The Continuum, page 11
part #1 of Place in Time Series
Heavy footfalls on the other side of the door warn me that someone’s coming. The door bursts open and I’m suddenly face to face with a man wearing military fatigues and holding a rifle. He blinks in surprise.
Before he can utter a word, I dive between his body and the doorframe. The cold barrel of his gun brushes my elbow as I lunge past him, but that doesn’t stop me. My sudden move must’ve astonished him as much as me, because when he tries to step back, he trips over the threshold and his gun clatters to the floor.
In all my years as a Retriever, I’ve never acted so recklessly. The adrenaline shooting through me makes me smile like a lunatic as I run. Ahead, a door stands slightly ajar. The guard’s in pursuit—stomping and shouting behind me—so I fling myself through the doorway and pull the door shut behind me. The guard is making so much ruckus he probably can’t tell that my steps have stopped. He stumbles past and around another corner, breathing heavily.
The room I’ve shut myself into is a storage closet, full of sharp-smelling cleaning supplies. I pull up the map on my PVD, ducking into a corner so the hologram’s glow doesn’t spill into the hallway. I find my objective and make note of the turns I’ll need to take. Then I swat the map away and look around.
The closet is stuffed full of supplies, and I dig through box after box until I find something I can use as disguise. I pull my hair out of its ponytail, letting it hang down into my face. I throw a rumpled-up vest with a “Continuum Janitorial Services” emblem on it over my suit. A matching cap hides my eyes.
I may not look like an entirely different person, but the guard’s the only one who’d recognize me; anyone else might be fooled into thinking I belong here. Sometimes an excessive amount of confidence is the best disguise; pretend you belong, and no one else will doubt you, either.
Raising my chin, I emerge from my hiding place, brandishing a broom and dustpan, and walk briskly. Every hallway in this complex is identical: identical white walls, identical white doors. A tall, dark man with a similar cap walks past me.
“Evening,” I say, imitating his sharp nod.
Around the next corner, I find it: the plain, white door marked “FEEDS.”
The room is a hive of activity. The outer wall is a giant screen that encircles a dozen workstations. There, technicians observe smaller screens, their hands flying back and forth as they enter information. They look like a dozen feuding maestros conducting a dozen feuding symphonies. Fortunately, they’re so engrossed in their work that no one notices me as I pull off the cap and vest and ditch them, along with the broom, beside the door.
The scrolling, scanning, blinking, popping-up, and fading-away messages projected all around are mesmerizing.
“The top ten songs of the day are…”
“… and the stock market dropped another forty points…”
“…won by twenty-nine points after a…”
I scan one workstation and then the next. Finally, I find the technician whose screen displays the information about the asteroid crash. Her eyes flick back and forth along with the acrobatics of her hands, but as she inputs the information about the asteroid—harmless, they’re still saying—her face remains unaffected.
I close my eyes, contemplating what I’m about to do. I reach out to touch her shoulder, but before it connects, I catch a glimpse of my watch and it gives me pause.
Rule #8.
I don’t even belong here. This isn’t my era, and the changes I make could still have serious unintended consequences. But I can’t sit by and watch; that’d make me no better than Allen.
I touch her shoulder. Bright curls bounce as she turns, her eyebrows scrunched in confusion. “Who are you?”
“The Governing Committee sent me to relay the message in person, so there would be no mistake,” I say, my voice firm and commanding. “The asteroid damage is irreparable; we must call for an immediate evacuation.”
The room still buzzes with activity. Feeds scroll along on the screen behind the technician, but she remains immobile.
“Did you hear me?” I straighten to my full height and put as much force into my voice as I can. “This evacuation needs to take place now. People’s lives are at stake.”
“But—”
“Do it. Now.”
She shrinks beneath my glare and gestures helplessly at the screen. “I… I can’t. I’m just a technician. I’m not authorized to put out a red alert.”
