Quantum Break (12 page)

Déjà vu.

Paul’s shoulder flinched, snapping his fist into Jack’s face. Jack’s senses had an argument. Nothing made sense. Then all was darkness.

*   *   *

Stone, cold and wet and flat against his face. Skull-ache, as if someone had taken a screwdriver to a bone suture and twisted. Blood in his mouth, like old dirt.

Somewhere in a hidden corner of the room Will was pleading in frustration. “We can’t let this happen!”

Black tile. White tile. He raised his face from the lobby floor and the unpleasantly adhesive spill his cheek was resting in. He spat blood and dust and lifted his ringing head.

Jack was still in the library.

Forty feet away Will was frantic, desperate for understanding and out of ideas. Paul stood over him with no intention of engaging.

“I can stop this event! I have the data, I’ve done the research…!”

“No risks. No—”

Paul winced, abruptly and painfully, tight lips pulled back from white teeth. His face flushed red, every cord in his neck standing out, and then … the spasm passed. Faded. Paul breathed.

Whatever had happened inside him had hit hard—his voice was a rasp. “No chances,” he said. “We both know what’s coming, Will. We both know too well that it can’t be changed, negotiated with, or avoided.” He took a deep drink of air, tightly muscled chest expanding beneath the uniform. “Now, Will, for the final time, as your friend: come with me, help us to survive what’s coming, or this has to end here.”

Jack heaved himself upright. His inner ear was failing to distinguish up from down, left from right. Heavy headed, he watched the room slide sideways. He sensed Paul’s hand as a brotherly weight on his shoulder, before it pushed him to his knees.

Will processed. “You’re threatening me?”

“Would you risk the universe by leaving one problem unattended? I can’t have you running loose, Will. Come with me. We need your expertise.”

“You’re wrong. This can be fixed.
I can fix it.
”

“William. You babysat me when I was eight. Please, don’t make me—”

“I can fix it!”

Paul’s silence communicated everything.

Jack shot to his feet, and this time Paul shoved him to the dirt without love or care. The exertion seemed to trigger something within him and Paul
screamed,
the space about his frame trembling for a second and then
snapping fractal
—a distortion field, glittering and crazed, sheathing him for half a moment. Then it was gone.

Paul gasped like a man with a perforated lung.

Jack had no clue what had just happened. The distortion was similar to the effect that had emanated from the time machine. The two had to be connected.

Paul appeared suddenly very old to Jack, very frail.

“I can’t bring myself to shoot you, Will.” Paul drew a reassuring breath, spine straightening. “It took me years to understand what has to be done.…” He was recovering quickly, far quicker than Jack was. “But we don’t have years for you to come to the same conclusion. We have moments.” Pressing a finger to his ear, Paul intoned, “Monarch Actual. This is your Consultant. Trigger.”

And then to Will, “I never wanted this.”

Something passed from Paul to Jack in single conscience-struck glance: an apology, and a futile hope for understanding.

The first charge detonated, flooding the archives with flame. Standing helpless and alone, Will understood that his time on Earth was over. Paul seized Jack, accelerated impossibly, and warped them both through the open front doors.

The last Jack Joyce saw of his brother was as the Riverport University Library folded into itself, corners and columns blown out by thunderclaps. Framed in the vacant doorway of a barren storehouse of knowledge, the inferno reached for William Joyce as the heavy, crashing curtain lowered on the story of his life.

Gone.

Paul skidded to a halt, using his body to shield Jack from the rolling cloud of dust and debris slammed out and across the yard.

“Easy,” he said. “It’s over.” Jack snapped his arms up, broke Paul’s grip, and drove his fist square into Paul’s face. Staggered, Paul shook his head and refocused only to find himself staring down the black eye of his own dully chromed .45-caliber pistol. He was disarmed. This close to the barrel, the degree of vibration in Jack’s hand was pronounced. Paul looked away from the death dispenser to the face of the man who held it. The redness of his friend’s streaming eyes made them seem twice as blue.

Jack snorted back a nose full of snot, but had no hope of keeping tears from flowing.

“Why?”

Paul’s expression darkened. “No.”

