Steamrolled (49 page)

It’s been, you know, good serving with you, Lurch.
She couldn’t quite get “pleasure” out after the information withholding, though she felt it and hoped he sensed that.

It has been a pleasure serving—and living with you—little one. Now get your head in the game.

Right. The “game” continued its drive toward them, but rushing in the time stream wasn’t like rushing in real time. It was relative, and relative to her fear it felt fast as it tracked across the parched desert plain. Whoever had done this was an expert in time manipulation—or a reckless rogue. Possibly both. Would the Chameleon find the hidden bases and be able to neutralize them? Would that action ripple through time fast enough to stop this? Looking into the black heart of the tsunami, she doubted anything could stop it. Time didn’t flow in neat lines in the stream. Here the past mingled with the present and the future. Vaguely she knew that is what made time travel possible. Too late to figure out the math, or the theories now.

Your disrupters are ready to deploy, little one.

THIRTY-EIGHT

It was so cute how Robert-oh-my-darling tried to protect her, but Em felt the distinct urge to let out her inner Ninja at the sight of Smith sprawled on the floor amidst what used to be a shipping crate. Or it might have been her inner Florence Nightingale. Maybe both wanted out. She wasn’t sure but did sense a conflicted feeling, like one hand wanted to smooth his brow and while her feet wanted to kick his tush.

“I think he’s hurt,” she said. If he wasn’t, he should be, all splattered in the middle of that crate. “And we should check his neck while he’s out—”

Before she could finish, Smith stirred, emitting a groan that seemed to confirm her hypothesis that an encounter with the crate would be painful. Robert—this time she managed to avoid adding the oh-my-darling even if she still felt it—approached him with a caution Em felt because she pressed up against his back, for protection and because she liked being as close to him as possible.
He loves me.
She shivered and felt him echo it.
She allowed enough space so they could crouch next to the stirring figure, even though she’d already lost interest in necks or anything that wasn’t about kissing.

Robert felt along Smith’s neck, his expression turning grim. Okay, so maybe the neck mattered. Before they could move back, Smith’s lids lifted.

“Take my weapon,” he whispered. His hands twitched, as if they wanted to get the weapon first.

Without taking his gaze off Smith’s face, Robert pulled it free of the holster, started to toss it, then tucked it in the back waistband of his jeans instead, the action requiring her to shift back a bit. Emily felt an odd sense of approval at the action, probably from her newly found ninja instincts. And the sexy move might have boosted the Robert love some more. Who knew packing was so hot?

“Your drop piece?”

Okay that boosted sexy into the stratosphere. She’d have kissed him again if they’d been alone.

“Right ankle.”

“Get it, Em.”

It was almost as cool as “cuff him,” though Smith was not the one she wanted to cuff. Em got it, extracting something that appeared to be a little ray gun. She tilted it to one side, then the other. Looked down the barrel, or what passed for one. “Cute.”

Robert’s hand closed over hers, easing it away from her face. She gave him a sheepish smile, because she really did know better. It just hadn’t looked for real. “Sorry.” She pointed it away from them all and pulled the trigger.
Nada
. Found the safety and took out a crate. “Cute
and
powerful.” She turned the safety back on and tucked it in the top of her corset. If Robert felt inclined to object, he got over it while looking at her belly button ring. She cleared her throat, pulled her coat over gun and ring. His chin jerked up. Might have got a bit of extra color across his cheekbones—which were very nice, by the way.

“Sorry.” He cleared his throat and looked at Smith. “I can get it, I can get the control device out.” He stiffened. “If there’s a knife handy—”

Em yanked hers out and tapped his arm with it. Got a nice smile in return. The Flo Nightingale vibe had its benefits, too.

“Do it.” A couple of pained breaths and Smith added, “please.”

Robert placed his hand against Smith’s neck and lights flickered as the peeps sent in drones. In a few seconds, Smith’s lids drooped, and the pain eased from his face.

“They are healing his wounds, too,” Robert said, as he made the incision with a deft confidence that Em could appreciate while not wanting to see. She averted her gaze, though she did get her needle nosed pliers ready. Still felt the Flo vibes, despite the tummy lurch. Didn’t mind it either, though it was very girl of her. In a few seconds she felt him ease back, a sign he’d extracted the metal bug, allowing her to look again.