I bite back a curse. If I’d really been sent by the Governing Committee, I’d have known that. Thinking fast, I lean in, right into her personal space, eking out every ounce of intimidation I possess. “Then find someone who can.”
She turns pale but rises from her seat, looking about nervously. I follow her across the room to another work station where a man with salt-and-pepper-hair sits, scowling at his screen.
“Excuse me, Mr. Veltman,” she says, her voice uncertain. “I have an officer here reporting an evacuation.”
“Evacuation? On whose orders?”
I step back, ready to fade into the shadows if this turns sour as I suspect it might when Redhead’s boss realizes I’m obviously not who I say I am.
“Th-the Governing Committee,” she stammers, gesturing toward me. “Apparently, that asteroid did more damage than initial reports indicated. The destruction is irreparable.”
He looks straight at me. “Is this true?”
“Yes, sir.” I force myself to stand upright, not to wilt beneath his piercing gaze. Please don’t ask for my credentials.
His silence seems endless, then is shattered as he lets loose a curse. “I knew that jolt felt too strong.”
His fingers fly, his orchestra of information reaching a crescendo when the words “CODE RED: EVACUATION” and “PROCEED TO THE ESCAPE PODS IN A PROMPT AND ORDERLY MANNER” flash across the wall in bold, red letters.
The effect is immediate. The others stop what they’re doing and leap from their stations. All the work that a moment ago was so important is forgotten. The silent symphonies have devolved into a dissonant buzz of panic and confusion.
“I thought they were taking care of the breach—that it was fine.”
“It’s straight from the Governing Committee.” The redhead raises her hands in defense.
This sets off a new round of frantic twitters. I back away slowly, relieved that the message is out. Everyone will be safe in the escape pods before anyone realizes the message didn’t really come from the Committee.
The ensuing chaos is perfect for making my escape, but before I can turn, I’m pulled backward and the prick of a needle pierces my neck. My brain, suddenly fuzzy, registers a familiar mustached face looking down upon me before everything goes dark.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR:
April 14, 2112
I wake groggily, fighting for mental clarity.
The asteroid. The communication feeds. The injection.
I tug on my hands, but they remain still and slightly numb.
“Elise! Are you awake?”
I jerk about and immediately regret it. My head throbs, and black spots dot my vision. I can’t even turn all the way around. “Chandler?”
“No, it’s the Pope. Child, I absolve you from your sins.”
I groan, both at his joke and at our present situation. We’re tied together, back to back on the Observatory floor. At any moment, the breach in the levels above us could split the ship wide open, and we’d be sucked out into space.
“Chandler, we don’t have time for small talk. Allen—”
“Yeah, I know,” Chandler says. “I was here earlier, behind those crates with a handkerchief shoved in my mouth and a splitting headache.”
“So you heard everything?”
“I was on the verge of blacking out, but I got the gist. You’d think with all the technology here Allen would come up with something better than tying us up with rope.”
“We surprised him. He was ready for me later, though, with that injection.”
“Did you warn everyone?” His voice wavers.
“Yeah.” My gut lurches again. However this turns out, I’m partially responsible.
“Dodge should have his PVD on; he sleeps with it when I’m out at night, in case I need to get a hold of him.” Chandler shifts, and the rope digs into my skin, burning the tender area around my wrists.
“Hey, that hurts!”
“Sorry. I guess I should have paid more attention to those old James Bond movies.”
“What?” How can he joke around, even now?
“Look, I know you spend a lot of time attending balls and riding in chariots and whatnot, but how do you not know who James Bond is?”
“I know who he is,” I say, though admittedly, the part about the balls and chariots is true. “I just don’t see how it’s relevant.”
“He always found some crazy way to escape from these kinds of situations. Hey! We could burn the rope like Indiana Jones.”
“Do you have anything to start a fire?”
“Nope. You?”
“Nope.” I scan the room. There has to be something. “Wait… I think I’ve got it.”
“What?”
