaling the recycled air to fuel the savage fire that burned in his eyes when he looked up. His voice was utterly calm as he asked, “What did you think of Donovan's behavior during your last mission with him?”

Rose stilled, aware that this could very easily be a trap. “I found him to be an acceptable soldier.” She struggled to remember any variation. “He followed orders as well as he ever does. Fulfilled his mission. I don't believe Wagner's death was his fault.” Even though he should have taken the rearguard, she found she couldn't be angry at him for living. Her carefully won control faltered, and she frowned. “I'm sorry, sir, I noticed no abnormalities. Should I have?”

“Perhaps.” Emir stood again.

Rose stood as well. “Do you suspect him of something, sir?”

“Not of anything unseemly, but he is not filling Peterson's place well.”

“Captain Peterson was an exceptional man. There aren't many who could compare to him, and I don't think we can fault Donovan for not being Peterson. He doesn't need to be. He only needs to hold the loyalty of the soldiers so he can influence them.”

“But we have lost preeminence. That can only mean we have lost a node. You and I are here, unchanged. The ones who cannot serve on the front lines are under careful watch in IID safe houses. That only leaves one possible traitor to our cause.” Emir waved his hand with a little gesture, indicating the futility of life and the downfall of fidelity.

“Sir, with all due respect, I cannot support calling Donovan a traitor unless I have evidence. If I accuse him publicly, I will lose the respect of the soldiers under my command.” So would Emir, but mentioning that would result in the deaths of those soldiers.

“With all the respect you are due, Commander, it is not the soldiers you should be worried about.” Emir looked disappointed with her. “Donovan leans heavily on Senturi. Perhaps too heavily, considering how reliant Senturi is on his masters in the Council.”

“That is a leash I've long suggested we sever.”

“Indeed.”

Rose nodded, feeling her heart slow as the storm of Emir's wrath turned away from her. “I will see to the matter, sir. Undermine him, if that's what you want. Or cut him loose entirely. We have . . . fail-­safes.” Information left over from her days in military intelligence when the United Nations still held control of the world. Even before she'd met Emir, she knew that one day she'd want enough blackmail to insulate herself from the ever-­changing political winds.

“We'll watch, for now. The Prime is too fragile for me to want to push. But . . .” He trailed off and raised a bushy white eyebrow. “If it is necessary?”

“The fail-­safe can be activated and run its course in under an hour, sir.”

His second eyebrow went up. “Dear me, Commander. What on Earth did you find about poor Senturi?”

She smiled cruelly. “Enough.”

“I would warn you to be careful, Commander.”

“I always am, sir.”

“Nevertheless, if Donovan has lost faith in our cause, it won't be me he attacks, and it won't be here in your sanctuary where he wages war. You are running another mission in two days. Are you prepared to risk a knife in your back?”

“Every mission carries a risk of failure, sir, and I am always prepared for betrayal.”

He stood. “You are our Paladin. I must rely on your intuition in these matters. Do you trust Donovan.”

Her blood crystallized with icy realization. “No, sir. I never have. But that doesn't mean he isn't the node. We shouldn't act against him.”

“Nevertheless,” Emir said. “We should watch. Your mission as of this minute is to find me a new Warrior Node at all cost. If Donovan comes into his own, very well. He's an obedient soldier, and I won't waste him. But I won't allow his weaknesses to hold Prime back when decoherence is approaching.”

Which made her wonder what he would do to
her
if he suspected she wasn't properly performing as a node.

 

CHAPTER 15

“Your voice adorns another sky, but I will always hear it, and my feet will find you again.”

~ excerpt from
A Hidden Road
by Meiko Orui I1—­2073

Wednesday December 4, 2069

Cannonvale, Queensland

Australia

Iteration 2

M
oonlight spilled across a white quilt, the shadows of palm fronds danced in silhouette as Mac came to awareness. Beside him there was sound of soft breathing and the heat of Sam's body as she slept. Their room was filled with familiar scents: the lavender of the laundry soap, the honest smell of clean sweat, the smell of Bosco the dog, and a hint of garlic wafting down the hall from the kitchen.

Eyeing the open door, Mac slid his hand down the side of the mattress and retrieved the military-­issue gun he'd smuggled out of the Americas six years earlier. Every night, the door was locked.

Bosco slept on the cool tiles in front of the door, 180 pounds of heavily muscled mastiff who had been trained to attack on command. Mac slept between Sam and the bulletproof glass they'd installed. Carefully planted shrubbery made sure no sniper was getting a clean shot, and the reinforced walls had been the final step to turning the bedroom into a bunker.

