The Paradox Initiative (3 page)

“
What is going on?” she yelped. He didn’t answer. They raced through the shop, he shoved the front door open and threw her down onto the outside floor. She crashed onto her side, pain jarring her knee and shoulder—

He leaped on top of her,
smashing her, wrapping his arms around her head and shoulders and pressing his forehead to her temple. Leather, smoke and the smell of fireworks smothered her—

BOOM!

Kestrel screamed.

A
concussion slapped into them, crushing them into the laminated floor.

Pressure mounted—the skylight burst.

Bits of rock and shards of metal and glass pelted them like hailstones, shattering all around them and beating against his back.

Blistering heat rolled over them.

And then a thick, choking cloud of dust swallowed them.

The thunder of the explosion
yammered through the wings and levels of the spaceport, then gradually faded.

Kestrel’
s ears rang. Her head spun. Her breathing rattled around in her skull, too loudly—she couldn’t hear anything else.

He pulled up and off of her—his jacket slipped loose of her fingers. He sat back on his heels and, wincing, glanced back toward the
door of the shop, but the brown dust billowed like fog. It settled over him, coating him. Sunlight spilled down through the now-open ceiling, flooding through the clouds and casting him in an eerie, distant light. He looked like a ghost.

His throat convulsed.
He took a deep breath, then coughed, hard. He covered his mouth—his brow knotted. Kestrel sat up, shook her head, tugged on her right ear…

Her hearing cleared.

He coughed again. The sound tangled through his chest, like pneumonia. He gasped sharply, swallowed, then coughed again, and staggered to his feet. Dust washed across him, almost hiding him.

Kestrel stood up
. She stumbled sideways. Her skull buzzed. She closed her eyes, shook her head, and opened her eyes again.

“You
…” she started, and winced. Her thoughts skittered away. She squinted at him—he faded into the cloud. She opened her mouth. No sound came out.

Her knees went weak.

Everything turned black.

Kestrel leaned her head against the window of the family flier. Absently, she watched the cityscape and other vehicles speed by outside,
lit by the midday sun, as she rubbed one thumb against the back of the other. The engine hummed, lulling her, and the cool gray interior soothed her headache. Much better than white,
white
everywhere…

“You feeling all right?” her dad asked fro
m the driver’s seat—she sensed him turn his head and glance at her.

“I’ve been
feeling completely
fine
all week,” Kestrel answered. “But I still spent all week in the hospital.”

“You had a
head injury
,” he reminded her. “They had to watch you.”

“
Yeah,” she sighed.

“Listen,” her dad said
, shifting in his seat. “Mom’s having your favorite made for supper, and then all of us can play a round of
Ortheus
together. You don’t have to start job or apartment searching until tomorrow, okay?”

Kestrel smiled
at him.

“Okay. Sounds good.”

Her dad smiled back—deepening the affectionate lines around his dark eyes—and he let go of the steering with one hand. His warm fingers reached hers, wrapped around and squeezed. She squeezed back as his grip on her tightened, and she turned toward the window again.

A head injury. That’s what
everyone
thought—and she let them think it. She had told had them she couldn’t remember anything that had happened.

She set her jaw.

Striking gray eyes, like the prairie sky before a storm…

As soon as she had regained consciousness, the law-enforcement had plied her with questions. Then the doctors had their turn, then the nurses,
then her family, then Anny, then the detectives, then the law-enforcement again…

No.

No one would believe her if she told the truth. And she would
not
take the risk of anyone rushing her back to the hospital—it felt too good to be back in her form-hugging black clothes instead of those almost-sheer medical robes.

S
he would keep everything to herself, just as she had all week. And she would try to forget about it.

Kestrel sat down on the
soft white chair in the courtyard behind her house. She settled and leaned back, letting out a deep sigh. The cool evening air rustled the topmost leaves of the single cottonwood sapling in the center, evoking a sound like distant tumbling water. She absently glanced around at the shadowed yard as she laid her head back against the canvas pillow. Her mother had designed the small space so that every surface had been lined out with white stones—the walls and the floor—and various pots of shrubbery and bright red geraniums stood in corners or huddled around the base of the cottonwood. Kestrel tapped her boot once against the flagstone, listening as the quiet
slap
resounded. She did it again—but this time, laser shots, cries of triumph and a simulated explosion from back inside the house interrupted the echo.

She glanced back at the reflective sliding door,
then faced the yard again. Her family was still playing
Ortheus
—they’d been at it for three hours. Kestrel had joined them at first, but finally had complained of a headache and retreated outside.

