Drift pattern, p.4
Drift Pattern, page 4
Finally, Luci says, “What you propose sounds nearly impossible. Even if the drift pattern was real, what makes you believe that I can crack something like that anyway?”
There’s a pause as something odd happens. The older man turns to Royse before answering as if to gain confirmation from the subordinate. Royse gives a slight shrug, and Macer looks back to Luci. “Again, this is very real, and I know that you can do it and will do it because you wrote the drift pattern a long time ago . . . or better said, you will develop it in your future nine years from now.”
Unexpectedly, he grabs the door handle and shoves it open. He looks back in at her as he pulls the hood of the raincoat over his head. “Come on. I wish to show you something.”
~ Five ~
May 22, 1863: The Territory of Colorado
1 mile northeast of Oro City
Tu teritqri uv kolOrodO
1 mIl nOTEst uv QrO siti
[39.2508223/106.2925242/4.603.391.688/4828:21:17]
mA 22, 1863
prE-hI nO kqwu
Cavazos contemplates playing dead and staying in the busted stagecoach, but then he remembers who and what he represents to the city. His blood boils at the audacity of these sanctimonious anarchists. The haze of dust inside the cab makes his eyes water as he tries to right himself in the sideways carriage. The effort results in blinding pain. After a few seconds, he winces, grits his teeth, and makes another attempt. Part resolve to punish the culprits and part sickening curiosity forces Cavazos to extend his head through the window, now positioned above him. He nurses the injured arm against his chest, keeping it as immobile as possible.
“Good afternoon, Councilman,” a masculine voice behind him calls out, mocking his predicament. “Now, you wouldn’t have any weapons in there, would you?”
More out of spite than courage, he turns to face the trio on horseback. “Who do you think you are? I’ll have every one of you—”
“Just answer the question, sir. Do you have any weapons with you in there?” The tone is less friendly.
Cavazos steals a glance down inside the coach at the steamer trunk. As far as he knows, it’s not a weapon. If the riders are only after him, he can abandon it and return later after this is sorted out. “No weapons . . . I have no weapons in here.”
“Are you the only one in there? No cybos?”
Cavazos grits his teeth and thinks that if he’d been traveling with his cybo guards, these criminals would already be cooked from the inside out. “No, I’m alone in here. It’s just me.”
The trio’s horses shift in place, the effect of unspent adrenaline. Still, the riders hold them in a tight formation. The female culprit of the three says something to the others but too softly for Cavazos to make out. He looks her over; she’s too stocky for his tastes. He consoles himself that the flat-faced woman is probably a lesbian anyway. Streams of sweat trickle down his face, but he doesn’t dare wipe it for fear that any movement may be mistaken for aggression, and each rider has a churka at their side.
After a tense silence, he calls out, “Hey, I’m hurt over here! I’m pretty sure my arm is broken.” He scans their faces but can’t get a read on what’s happening, and that’s alarming. “Did you bring a heal kit to this interval with you?” He hates to sound weak, especially in front of this trio of twisted nihilists, but the pain in his arm is intense, and pride is a luxury he’s willing to suspend to end it.
The slender man in his mid-forties looks to the butch woman. She gestures to the ground, and she and the larger man dismount. As they soothe their horses, the man remaining on horseback says, “I’m Noah Beaumont, and these two are my colleagues from Relicus City.” The woman takes calculated steps toward the stagecoach, fixing her churka on Cavazos. The big man and youngest of the three holsters his in a side catch of his animal leathers and approaches the coach more casually.
Beaumont points at him. “Jonn here is going to help you down, so don’t try anything.”
Cavazos acknowledges with a nod of the head. “Do you have a heal kit or not? I’ll be more lenient on whichever the three of you gives me a kit.” The offer invokes a shared chuckle from the trio, a sound that makes his stomach tighten into a knot. He blurts out, “What do you want?”