That was not an answer Jack could accept. He shoved the pistol closer to Paul’s face. Closer again. He had to drag a hand across his flooding eyes.
“What have you done?”

Paul repeated the word over and again: “No. No. No.” And …

Paul Serene’s body ignited, flashing bright, his form bursting into geometry at once impossible and humanoid, mirrored and reflective. Beneath it all, in glimpses, was Paul’s screaming face.

The howl crashed and infiltrated and burst, colonizing the mind with doubt and fear. In that single moment, Jack felt both the impossible breadth and scope of Creation, and his own insignificance. Paul screamed a scream in a language beyond language, of an age older than God’s.

And then he was Paul again, and his expression was as helpless and frightened as Will’s had been moments earlier. The night was silent. Paul sank to his knees and toppled senseless to the lawn.

This was the tableau: by the light of his brother’s burning tomb, Jack Joyce stood over Paul Serene, gun in hand. Jack was now in the role of executioner, as Paul had been moments before. It was hard not to feel Will’s spirit watching over this, approving. The gun in Jack’s hand felt heavy and correct, five feet from Paul’s head.

The world had gone mad.

There came a tapping on Jack’s shoulder. He turned his head. A familiar face smiled at him, ducking sideways to get a better look at him.

“Hey,” she said.

This was it, Jack knew. This was the very last thing he could take. No more.

Her smile grew more beautiful.

“Zed?” he said.

She had let her natural hair color grow back. Red. Her tattoos were gone. But it was Zed. She even smelled right.

“Hey, Trouble,” she said. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

He hadn’t noticed her pressing something into his arm until she had done it.

A hiss, a sting, and the night ended.

7

Saturday, 8 October 2016. 5:01
A
.
M
. Riverport, Massachusetts. Two minutes after library demolition.

From inside the Riverport University BearCat Gibson watched fire crews roll up and start arcing water and retardant into what was left of the library.

“Donny, you there? Get the others. That second target is chronon-active. We’re going hunting.”

“Uh, we can’t, boss. Hatch’s Priority One was to secure the lab. Chopper’s inbound to extract the core from this thing. We’ve already changed into uniform.”

A new voice came on the line: “Chronon-1 this is Monarch Actual. Standing orders are for radio silence. Clear the air.”

“Chronon-1 to Monarch Actual, keep your shirt on. We’re encrypted.”

“Clear the air, Gibson. I won’t say it again. Though, since you’re on the line¸ you’re wanted back at the Tower. Immediately. Monarch Actual, out.”

Saturday, 8 October 2016. 5:23
A
.
M
. Monarch Tower.

Gibson took the elevator up to the top floor, back in his uniform, hands gripped behind his back to keep from punching the wall. That kid had escaped from him. That couldn’t stand. Four years’ hard training and fieldwork to get qualified with a chronon rig, top of his game, best in class, and some jack-off undergrad gets dosed right and … Gibson
strategically withdrew.

Ran is what he did. From the first chronon-active target he’d encountered in the field.

Four years waiting for a chance to flex his material and
who the fuck was that kid to look at him like that?
Eye-fucking Gibson like Gibson wasn’t the meanest motherfucker in the whole Valley of Death.

“We’ll get him, Donny,” he said to empty air, nodding. “Take him apart like a chicken dinner.”

The elevator chimed and the doors hushed apart.

Mr. Hatch’s place always blew his mind. Polished mahogany floors, and a view of the world that’d make anyone believe in God. Glass wall, glass ceiling. Helipad just outside. Someone waiting to fly Mr. Hatch wherever, whenever. Years of good decisions. Mr. Hatch knew the shit. Clear head. Crystal vision. Smarts. Knew how to direct the people under him. Best commander Gibson had ever had and the bastard had never been military.

“Mr. Gibson.” Hatch smiled. “Thank you for seeing me so soon after the operation. Do you need to decompress?”

“No, sir. I’m energized, sir. Present and clear.”

“Excellent.” Hatch gestured to one of two Victorian leather club chairs positioned before his desk. “Sit.”

Gibson did. Hatch didn’t. Hatch didn’t move from where he stood, behind his desk.