Now, she tilted her head back, facing the sky. The whole
vast canvas, brushed through with high, wispy clouds, had faded to pink and light purple. Traffic rumbled in the distance. She could faintly hear the neighbors’ 4D entertainment system emitting a steady, musical beat, and she could almost taste the scent of grilling steak from the restaurant two blocks away.

The back door slid open.

“Hey, Kes.”

“Hm?” Kestrel didn’t turn around.
She knew it was Marcus. Her brother leaned on the doorframe—it creaked.

“Wanna come in and play another round?”

“What, and get beat again?” Kestrel laughed.

“I’ll let you win,” Marcus allowed. “I’ll play with my other hand.
Aidus will too.”

“Like
that
will help.”

“You’re a good shot!”Marcus said. Kestrel kicked against the ground and
spun her chair around to face him. Her tall, blonde brother raised his eyebrows at her.

“I can shoot better than you with my eyes closed,” she declared, and pointed at him. “But I can’t fly worth anything and you
know that
.”

He grinned at her.

“Yeah, you’re pretty bad…”

“Shut up.”

Marcus chuckled.

“Oh, come on. Don’t be a coward.”

“Okay,” Kestrel huffed, leaning back and spinning around again. “In ten minutes I’ll come in.”

“
You’d better,” Marcus warned, stepped back inside and shut the door.

Quiet fell again.
The muted sound-effects of
Ortheus
resumed.

Kestrel studied the sky. A single star had come ou
t to twinkle while she had been talking with her brother—very high, very soft. She bit her lip as her heart grew heavy. Today was almost over. Tomorrow, she would begin another long search, another quest to find a career, a purpose, a goal…

The sky gradually darkened. More stars winked into being. The shadows of the courtyard deepened.

Something flickered.

Thud.

She blinked. Sat up.

Looked toward the far corner of the yard.

A form crouched on the ground. He stood up.

Kestrel’s chest locked
. She grabbed the sides of the chair.

He walked toward her. Long, swift strides.

Then, light from one of her house windows washed across part of him.

Heavy b
oots. Jeans. A leather jacket and faded shirt. Broad shoulders; dark, wild hair. Striking, rugged, handsome face and limitless, piercing gray eyes.

Eyes that instantly found hers.

“Miss Evans?” he asked—cutting and quiet. “Miss Kestrel Evans?”

“I…What?” Kestrel stammered.

“Is that your name?” he demanded, drawing up and standing in front of her, his gaze pinning her.

“Yes,” she said, heart pounding. “What—Who are you? What are you doing here?”

“You don’t remember me?” he frowned.

“I—Yes, I do,”
she admitted, eyes wide. “What do you want?”

“I need
to ask you something,” he answered. He glanced past her at the back door, then addressed her again. “Have you ever heard of a man named William Jakiv?”

Kestrel’s mouth fell open.

“Yes, he’s…He’s a scientist,” she managed. He watched her.

“What kind of scientist?”

“Um…” Kestrel’s mind flew. “The last time I heard anything about him, he was working on something very controversial. The…I think it’s called the Paradox Initiative.”

His eyes narrowed.

“What’s that?”

“Exploring t
ime travel,” Kestrel said. “Self-replication, the interference principle…But it’s illegal to experiment.”

He turned his head, his attention shifting away—distancing. His jaw tightened. Kestrel risked a breath.

“Who are you?”

He glanced back at her
.

“
My name is Jack Wolfe,” he said.

“Why did you…I mean, why are you here?” Kestrel asked, her heart pounding so fast it was hard to breathe.

“You owe me a debt,” he said, keenly surveying the tops of the courtyard walls. “And you’ve got no reason to tell me stories.” He dug in his pocket, pulled out a little rattling white box and glanced down into it. His mouth tightened. He pulled out a short, white stick and put it in his mouth, then put the box back in his pocket. Then, he withdrew a small device and cupped one hand around the end of the white stick. He struck a flame. The light flashed across his face, illuminating the long scar across his forehead, and another one on his cheekbone that Kestrel hadn’t noticed before. He lit the end of the white stick, put the lighter away, and puffed delicate gray smoke through his lips.

“Who are you
really
?” Kestrel whispered.

He looked right at her. For a long moment, he didn’t move.

Then, something sharp and unreadable crossed his face.

The air vibrated.

A deep, sub-sonic disturbance thudded through Kestrel’s bones.

She jumped to her feet
and spun around.

“What—” she gasped, searching the
dark sky.