The question goes unanswered as Jonn scales the busted coach reaching for him. The woman continues moving like a predator, searching for an optimum angle with her churka. Jonn grabs Cavazos roughly by the shoulder, sending more white dots of pain across his vision. He gasps but refuses to give him the satisfaction of crying out. He grunts in a voice that only the man can hear, “Young man . . . Jonn, if you get me out of this, I’ll see to it that you’re rewarded. Fry these other two for me, and you’ll never have to work another day in your life.”
Jonn spins Cavazos around to face him. With a smug smile, he points at the severed lobe of his right ear. “I’m sorry, but I don’t think so, sir.”
The absence of a one-inch ruby stud piercing tightens the knot in Cavazos’s stomach. “Where’s . . . what did you do with your Viatorio?” he stammers.
Jonn ignores the question. “Let’s get you down before the boss gets here.”
“Huh, before . . . who’s coming? Is it Cyphor Gicul, is he here?”
Without answering, Jonn deadlifts him up and out of the stagecoach opening. More pain shoots through Cavazos’s body as he slumps to a sitting position against the upturned coach. He shouts to Beaumont, who is still on horseback, “Do you work for him . . . for Cyphor Gicul?”
Beaumont looks over at the woman, who appears to be the group’s de facto leader, for a second time, then tucks his churka into the side catch holster with nonchalance and nudges his horse to advance. The animal slowly trots up to where Cavazos sits, and Beaumont guides it in a pacing motion before his captive. The unique equine scent of the beast distracts Cavazos as he reflects on a time in the future when animals like this won’t exist.
Jarring him back to reality, Beaumont says, “You know, my late father worked under you many years ago when you headed up the Ministry of Information.” He clicks his tongue. “But that . . . that was a long time ago.”
The mention of his position of importance emboldens him. Looking up at Beaumont, he commands, “Son, I demand that you answer my question! Do you know who Cyphor Gicul is or not?”
The ruby rectangle of the Viatorio is missing from his ear. Beaumont shrugs. “Can’t say that I’ve ever met Gicul, but we do work for his same purpose, for L’inversione.”
The group’s name makes Cavazos’s jaw clench. “If you free me and help set a trap for Gicul, I won’t order you to a Carcerium chamber or cybo reconditioning. I’ll act as if this never happened. In fact, I’ll make the three of you heroes and name a city holiday in your honor. No one has to know about any of this.”
The woman answers for them, “That’s a generous offer, but how exactly would you both keep us anonymous and at the same time name a day of honor after us? Sounds like some of those New Australia lies if you ask me.”
Before Cavazos can respond, Beaumont jumps back in. “Thanks, but it’s not up to me anyway.”
“Then who’s it up to?” Cavazos growls with no attempt to mask his frustration.
“Oh, he’s on his way,” the female of the group butts in. “He’ll be glad to see you, though I suspect you may not be as happy to see him.”
The sardonic way she delivers the line sends a chill down Cavazos’s spine more intensely than the throbbing agony of his arm. He goes on the offensive. “You murdered those men I hired. They were residents of the interval. Furthermore, you killed them using non-interval tools. That’s a violation of article six of the edict.”
She speaks again. “Article six, huh? Yeah, well, while that is very unfortunate, some costs and certain actions are necessary to achieve our goals to set things right. But you shouldn’t have involved those men. You put them at risk when you hired them, which I believe is also a violation.”
Beaumont lifts his hat to wipe his brow and snugly returns it. “She’s right, but then again, we’ve broken a lot of rules to get to you today.” He points to his own severed earlobe.
“It’s here!” Jonn shouts from within the coach. It’s obvious to Cavazos that the best locks that money could buy from this interval were no match for whatever device Jonn used on it.
As if brought to life, Beaumont quickly dismounts from the horse to join his partner. The woman moves directly in front of where Cavazos sits, never lowering the churka.
With the Jonn and Beaumont occupied inside of what’s left of the coach, Cavazos makes a desperate plea to her. “I beg you to let me out of here. You can have whatever’s in the case. Just let me go. I’ll give you anything.”