“Creepy.” Em shifted back, because it was a bug and it wiggled its little metal legs like it wanted to grab her. Robert looked around and divining his need, Em spotted a small bottle on her uncle’s desk and went for it, not minding additional distance between her and bug. Before she’d crossed back to Robert, Smith began to stir again, though this time without the grimaces of pain. Gotta love the nanites. Felt a double wriggle from hers in the chest region. She handed him the jar, because glass was not enough separation between her and a bug. He dropped it inside, the bug clinking against the glass in a creepy, mini
Terminator
manner, and then screwed the lid down tight. He dropped the small jar in his jacket pocket and eased Smith into sitting position.

Smith rubbed his face, then looked at Robert. “My name isn’t Smith. It’s his—”

“Faustus?” Robert’s voice was sharp. Smith nodded.

Em sensed urgency from…not-Smith. She frowned. There’d been a lot of not-somethings in this adventure. That probably meant something, but she was danged if she knew what.

“He arrived through the portal, from the past, from the battle with the Dusan.
We couldn’t send him back, not precisely anyway, not without a beacon or recall device, so we assimilated him into our society. Gave him work. A life. He repaid that gift with betrayal.”

Robert looked puzzled. “That was you who traveled through the portal.”

“There was a time reset. He took advantage of it. Replaced himself with me.” Smith rubbed his face. “I was in the Gadi Leader’s protection detail, a soldier. The Leader’s cousin worked with him, helped him betray me, then our Leader. He implanted the device that took my memory, deleted my nanites. Controlled me. Now I know why it amused him so much. He made me be him.” Smith looked up, strain etching his face. “I can’t go back, can’t fix this, don’t have the power, and all the time resets—you have to stop him. Nanites will know how. In the stream, he’s planning to do something with the pins and time.”

“We can take you with us—”

Not-Smith shook his head, looked around. “Spent enough time here to be…fond of it. Maybe in time, I can forget what he made me do. Or learn to live with it.”

Em tried not to think about wars with Dusans and time resets and the evil overlord’s plans to “do something with time.” It was just so dang evil over-lordish and well, evil. And
what the freak
still wasn’t the ban-breaking question of her lifetime. Though she could see how it might get that way real fast. It was just so weird—

Normal is over rated,
Wynken reminded her, with Nod adding his assent.

Couldn’t argue with that logic, so she didn’t, helped by not-Smith’s gaze finding her.

“You have your great-grandmother’s eyes.”

Em felt the ground tilt a bit, the way it had been doing since she met Robert. That almost got her to ask a question, but she couldn’t think of how to phrase it and before she could figure it out she felt this weird sense of being grabbed in her middle and yanked, like a rag doll. She heard Robert call her name and tried to reach for him. Couldn’t. And then she was back in that strange, light and bendy place, but this time without Robert, which sucked in every strange, bendy way possible.

We are with you, Em.

In a further strange, bendy way, she and the two nanites hung onto each other. At first the trip felt straightforward, like it had with Robert and then it changed. Instead of a trip along a line in a strange bendy way, she felt yanked off true, rather like being tumbled in surf, and she thought she saw lights—and sometimes faces and red eyes—as she went head over heels in dark instead of light. The pressure was intense, too, as if someone wanted to squash her like a bug and bend her ways she wasn’t meant to bend. Just when she thought they’d succeed, she tumbled out of the wave onto solid ground. Sand. Not the place you wanted to face plant, though she was glad she hadn’t landed on the rocky ledge a few yards from her head. Her coat had tangled around her face. She fought clear and found herself a few yards from real, rolling surf, one less testy than the one in the bendy place.

She rolled onto her back and saw people dropping in around her, like it was raining cats and dogs—except they were people, not cats and dogs and the sky was blue—though a greenish kind of blue. The people were in all kinds of outfits and some had different skin colors, she even thought she saw the not-Southern Belle sail by. One guy thumped against the ground, almost on top of her. With a chill she saw the scar against the base of his baldhead.

