Quantum Break (19 page)

On the wooden shelf above the device was a folder. On the cover was a hand-drawn rendering of the twelve-sided sphere Jack had seen in his bedroom.

Jack’s phone bleeped, causing him to flinch violently. “Fuck me.” The name on the screen was
NICK (CAB)
.

He rested Squish on the topmost box and was about to take the call when something within him
pulsed
. The feeling was new yet familiar. He had felt it hours prior, before the first stutter had hit. “Nick?”

“Jack. Dude. Are you still at the house?”

Jack looked at the corner behind him. Glass glinted at him from between a couple of apple crates. There’d be one hidden in each corner. Will had wired the attic to become a fireball. “Why?”

“TV. Turn it on.”

Christ. How had Will set this up without killing himself? The guy couldn’t make cereal without setting fire to the curtains.

Jack navigated out of the mess, back to the desk, and turned on the crappy little flat-screen. Weather channel. “What am I looking for?”

“Channel twelve.”

Jack flipped through. Kitchen appliances.
Who’s The Boss?
Sharks. Nazis. His face. “What the f—?”

“Yeah. You mind explaining that?”

Jack reached for the volume. “Shut up for a second.”

It was his face, but the voice he heard was deep, soothing, masculine:
“… reliably informed is Jack Joyce, the brother of a specialist Monarch Innovations fired some time ago. Monarch Security is working with the Riverport Police Department to determine if that is a relevant detail. We have multiple survivor reports which indicate that Joyce’s stated intent was to detonate the library with the protestors inside. It would be irresponsible of me to speculate about motive at this stage but it is clear that he is associated with this so-called ‘Peace Movement.’”

Cut to a live broadcast, on-campus. The reporter was pretty, Asian-American. Her interview subject was African-American, dark-skinned, bald, and a solid fifteen inches taller. The owner of that deep, soothing voice.

It was the lazy gaze and the unhurried speech; the way Hatch didn’t look at the reporter but straight at the camera, no blinking. Standing thin inside that five-figure suit Martin Hatch radiated the threat potential of an apex predator.

The effect was smooth, and deep, and hypnotic, and made Jack dislike him immediately.

“Jack Joyce is a career itinerant with a preference for world hotspots: Afghanistan, Syria, Thailand. He has the interest of the RPD, FBI, NSA, DHS, and Monarch Security. If you see this man do not approach. Call 911 immediately. Thank you.”

The report cut to a live feed from the site of the library’s smoking ruins. Early morning sunlight flashed off wet, black timber. Arcs from fire hoses cast rainbows. Jack’s throat closed. His brother’s remains were somewhere under that.

The reporter’s expression was stern, standard-issue, her features pleasant. His gut kicked again. “Jack Joyce, who has had numerous prior run-ins with the law, is suspected of attempted murder and the premature demolition of the Riverport University library. His accompliii…”

The moment dragged out for what felt like seconds, the image on the screen crawling, deinterlacing. Nausea rose in his gut as the second stretched and divided, stretched and then … snapped back into shape.

“… iiiice and brother, William Joyce, who had directed threats at university staff after being fired, died in the library explosion. The Riverport Police Department urgently requests that any information regarding Jack Joyce’s whereabouts be directed to them immediately.”

A stutter was coming. And soon.

Nick cleared his throat.

“Monarch’s outside my house, Jack. Do I go in?”

“I wouldn’t.”

“What about my dad?”

“I’m sorry. I don’t know.”

The volume on the phone dipped then spiked. “Hang on. Someone’s calling. Shit, I think it’s … they’re calling from my dad’s phone.”

“Don’t answer.”

“They’ve got my dad.”

“They can’t threaten you if you don’t answer.” Jack’s phone trilled in his ear. Fuck. Unknown number.

“They calling you now?”

“Nick, I take it back. Go in, tell them I abducted you. Do what’s best for yourself and your dad. Whatever happens I don’t blame you for it.”

Jack ended both calls and then flinched as a nearby bell complained: heavy, shrill, and loud. The thirty-five-year-old Bakelite phone on the wall was vibrating. Jack’s nostrils flared; he made a decision and picked up—angry. “Call my cell.” And hung up. His cell phone rang. “So what do we do?”

“Jack.”