But something in the darkness disturbed him. A scent or a sound out of place that woke a sixth sense and brought him into battle mode. Hairs on the back of his neck stood up as he silently stood and crossed the carpeted bedroom floor to survey the hall. Bosco was nowhere in sight.

Logic said that Bosco, despite his training, might be wandering the house. Maybe the dog had wanted to pee and gone out his doggy door. Maybe a kangaroo was sleeping on the other side of the fence, and Bosco had gone to plan his next battle with the monsters of Australia.

The problem with “maybe” was that Mac knew the other maybes meant terror teams might have infiltrated the house. This might be the night they found Sam. This might be the night the war began.

“Captain MacKenzie?” The calm voice was so familiar it startled him. But Sam was back in the bedroom . . .

He turned the corner to the kitchen with his gun up, safety off. “You are not welcome here.”

Shadows played across the woman's face. Black hair was pulled back into a tight bun. Her face was thinner than Sam's, the features more pronounced. Without needing an X-­ray, Mac was confident there were signs of a healed fracture on her left ankle.

She stepped away from the counter with a cold, cruel smile. A twisted parody of the woman he loved.

“Where's my dog?” If this other-­Sam had killed Bosco, she'd be fish food by dawn. His Sam wouldn't even question the blood on the tiles.

“Sleeping outside,” the woman said. “I locked his doggy door. He whined a little, but I suspect he'll live.”

Mac kept his gun trained on her chest. “Excellent. You're now free to leave the way you came. We don't want anything to do with you. Not now. Not ever. Go back, and tell Emir to stay on his side of history.”

She tilted her head to the side in a waggling shake that was equal parts familiar and foreign. “I wish it were that simple, Captain. I really do.”

“I never made captain,” Mac said. “You're in the wrong iteration. Leave. This is my last warning.”

She stepped toward him, making herself an easy target. “I choose to believe that it is you in the wrong iteration. You are Captain Linsey Eric MacKenzie of the 23rd Home Regiment. Einselected designation: Warrior. We need you, Captain.”

In one quick motion, she grabbed his wrist with a cool, clawlike hand. He felt something sticky, then felt the ground fall away, then he knew nothing at all.

 

CHAPTER 16

“They who dream of conquered nations are but fools, but they that conquer themselves are mighty.”

~ from the teaching of Soyala Méihuâ I4—­2067

Day 189/365

Year 5 of Progress

(July 8, 2069)

Central Command

Third Continent

Prime Reality

S
irens blared, bringing the base to high alert. Donovan stood by the outer door, the scent of rust and desperation palpable, but no gates dropped down. He pulled his uniform jacket on and ran for the stairs. Where had he been?

Where should he have been?

Senturi hadn't asked him to do the security sweeps on the lower levels. Didn't even trust him with that job. Rose might accept running, but Emir?

Better if he wasn't found near the stairs at all.

He hit the bottom living level, where the ghosts of shops remained as a promise of better days ahead. Tree-­shaped abominations glistened in the darkness like an invasive, oleaginous vermin choking out the place of true autotrophs. The planning committee said this would be a promenade, a place for free commerce, shopping, entertainment, and socialization. Donovan didn't think they knew what those words meant.

The brown commbox secured at his hip squeaked. Wincing at the technical reprimand, he punched in the code to reset the box to the Command frequency.

“Repeat, Captain Donovan, Soldier, sound off.” The frazzled voice was edgy with panic, and unfamiliar.

He unclipped the box. “Donovan, 21505. Present.”

“Location?” The voice asked.

“Living-­area stairwell.” Paranoia whispered he shouldn't divulge his true location. Seventeen months ago, Rose's team had used the exact same method to trap a missing node in an iteration scheduled for demolition. He lifted the box back to his ear. “Comm check?”

“Lieutenant Shelle Sonand, authentication code: cloudberry.” That made Lieutenant Sonand Central Command Intelligence.

“Authentication confirmed. Where should I go, Lieutenant?”

There was a longer pause than required, and when the commbox turned back on, there were several voices in the background. “Captain, repeat request?”

Donovan swore. He'd missed a code early on. Now he was on the hot list no matter what he did. “I wanted to know if I was required in the war room, but I'll report to my squad's designated area.” That would get him a mark for insubordination and possibly some of Emir's sideways censure, but nothing more.

It took him ten minutes and two guesses to find his squad in one of the small communal rooms designed to be team-­building recreation areas. To the best of his knowledge, the only time his squad had all been there together was when they'd painted a new shade of beige on the walls.

“Captain Donovan.” Commander Eriant wasn't regular army, like Donovan, but Command Fleet with prior ser­vice in UN Intelligence, like Rose, and he looked the part. His black uniform was pressed to a shine, with chrome buttons embellished with the adder-­and-­mongoose insignia of IID. “You're late.”