She speaks for the first time where he can hear. “Yes, I bet you would. The problem is that we already have what we want now, so you have nothing left to bargain with.” She takes a few steps forward, angling the churka dangerously at his heart. The barrel is only inches away. “The fact that you forced us to track you down and chase you through this forsaken interval just compounds our aggravation. We’ve been waiting for you to arrive here for nine and a half months and are none too happy about it. We’ve got four and a half days before the twin of the juncture you came through occurs, and it can’t get here fast enough for me.” She presses the end of the weapon against his arm, igniting a wave of anguish. “I say take a look around at this blue sky, Councilman Cavazos, because these are probably the clouds that you’re going to die under.”
Tears stream over his puffy cheeks. “Please, don’t. It doesn’t have to be this way. I’m sure that we can find a compromise. I could remain here . . . here in this interval. Just let me live.”
To his astonishment, she takes a few steps away from him. He gnaws his bottom lip, wondering how he’s convinced her. Her boots scrape across gravel as she takes more steps away from him, but the weapon remains fixed on his heart. She smiles a wicked smile. “Like the man said, it’s not up to us. It’s up to the one who’s coming for you.”
The way she gleefully says it chills him despite the Colorado heat. Who is their boss that’s “coming for him,” and more importantly, how much will Cavazos have to offer to buy him off?
~ Six ~
April 09, 2032: Baltimore, Maryland
bxltimQr-mcriland
[39.482315/77.069092/4.603.391.857/2374:54:08]
April 09, 2032
prE-hI nO kqwu
Royse shakes water from the large umbrella and leans it against the inside metal entrance door of the warehouse as Luci and Macer continue walking through the cavernous area. The rain sounds like applause, and Luci flashes back to the start of her lecture in the theater a few hours ago. The analytical regions of her brain run through the events of how she arrived in this defenseless situation. She chastises herself again for not carrying the pepper spray that her fiancé Michael had given to her. Macer refused when she asked to get her bag from the trunk, saying that she wouldn’t need it where they were going. She neglected to form a contingency for this response and was forced to go along with it. She assures herself that whatever is really going on here, she’ll be able to debunk it soon enough and be on her way. She simply needs more facts to process.
Other than the rain striking the roof, the only sound is their footsteps echoing off the dusty concrete floor up to a high ceiling that disappears into the darkness above. The combined smell of petroleum, grease, rust, and mildew is a strong indicator that whatever this place was originally used for, it’s been out of service for a while. At the other end of the deserted space hangs a naked lightbulb. It dangles from a long extension cord double-wrapped around an overhead beam.
Below the light is a figure bent over a cheap folding table. A flickering glow from a device illuminates a woman’s face. She looks up as they approach and regards Luci as if she’s seen a ghost, but the woman had to know she was coming. The woman stammers a bit, her voice echoing throughout the area, “Sir, we have a little under twenty minutes.”
The battered pressboard table she stands behind is like an island in a sea of nothingness. The lone item is a device that looks like a translucent computer tablet vertically balanced at a seventy-degree angle. As they reach the table, Macer asks the woman, “Did you get it?”
She peels her eyes away from Luci long enough to verify something on the device. “He’s sent it, and it’s nearly here, sir. Once it arrives, I’ll queue it up and have it ready to activate in a few minutes.” The woman is strikingly exotic in appearance. A no-nonsense short style of platinum white hair frames the girl’s white porcelain face, petite nose, and mouth. Her eyes shine a brilliant emerald green. It’s hardly a surprise that there’s a rectangle ear stud peeking out from her sharply cut hair. All three of the strangers have one. Though her elven features make it hard to tell, Luci guesses she’s in her mid-twenties. If Luci didn’t know better, she’d think she was looking at a human-sized version of an albino Tinker Bell, except for those mystical green eyes—that’s definitely not an albino trait.
“Luci, I’d like to introduce you to someone,” Macer says, motioning for her to come around from the table. “This is Luci Gaudiano. And Luci, this is my technical officer of sorts for today’s leap skip, Shar Ryson.”