“Allen smashed a Wormhole Device in here. The broken outer shell will have sharp edges. Can you get to the pieces?”
The ropes tighten again as Chandler strains to look across the floor. “Wait, I see them. You’ll have to help me scoot over there.” He shifts to reposition himself. “On the count of three. One, two, three.”
We inch toward the elevator, pressing against each other’s backs and walking out our legs in an awkward crab-crawl. It takes longer than expected and much longer than Indiana Jones would’ve taken, but eventually we make it, panting with exertion.
“I can almost reach it.” His back presses into mine as he extends his leg. It takes a few tries, but then he exclaims, “Got it!”
The shard grinds along the glass floor. Chandler struggles against the bonds, and I shift with him, trying to avoid being crushed.
He fumbles around, trying to get a good grip on it. He curses, and it rattles back onto the floor. Warm blood trickles down my hand, and I jerk in surprise.
“Hold still.” He grits his teeth and reaches for it again.
“Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea…” I say, but when no other options come to mind, I fall silent.
“This isn’t as easy as it looks in the movies,” Chandler says, still working away at the bindings. I bite my lip, trying to hold still despite the slickness tracing the lines of my hands. Any movement might cause the makeshift blade to sink into my own skin, which makes me woozy just thinking about it.
“How long was I out?” I ask. “We only have until just after midnight.”
“Not long; maybe five minutes or so.” The moments tick by, agonizingly slow. Finally, the ropes snap into two pieces, and we break apart like polarized magnets. “All right, Cinderella, let’s get out of here.”
I rub my wrists. They’re red and sore, but fortunately, the bindings didn’t break the skin. “Cinderella? That’s the best you could come up with?”
He smiles through a grimace. Blood drips from his left hand. “It was the midnight reference. I had to go with it. Don’t tell me you don’t know that story.”
“The Cinderella story has been around for centuries. I’ve probably heard more versions of it than you have. Here, let me see.”
I pry Chandler’s fist open to get a good look at his cut. The jagged edges open to reveal muscle underneath. The raw, red sight makes me ill.
“We need to clean this out.”
“No time.” He points to my watch, which says 22:53. We have a little over an hour. Chandler touches his face.
“No, no, no,” he says, looking around in panic.
“What? What happened? Stop flinging that arm around; you’re going to pull the cut open even more.”
“He took our PVDs.”
“Don’t you think we have bigger things to worry about right now?” I sit on the floor, pull off one of my boots, and peel away my sock. Synthetic materials must’ve come a long way in the last hundred years, because it’s still dry and smells clean, despite the sweat shimmering on my skin.
“Without the PVD, I can’t contact Dodge.” Desperation fills Chandler’s eyes with frightening intensity. “You have to help me find him. I promise, once he’s safely on one of those escape pods, you can do whatever you need to with me.”
I wind the sock around Chandler’s palm as tightly as I can, avoiding eye contact. His offer is clear: his life for Dodge’s.
“Keep pressure on that.” I tug my boot back on. “Let’s run.”
The lift lurches beneath us, and Chandler and I exchange a look. All lightheartedness dissolves as the peril of the situation hits us. This elevator shaft is near the damaged portion of the ship, the section that will only hold for another hour before it tears the colony to shreds. Assuming that our presence won’t somehow hasten the destruction.
I don’t exhale until the doors creak open.
As soon as we step onto solid ground, something snaps behind us. Before the doors even shut, the lift drops out of sight. A crash echoes under our feet and throws us to the ground. Plumes of dust burst from the diminishing crack as the doors slide shut again. The harsh smoke, reeking of chemicals, burns my eyes and throat.
Chandler pulls me up and together we dash toward the escape pods. The Wormhole bounces against my thigh, and I’m tempted to press my thumb against the button, to yank myself back to my own time, except…
I stumble as I realize what I’ve done to myself. When Allen asked for the device, I gave him mine, thinking I could send Chandler back to TUB and Dr. Wells could simply send another Retriever for me later. But there will be no ‘later’ for the Continuum, and without my Wormhole, I need one of those escape pod seats as much as anyone else.