Harsh white lights flashed
up through her front yard, splintered by the leaves of the trees. The pulsing
thud-thud-thud
shook the ground. It lowered, settled—

Wolfe touched her elbow.

Something on the front of her house—a window, a door—bashed open and shattered.

Wolfe grabbed her.

“
Mom!”
Kestrel screamed. Wolfe yanked her backward, clapping a hand over her mouth. Kestrel lashed out, twisting to strike him in the neck, the face. He caught her other hand, wrenched her arms behind her, turned her and drove her out in front of him.

Something else smashed. Startled voices darted through her house. First her mom, then Mar
cus—then Aidus and her dad.

“Dad!
Dad!
” Kestrel shrieked. Wolfe spat the white stick onto the ground.

“Shut up,”
he snarled in her ear as he shoved his shoulder against the side gate. “Shut
up
or you’ll be dead.”

Kestrel’
s throat closed. They stumbled through the metal gate—it clanged shut after they passed through. Then, Wolfe leaned back and kicked the control panel of the garage. The side door hissed open. It was black in there. Wolfe threw her inside. Instantly, the smell of must, engine parts and paint filled her lungs. She couldn’t see anything.

Her shins barked against Thrix
. Wolfe shoved her down on her knees on the cement—he landed right behind her. He wrapped one arm all the way around her, binding her arms to her sides, and the other hand pressed over her mouth. He pulled her tightly back into his chest—she could feel him breathing, feel his heartbeat staggering against her spine. Kestrel’s eyes flashed.

He was afraid.

Kestrel tried to take a breath—he crushed her to him even tighter. She almost gagged on the stench of that dirty smoke.

Voices out front. Men
yelling.

Her mother and father protesting
—desperate.

Kestrel twitched.

“
Sh
,” Wolfe said through his teeth, the fingers of his left hand clenching the sleeve of her right arm. Then, she caught some of the shouted words.

“Where is your daughter?”

The tones sounded electronic—spoken through a distorting vox mask.

“I don’t know—What do you want?” her mother demanded. “You can’t come in here and—”

“We are authorized to take whatever measures are necessary,” the strange voice answered. “Where is she?”

“You come here and attack my house and expect me to tell you where my daughter is?” her dad raged. “Under
no
circumstances will I—”

“Then, sir, you’re
all coming with us,” said another voice.

Kestrel writhed
. Wolfe tightened down so hard her ribs felt like they were about to crack.

“You
can’t
—” her mom tried again—and then a chaos of shouting and howling erupted from every member of her family. Kestrel’s brow knotted. She swallowed repeatedly, but couldn’t move.

The voices shifted location—moved out from the house and onto the
lawn, toward the deep thudding and the lights. They faded—silenced.

Kestrel’s heart stopped.

Then—

“Search th
e house,” the machine-like voice ordered. “And open this garage.”

Wolfe, his hand still over her mouth,
turned Kestrel’s head to the right—he pressed the bridge of his nose to her temple and his lips moved against her ear.

“Is this a bike in front of us?” he breathed. “Nod if so.”

She gulped—managed a short nod.

“As s
oon as the door cracks open, jump on it and turn it on. Then lay flat on the console and keep your head down.”

Kestrel didn’t move. He shook her.

“Do you understand?”

She nodded again.

Many footsteps rang on the paving right outside the garage door. Keys beeped on the control panel. The overhead engine moaned.

A sliver of light sliced underneath the door.

Wolfe’s arms abruptly released her—he shoved her up and forward.

Kestrel fumbled for the saddle—her hands
slipped across the smooth leather. She clambered on and straddled the bike, and slapped her hands down on the handlebars.

The garage door swept up and open.

Five men waited outside, silhouetted sharply against the white light.

They had guns.

“
Good evening, Kestrel Evans
,” Thrix purred—and the powerful blastbike thrummed to life.

Wolfe leaped on behind her. He shoved her head down onto the console and pushed her hands off the bars. His whole chest pressed down on her back—he wrapped his legs around hers and planted his
heels on the footrests. Kestrel craned her neck to see out front…

“There!” one of the men cried, pointing.

Kestrel gasped.

Wolfe gunned it.

Thrix shot forward. Kestrel frantically grabbed the control board to keep from slipping off. The men threw themselves out of the way.

Th
e bike blazed out into the night, wind whipping through their clothes and hair. Kestrel managed to lift her head…

A
sleek black ship hovered just twenty feet above her front lawn. Spotlights mounted on its side blared stark illumination straight at her house. Wolfe headed right for it.