Hatch didn’t say anything, just looked at Gibson, still smiling.

Gibson cleared his throat.

Nothing about Hatch changed.

“Sir, I—”

“We first met in 2003. One of Monarch Security’s first recruitment drives. Your dossier caught my eye, and I traveled to meet you personally in Baghdad.”

“April 3rd, 2003, yes, sir.”

The smile. Hatch just let that hang for a moment. Gibson reflexively swallowed.

“You’ve done things for this company that you will never be allowed to speak of. You are in possession of privileged information at the highest level. You understand the terror we face, and you are one of the very few who know of this company’s relationship with our Consultant. All these things you have earned. Your success rate is almost flawless, and you have a most peculiar gift for inspiring loyalty in those under your command. Of one hundred and twelve candidates for the Chronon-1 program, nine made it, and you were at the top of that list. You possess a unique psychology, Mr. Gibson, and a level of moral flexibility I find astounding. But I wonder, do you possess a holographic imagination?” Still the smile. “Are you able to construct a three-dimensional image of a future formed by actions you may choose to take in the present?”

“Sir, I—”

“It’s one of the things that separates us from animals. The ability to delay gratification now for a likely greater reward later. The ability, for example, to choose to
not
pursue a grudge match against a total stranger, but instead follow orders and strive to keep alive a man critical to the ongoing survival of our species. But I interrupted you. Finish your thought.”

“Sir.” Gibson didn’t like this. He had never imagined that one day Mr. Hatch might look at him like that. Now he was imagining all kinds of things. Like who he might be at the end of this interview, and suddenly he couldn’t get one thought to connect to the next. Like a fucking chump. “With respect, Mr. Hatch, I was assigned to oversee Guardian squad’s sweep-and-clear. I left Donny—”

“No mind on Earth grasped chronon theory so well as Dr. William Joyce.” Hatch moved to the front of his desk. “You were tasked by me, explicitly, with keeping him alive. With keeping him out of the hands of our Consultant.”

“Paul Serene, I understand, but—”

“
That,
” Hatch emphasized, “is an excellent example of what I am talking about. Do you understand why we refer to Mr. Serene as ‘our Consultant’? Paul Serene’s primary role is to play the villain of our upcoming drama. In time Monarch’s role will be to play the rescuing hero. Therefore Paul Serene being tied to Monarch will
destroy
our credibility with the governments of the world.”

Hatch took a measured step toward Gibson.

“That
unquestioning trust
is the pillar most essential to the success of Project Lifeboat. Unheard-of technology must be delivered within a
very
short time frame. Technology requires development. That development will require unlimited funding, manpower, and intergovernmental cooperation, and it will have to happen very, very quickly. Time is quite literally running out, Mr. Gibson. Dr. Joyce’s expertise would have bought us time. But now … now he is dead.”

“Holographic. Right. I got it.”

“I’m removing you from command of Chronon-1, Mr. Gibson. Henceforth you will be taking your orders from Donny.”

“Sir—”

“This close to the end there’s no room for second chances. You are in receipt of the last chance I will give you. Were you about to throw it in my face?”

Gibson said nothing.

Hatch turned to face Riverport, screwed in an earpiece, and got back to work.

Life escorted Randall Gibson to the door, and closed it.

*   *   *

Paul Serene was a man who lived in the space between moments, known to very few. In his too-long-seeming lifetime he had learned many truths. He had built a diverse, multinational corporation in secret, from hiding, using skills and gifts unique to himself. He had met many extraordinary people, many of them terrible to know.

That’s how it had been for seventeen long years, from the moment he first stepped into the time machine until now.

All for this critical moment. For Project Lifeboat.

Chronon particles are critical to the functioning of causality. No particles, no causality. No causality, no flow of events—and what is time but a linear flow of events?

The activation of the Monarch-built time machine at Riverport University fractured the Meyer-Joyce field: the field of chronon energy essential to the functioning of causality. Eventually that fracture would cause chronon levels to drop disastrously low, the field would collapse, and time would end.

The universe would become locked in a single moment, dividing infinitely.

Because of him. Because of what he did.