“I was meditating,” Donovan said.

The adder checked his tablet. “The meditation room log has no record of you entering today.”

“There are other places to meditate. The promenade is quiet this time of day.” The damning words slipped out before he could stop himself. “I wanted to walk.”

Commander Eriant took this at face value. “Very well. Please be seated.”

Donovan took his seat on the edge of the semicircle the squad had formed. Red plastic chairs with aluminum legs and matching tables . . . what had they called it? The Aluminum Wasteland? No, the Aluminum Desert. Private Torman had joked about painting a cactus against the sand-­covered walls.

Now no one was joking.

The private in question was studying his boots. The others were looking anywhere but at Donovan and Eriant. Only the E5s and up maintained the facade of being relaxed.

Sergeant Coughlin's personal techpiece chimed.

Commander Eriant spun as if he'd been hit up his fat-­lipped head. “What is that?”

“Duty reminder, sir,” Coughlin said.

“A reminder?” The commander sneered. “Disciplined individuals fall into a routine.”

“I know, sir,” Coughlin said without a trace of rancor. “I switched shifts yesterday, and I'm trying to get into the new rhythm. This is helping me out.”

Eriant's nose twitched, probably because Coughlin had given the right answer, and Eriant couldn't put him on report.

Quick boot steps heralded the arrival of Commander Rose. She looked in, eyes wide. “Captain Donovan?”

There was only a second, but he saw the flash of relief there. The quickly hidden look that said she'd found someone to blame.

He stood. “Commander?”

“You're needed in the war room.”

Donovan followed Rose to where Emir waited, along with the other jump team leaders—­Senturi included—­and Atlee Brost, director of internal security. Brost couldn't be happy about IID's intrusion. It was a weakness in Central Command Donovan could exploit.

Brost frowned at his arrival. “Captain, you were late reporting to your rally point.”

“I took the stairs.”

Rose shot him an angry frown, but he knew that when she turned around, her face would be placid as the fake lake in the city's central dome. When he thought about it, fake was a very good word for Rose. And Central Command. They were shells, and in a few days, they would crumble into ash.

Donovan took his position at the fourth monitor from the left—­a plush, half-­egg chair with computer console and a constantly updating data stream from any live missions. He'd planned more deaths from that chair than he could count. Now the screens were dark. The chair's overhead light was dim. It was either restful or coffin-­like, he supposed; it all depended on your point of view.

Emir did his trademark hand waggle, which meant there was information that didn't matter in the grand design, and he was going to let someone else deal with the humdrum details of things much like he handled questions about vanishing rations or tainted water. “Proceed, Brost, proceed.”

“Thank you, Doctor.” Brost's chest puffed with self-­importance. “Security did a random sweep of personal locator beacons at 0719 this morning and found an anomaly. Are any of you familiar with a tech named Laura Para? She works on the air systems in this building.”

Most of those assembled shook their heads.

A tertiary team leader raised his hand. “I've seen her, sir. She was handling the repairs to our training room air conditioning. The heat wouldn't turn off. Is there a possible security breach?”

“Miss Para is dead,” Brost said, his eyes narrowing. “I will need you and your team to proceed to the adjacent room to talk with my ­people.”

The team leader's back went stiff. “Sir, I know where my ­people were all day.”

“I am not suggesting the killer is here,” Brost said in the same tone Macbeth had used to humbly take his leave of Duncan before stabbing him. “We'll start by establishing a timeline for Miss Para. Please, if you'd move in, the sooner this is handled, the better.”

The team leader reached for his commbox as he walked out, an unhappy look on his face.

“How was Miss Para killed?” Rose asked.

Brost stared at her for a moment. He'd probably never met someone as arrogant as Commander Rose before. “How does that matter?”

“Answer the question.”

Brost turned to Emir for support and found none there. “I . . . she was beaten,” Brost said finally. “Slammed into a wall or pushed down the stairs, and then kicked repeatedly.”

Rose wasn't the only one suddenly looking at ­people's boots.

“Standard issue footwear?” she asked.

“I . . .” Brost cleared his throat. “My team has yet to determine that.”

“Dr. Emir?” Of course Rose went over security's head. “Permission to follow the case? If this is an intrusion from another iteration, my team is best equipped to handle the matter.”

“It is most likely an internal matter. No need to concern IID at this time,” Brost said quickly. Perhaps a shade too quickly. Emir could scent weakness like a shark smelling blood in the water.

One more gear was about to be snapped off the machine. Donovan hid a twitch of a smile by rubbing his chin.

Emir turned to Brost with a look of cold fury. “Of course it's an internal matter! Rose, are you suggesting our perimeter has been breached.”