“You okay?” Chandler asks, seeing that I’ve fallen behind.
“Yeah, go on ahead. I’ll catch up. I’m just a little out of shape.” Another lie.
He shoots me a frown of concern but takes off, even faster than before. I pull out the device and punch my thumb against the button, knowing it’s pointless. The security lock prevents anyone except Chandler from using it, including me.
My feet feel like lead, but I pick them up and race toward the escape pods.
The crowd is visible from a distance. My limbs are already numb and achy, but I grit my teeth and push on to catch up with Chandler. He’s a few yards ahead, clutching his bandaged hand to his chest and shouting Dodge’s name.
An enormous panel of the hangar bay has been retracted, and the crowd funnels in, arranging themselves according to their apartment’s letter designation. Officials bearing firearms scan each person’s retina before allowing them into the pod.
I hang back, focused on the lines nearest to me. These final ones—X and Y—are the shortest by far. Are the colony’s most elderly members still asleep in their beds? Or struggling to make the trek from the solar train?
A few older men gather off to one side, talking in low voices and shaking their heads. It brings to mind depictions of the Titanic’s last moments, of the gentlemen who remained onboard after kissing their loved ones goodbye.
“I’ve seen mosh pits more organized than this,” Chandler says. He scans the crowd, and I join him, shouting Dodge’s name over the din. “He should be here, by the pod for apartment Y.”
“Maybe they put him in another line because he’s a minor.”
“Maybe.” He looks doubtful.
“I’ll check the other lines.”
I push through the crowd. Someone bumps into me, nearly knocking me over in a mad desperation to fight his way to the front of the line. An infant peers over his mother’s shoulder, his eyes wide. She gently pushes his head into her chest, trying to shield him from the chaos. The noise drowns out any intelligible conversation. Individual words muddle together, churning in a sea of panic and confusion.
Suddenly, one face stands out, as if illuminated by a spotlight. He wears the same suit as everyone else, yet it hangs on his frame with an unexpected elegance. Though the crowd pushes and shoves, he stands like a boulder in a stream, silent and still. He watches those around him, and his hardened features fracture. One moment, he’s frozen; the next is as if he’s awoken, recognizing where he is and what’s happening around him. He looks up and meets my eyes. In that moment, amid all the commotion, we are still, silent, and connected.
We’re two travelers, standing at opposite ends of the maddening crowd, drawn together by our common past, our shared present, and our knowledge of the future, yet separated by all that’s happened between us. The moment passes, pushed out of existence by the moment that succeeds it. Allen lifts his hand—a tip of a hat from another time—then turns and disappears into the crowd.
Someone grabs me. It’s Chandler, beside me again. “Elise, I just realized… You’re not in the system. You don’t have an apartment assignment. You’re not supposed to be here, and the diplomat ships? You’d better believe those were the first to leave.”
Technically speaking, he’s not supposed to be here either, but then it dawns on me what he’s saying. He’s added himself to the system, but I’m not on any Continuum manifests—as a citizen or a diplomat. I don’t have a seat on the pods; there won’t be room for me. I have to Extract. I glance back to where Allen disappeared into the crowd.
I have one last chance.
“Go,” I say. “Find Dodge. Get to an escape pod. I’ll find you again if I can.”
“But—” He reaches for me, looking pointedly at the suit’s pocket where I carry the Wormhole.
Ignoring him, I take off, threading my way through the crowd, desperately searching for the one person I’d never wanted to see again.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE:
April 14, 2112
When I burst out of the launch bay, the stagnant, sweat-filled air clears and—to my alarm—it feels thinner. Something’s not right with the colony’s atmosphere. I work harder at each breath than I’m used to. The difference is subtle, and most people wouldn’t notice it, especially in their current panic.