Paul. A thousand words couldn’t release everything that fought to get out, so Jack lowballed it. “Explain.” Walking to the window he could see the barn, but no sign of Beth.

“I’m sorry about Will.”

Fury came out matter-of-fact chipper. “You will be.”

Paul didn’t acknowledge the threat. “I thought a long time about Will. I didn’t want that. But he forced my hand, Jack.”

“Hey, no worries, Paul. We’re still solid, yeah?” Jack experienced an anger so profound it messed with his vision. His phone’s casing surrendered a meek little
pop
.

“What I did will haunt me till I die.”

“So less than a day, then.”

“Listen to me!”
Paul’s breathing was suddenly spasmodic, tremulous. “I’m trying to help you. To help us.”

“Y’know, I’m lousy on phones,” Jack said, all charm. “What say we talk this over face-to-face?”

Paul sighed. “Sure,” he said. “Come downstairs. I’m in the kitchen.”

*   *   *

Gibson had gone from his meeting with Hatch straight to the squad room. When he’d walked in he knew straight away that everyone knew. Donny had been a man about it, walked straight up and let Gibson crack him in the face.

“No worries, boss,” the kid had said, checking his nose, wiping away blood with a thumb. “It was a bullshit decision. None of us here buy it.”

Irene nodded. They all did.

Gibson said to Donny, “What are our orders?”

“Sit tight. Cool down.”

“Nah, that ain’t right. They’d be going after Joyce. They need us.”

Donny shook his head. “Hatch sent Technicians and Strikers. After last night, he wants us taking a half day.”

“To ‘decompress,’” Mully said.

“They want us fresh to run security on the gala tonight,” Voss put in.

Technicians and Strikers. Chronon-active standard troops, and bulked-up show ponies using first-gen chronon tech in an attempt to mimic a couple of Serene’s powers. All of them more in love with their gear than their creed.

“Donny, get me a spot on one of the Technician units on the Joyce farm detail.”

And that’s how Gibson wound up in the woods surrounding the Joyce place.

It was a nice morning. Clear, fresh. His daughter, Lorelei, would have appreciated it. Maybe he’d buy the place when this was all over. He could pick out one of those big trees over there, build the kid a house. Sit on that porch and watch Tamiko push Lorelei on a tire swing. Listen to the kid’s laughter carry across the garden.

He was lying on his belly, draped in ghillie netting, next to one of the ding-dongs from Talon squad, about a half mile from the Joyce spread. He tapped the side of the long-nosed sniper rifle the guy was resting his face on. “That one of ours?”

The sniper lifted one leafy paw, tapped the Monarch stamp on the rifle’s breach. That was poor discipline right there. An operative worth the name would have grunted an affirmative and kept his eye screwed to the scope. “Linux-based targeting system. Weather conditions, wind speed, target speed.”

“Got Netflix on there?”

The wookiee snorted. “Might as well. Once the scope tags the target I can put a round up the ass of a moving june bug at eighteen hundred yards while jerking off.”

“Sounds like you’re one innovation away from unemployment.”

The goon coughed up a less-convincing chuckle.

Fuck Gibson was bored. He’d gotten on this detail because he knew Mr. Hatch wanted that Joyce kid dead and Serene didn’t. If Randall could hand Mr. Hatch that little fuck’s head
and
plausible deniability, then the boss gets what he wants minus any fallout. Gibson could just say he was defending himself.

Fuck he was bored. He’d been there with his dick in the dirt for the last hour and nothing was happening.

“Ever had to shit yourself on the job?” No response. “Is that still part of the training? Shitting in a bag? Lying in a ditch for four days waiting for a target. I mean if you gotta go you gotta go, right?”

The shooter mumbled something about it being a small price to pay for freedom.

What an asshole. He was probably wearing one now.

Fuck he was bored.

Then: “Target spotted. Barn. Upper floor. Female.”

Gibson wrestled the binoculars to his face. The hayloft doors had been opened. Some broad in a baseball cap, fatigues. Looking good in a T-shirt but couldn’t make out her face. “Well hello there, punkin’ butter.” Cap pulled low, head always dipped. One hell of a hardbody, though. “Name’s Randall. And you are?”

The stud beside the trigger clicked. “Target locked.” Then: “Lost visual. Target stepped away from the window.”