She shrugged off his rage with a casual nonchalance too perfect to be real. “It has happened.”

“Not in years,” Emir said, his mouth tightening into a thin line. “Every transfer is documented.”

“Except at the anomaly points.”

Donovan was grateful he was in a chair. The existence of the temporal cyclone touchpoints in Prime was a hotly debated subject. Central Command officially denied their existence, but the Ruling Council would pay good money for that information. There were over a half dozen ­people in the room. Including Senturi, who was already on the Council payroll.

Having Rose confirm it openly was . . . not good. Especially for his long-­term plans. He'd have to take that into consideration. If nothing else, working for Emir had made him adaptable. Everything here could be twisted to his advantage

Emir made his dithering hand-­waggle motion again. “All blocked. All cordoned off. Brost, see to this matter. Rose will offer her assistance and her teams. They are, after all, expert killers.”

H
er hands started shaking as soon as she was certain she was alone. Rose stopped, practicing the calming breaths she'd learned as a child. Barely eleven, destined for war, she'd sat in a pale gray room as hidden lights slowly changed color behind translucent panels and learned to control herself. Training had taught her how to slow her heartbeat, hide the panic growing in her body, even keep her mind clean of the poisonous whispers of doubt. It took ten seconds, then she was herself again.

One more deep breath, then she continued down the dimly lit hall. The low ceiling was testament to the afterthought this floor was. Squished between the control levels and the main living areas, the Floor of Boxes was just that: eight-­by-­eight-­by-­eight-­foot cubes created when the control areas were expanded with new ductwork and two floors were sacrificed. Technically, her rank gave her a living suite in the main area closer to the food court, but she'd declined it in favor of the tiny triad of rooms she'd claimed so she could have a measure of privacy. The living-­quarter walls were thin and the halls crowded. Every once in a while, she wanted to be where the ­people weren't.

Her door was unmarked, indistinguishable from the neighboring ingresses in every way. The anonymity gave her an added measure of safety. Looking over her shoulder out of paranoid habit, she typed in the fifteen-­digit lock code to her room and stepped inside. Her kidnapped node sat sulking on the far side of the room.

“I apologize for the delay,” Rose said, her voice frosted-­metal cold. “There was a minor disturbance that required my attention.”

“You have sirens and a lockdown for a minor disturbance?” MacKenzie asked. He was seated on the floor, arms and legs crossed, and his expression gave her no sympathy. “What do you do in a real emergency?”

Rose smiled, pride warming her chest. “We have no emergencies. Our future is set. By controlling the other iterations, we ensure a smooth progression from day to day.”

“So why does this look like a military gulag in North Korea?”

She tilted her head to the side. “I'm not familiar with that term.”

“This looks like a prison camp. Locks on the doors. No windows. No clearly marked exits. I didn't get to see many ­people, but I'd say you're one wrong turn from a coup.”

She sucked in her cheeks. Soldier Nodes were not usually lauded for their intelligence. It would be nice to work with someone who could think their way out of a wet paper bag, but not right now. “Habitats are not safe to leave,” Rose said. “The air outside is toxic. You can walk outside, but you won't get far. And there will be no burial. The acid rain will wash you away before anyone knows you're gone.”

He stood, unfolding and stretching as if she needed the reminder how physically imposing he was. “I'm so glad you brought me to this little piece of paradise, Jane. It's charming.”

She stiffened her spine. “My name is Commander Samantha Lynn Rose.”

“The only Sam Rose I know is my wife: former CBI Agent Sam Rose, now MacKenzie. You aren't her.”

“I'm her original,” Rose argued, as her heart drummed with anger. “I'm what she can only aspire to be.”

“That'd be a serious step down for Sam.” For all his smiles and relaxed posture, MacKenzie's eyes were cold.

She shook her head. This was going all wrong. MacKenzie was a soldier, he was supposed to understand survival and the need to adapt. He just needed time, she counseled herself. And she needed him so she could buy time to stabilize the iterations. “I'm not arguing with you,” she said. “You have the understanding of an infant. In a year, if you want to hold this discussion, I'll consider you qualified to have this debate.”

His sharp smile said he thought she was wrong.

Rose turned away and hit the unlock code for her dresser, hyperaware of the man in her room.

“Would you like me to leave?” MacKenzie asked, his arms still folded across his chest.

“If my clothes make you uncomfortable, turn around. I have no intention of showering or changing in front of you. But I accept the mental limitations that were imposed on you by a backward iteration.” A place that smelled of salt, flowers, and strange foods in the kitchen she'd found him in. It was alien as the surface of the moon. She pulled the dresser open and lifted a silky, canary-­yellow camisole off her uniforms. It hung as limply as the dead woman it belonged to.