It wasn’t raining people. It was raining zombies.

THIRTY-NINE

She unhooked the vest the Chameleon had given her.

We won’t have much time, can’t afford a long count down.

He already knew that, but she thought it anyway. It kept her focused, kept panic sort of at bay. Using the bundle of drones that had anchored her, she hooked the disrupter in place. Lurch triggered the timer as she kicked into the drag of the tsunami and away from the spot—she felt the stream quiver, or maybe it shuddered. Had the Chameleon found the lab? Whatever it was, it weakened her drive as she tried to get out from between the incoming wave and the disrupter. Instead of traction as she angled sideways, trying to go cross stream, the wave pulled her right into the drag from one of the crevasses. The cross-drag held her almost stationary as the wave rushed in.

Dive into it.

For a second more she resisted, but there was no time. It couldn’t be worse than the wave—she kicked down and found that perhaps it could get worse. It was beyond wrong time. Pressure slammed into her from all sides. Only her time gear kept her semi-conscious and it wasn’t a blessing. On some level she felt the pull from above as the wave gathered time into its giant fist. In her mind, counting down with the timer, she imagined the impact as wave met disrupter…

She tried to brace for the concussion.

Tried to dive deeper to escape it.

Failed…

FORTY

Doc stared at the screen as if willing it to make sense. Wasn’t working, but she wasn’t sure what to do to change that. According to the sensors, the outpost had experienced a massive earthquake, or some kind of detonation, one so massive it should have leveled every building and most, if not all the trees. Instead, not even dust filtered down from the high beams in the room where they stood. Not a single stone appeared out of place. Weather tracking was having fits. Storms, then no storms. Power surges. Intermittent loss of contact with other parts of the outpost. Systems down. Systems up. Systems gone hinky and jumping at shadows. Reminded Doc of
Star Trek IV
when with the whale-hugging probe arrived. Not a total FUBAR, since some stuff still worked, but one in the making. Or one in the fixing? Was the twit out there somewhere battling the time wave? Was this the fallout from that? Or a sign she’d failed?

On a sub-level of her brain, she sensed the peeps working their way through the codes, slowly accessing lab after lab, and then locking them down again, this time with genetic locks coded to her and Hel. They’d secured about half of them, working from the perimeter in, moving faster than she’d expected, but slower than she liked. What if enough systems went down that they couldn’t finish the job?

“We have an unknown incursion into the outpost air space—” the tech Gadi stopped when the dots disappeared from the tracking screens. He frowned. “Now we show an incursion in Quadranyl four.”

The beach? Doc stepped forward, but the bogies vanished from tracking, too.

“What the hotel is happening, Doc?” Halliwell directed his signature glare at her. It would have worked if she had a clue.

“I think—” she paused, trying to decide what she thought, “I need to see what’s going on out there. These sensors are crap. Isn’t there a balcony or something nearby?”

“Through here.”

No surprise Hel followed, a bit of a surprise when Halliwell did. The door slid back on a scene almost as bizarre as the sensor reports. Lightning flashed against the clear, blue-green sky, the streaks not gold, but purple, a darker purple than the twit, but in her color range. And the horizon flickered, like a bad connection. Doc squinted against the sun. Was there something in the sky when it flickered? Dark spots? No, gold tracks, like shooting stars. Almost regular now, the horizon phased in and out, between the black spots, the gold tracks, and something trying to march in from the beach?

“Doc?” Halliwell looked rock solid, but his gaze flickered warily from side to side.

“I wish I knew, sir.” She wished Lurch and his pals were studying this, too, but all their resources were bent to the problem of the labs. She got a glimpse of one of the logic locks and almost flinched back. And she thought she liked puzzles. She pulled out her binoculars and focused on the shadowy line on the beach, feeling her instincts twitch. The other stuff looked kind of random, but that almost looked like troops incoming. She lowered her glasses. The twit had believed that the attack would be on the time base of the future, but in the stream, the past, the present and the future flowed in and around each other. Were they catching glimpses of the battle? Battles were never neat or tidy and they were hard to contain. If it was about to bleed over into their time, then they needed to be ready for it.