Dumbfounded by the woman’s appearance, Luci forgets that the woman is complicit in whatever’s going on here and extends her hand by reflex. She quickly pulls it back in as Shar offers a bow. “Yes, Luci, I’m pleased to meet you. It’s an honor.”
Though she can’t put her finger on it, something is peculiar in Shar’s delivery. Luci’s response is awkward. “Uh . . . yeah, thanks . . . I guess.”
Luci faces the man beside her. “So, what’s really going on here, Mr. Macer?”
“Please call me Enos. I insist.”
Shar’s eyes widen at the request and how quickly the girl catches herself and returns to the odd-looking device.
Royse approaches with two metal folding chairs. He sets them up facing each other and then takes his place behind the one intended for his boss.
“That won’t be necessary, Royse,” Macer says. “We’re not going to be in here for long.”
Shar says, “Sorry to interrupt, sir, but the validation item just made it through.”
“Perfect,” Macer says, dismissing her with a nod and wave of the hand. Shar disappears into the darkness. A moment later, a shaft of light on the far side of the warehouse shines briefly as she opens a door into another room. Luci notes this—it may be an exit route out of here. Royse’s large frame is a motionless statue behind his boss, but his eyes continuously scan the area. The tension is real, leaving Luci wondering what they’re so afraid of. If no one knows she’s here, why are they so on guard?
“What’s going on, Enos?” Luci asks, scanning their faces. “Why is everyone so tense?” This can’t be real, but these people are genuinely wound up about something. And true or not, that can be a volatile mix. “Do you feel that we’re in danger from something?”
Macer nods to Royse, who says, “We may not be the only ones who have come for you this evening.”
The response is so sincere and matter of fact that it winds her. “Who else is after me and why?”
Royse answers for him, “There are those that want us stopped and hope to see that our mission fails tonight.”
Luci looks at Macer, who’s studying her reaction. “Another group from the future like the three of you?” The idea of being the object in some twisted game of capture the flag sends a shiver down her spine. “What do they want me for? Are they doing drift pattern things too?”
Macer says, unblinking, “No, they want to execute you.”
Her knees weaken a bit, but she manages to find her footing and not fall face first into the rickety-looking table. Before she can utter another question, Macer adds, “They want the opposite of what we need you for. They want to prevent your work on drift pattern.”
Luci’s eyes don’t blink as she studies him for any trace that his response is a joke told in poor taste. “You’re saying that these people want to kill me to stop the drift pattern from being created?”
He answers without any preamble, “Yes.”
Royse leans toward Macer. “Sir, Shar says the item’s ready.”
“Wait, I have more questions,” Luci protests as Macer heads in the direction that Shar went off to minutes ago.
Without glancing back at her, he says, “Dr. Gaudiano, we really must be going. And not to alarm you, but we really shouldn’t be out here in the open. It truly is a risk for any of us to stay in one place too long.”
Royse reaches for her elbow to nudge her along, but she jerks it back swiftly. “You don’t want to alarm me?” she says with a raised voice. “You just told me people from the future are coming to kill me. That’s pretty alarming.”
Royse says in a reserved but firm tone, “It’s time to go. You can ask questions later.” He grabs Shar’s device from the table and uses the light of the glowing translucent screen like a lantern behind Luci, lighting the trio’s steps.
Luci walks quickly to catch up to Macer. “I need to know something before we go any further.”
He continues moving to the other side of the warehouse, maintaining his stride.
“Mr. Macer, wouldn’t it make more sense to wait until I figured out this drift pattern thing for you to visit me? By coming to me now before I’ve solved the equation or whatever it is, is a little like getting the winning Super Bowl quarterback while he’s still in diapers learning to walk. You said I develop this DPM thing in 2041. Why are you here today instead of nine years from now?”
Macer stops and is clearly agitated as he turns to Royse. “This was a lot easier before.”
Royse acknowledges the statement with a shrug. “To be expected, sir. Everything was further along for that, and there was no convincing to be done. Plus, Shar was the one—”