A voice, deep and comforting, murmured over comms: “Highground One.” It was Hatch. Gibson kept his mouth shut. “Please describe the target.”

“Caucasian female. Mid-twenties. Five ten. Baseball cap. Appears unarmed,” the sniper mumbled.

“Our Consultant hasn’t emerged?”

“All units report no exit as yet, sir.”

Silence on the line. Then: “You have the green light. Proceed.”

*   *   *

Jack came down the stairs, gun in hand.

Someone coughed in the kitchen, took a reassuring breath.

Jack stepped off the stairs, moved left toward the kitchen, the interior coming into view.

Far wall, framed pictures, fridge, bench, and cabinets … someone that looked like Paul.

“Hi,” Paul said.

Paul didn’t appear to be offended at having a gun pointed at his face—that familiar-but-different face.

“Except for last night it’s been almost twenty years since I’ve seen you, Jack. And here I am with no idea of what to say.” Paul smiled and Jack wanted to do something he wasn’t sure he’d regret. “Seeing you here, the young man I remember, in this house … it’s eerie.” Paul jerked his thumb toward the drying rack. “Will kept every Ziploc bag you used for lunches. After dinner every Friday night we’d wash and hang them on the rack there. He made a box of those bags last for years.”

“Will’s dead. You killed him.”

“Jack—”

Jack cocked the automatic’s hammer, uselessly. “Shut up and start talking.”

“The person you grew up with is gone, Jack. It’s for the best. But I still remember. That counts for something.” Paul pulled the silver chain around his neck, drew out what it secured: his silver bullet. “I remember it all.”

The sight of the bullet made Jack think of the gun in his hand; the gun in his hand made him think of Paul holding a gun on Will. Thinking of Will dispelled pity. “I don’t think you do.”

“Will was right: something was wrong with the machine’s calibration. Time will end. I’ve seen it. In fact time will end
because
I’ve seen it. The waveform of that particular potential future has now collapsed and become an unavoidable certainty.”

“Except…” Jack had to believe there was an answer here. “The time machine. I go back, I find us, I tell us not to use the machine, this never happens, Will never dies, and I spend the rest of my life trying to forget how badly I wanted to shoot you.”

Paul shook his head, sadly. “Has that happened?”

“When I do go back it will have happened. And then … I guess we won’t ever remember having this conversation.”

“So if the events of the present we currently inhabit never occurred … what would motivate you to go back in time and warn us?”

Hearing that was like watching Will die all over again. Jack shook his head. “There’s a way.”

“You can’t change the past. I’m sorry.”

Hate pulled Jack forward. “You’re lying.”

“If changing the past were possible I would locate Will’s prototype—the first machine, older than Monarch’s, the one he built in the barn out there—and do my damnedest to make that work. Then I would use it to travel back and prevent the Monarch machine being made. That would prevent the Fracture from occurring and spare me a terrible life. But it is not possible.”

Jack’s mind wheeled. There was no answer to this.

“Do you know where Will’s machine is, Jack?”

“If this is true, then why do any of this? Why kill my brother? Why kill all the people at the university?”

Paul weighed his words carefully. “There are reasons why last night was necessary. First, we took the core from the lab and installed it into a secondary Promenade within Monarch Tower. We made it known that this was done as a safety precaution by Monarch personnel. Now the world knows a sensitive Monarch project was targeted by a terrorist group. Second, I need the mood of the nation to be primed. The public and the administration want a simple target for their anger. Soon I will provide that target in a manner that is advantageous to the objectives of the company. For that to work the events at the university had to be … mediapathic. Showy.”

There was a time, Jack remembered, when Paul couldn’t bring himself to use a mousetrap.

Paul looked Jack in the eye, earnestly. No guile. “Monarch doesn’t exist to change the future—it exists to help us
survive it.
We have a plan,” he said. “We call it Lifeboat.”

“If you hand me a brochure, Paul, I swear to God—”

“We can’t stop the Fracture, Jack. We can’t stop the arrival of the end of time. That waveform has collapsed. But Lifeboat will assure—
does
assure—that our best and brightest remain able to repair and reseed the flow of causality
after
the Meyer-Joyce field collapses and time ends.”

It took a second for Jack to fully understand that his rage was becoming dilute with horror. Horror at the realization that he understood Paul’s decisions … and maybe sympathized with them.