Time Siege (46 page)

“Hey, what did you do that for?” Smitt walked to the balcony and looked over the side.

James got up and paced the balcony. This boredom was driving him insane. Dox and Chawr were standing guard outside. The flyguards had wised up to all his attempts to let him out or sneak him a drink. No matter how many bribes or threats he threw their way, they were adamant. He was proud of them for standing up to him, though mostly he just wanted to beat them to a pulp. His throat was constantly parched, and he wanted nothing more than to purge this thirst inside him.

There was a knock on the door, and Chawr stuck his head in. “Elder, there's someone to see you.”

“Is it Elise or Sasha?”

Chawr shook his head sympathetically. He was used to James asking him that by now. Every time someone came to visit, that was the first question out of James's mouth, and nearly every time, it was just Titus, Grace, or Franwil. It was getting to the point it pained James to even ask, but he couldn't help himself.

He should be used to the disappointment by now, but every time, James felt his heart drop into his stomach. How long were they going to keep punishing him? It had been over two weeks that he'd been locked up and they hadn't visited yet. It was starting to kill him. If anything, the urge to see them was becoming stronger than his urge to drink. The fact that almost everyone else had paid him a visit so far put him in a foul mood.

“Tell the Geriatric Brigade I don't feel like talking to them today.”

“It's not any of the Oldests.” Chawr hesitated. “It's Maanx.”

“Abyss fuck me.”

The young asshole couldn't wait until he got out, huh? Coming to gloat while James was in rehab was terrible form. He wondered if it'd set back his rehabilitation if he kicked the crap out of this kid again. It might just be worth a few extra weeks here in prison. Wait, no. The longer he was locked up here, the longer he wasn't going to see Sasha and Elise.

Smitt materialized again, on the couch, and stared intently as James walked toward the door. For some reason, the more he tried to ignore Smitt, the more that damn ghost kept appearing, offering unwanted advice and dropping his one-liners.

“Are you really going to keep pretending I'm not here, my friend?” Smitt asked. “Am I the thousand-kilo mutant in the room?”

“You're actually not, and you've always talked too much,” James muttered under his breath. He nodded at Chawr to let the Flatiron commander in and readied himself to take a heap of abuse. Grace said he should apologize to the young commander when James got out of here. He might as well get it over with now, here in private, rather than having to do it publicly in front of his whole tribe. Chawr escorted Maanx in a few seconds later. James noted how strategically the flyguard placed himself between the two.

“Commander,” he began. “Thank you for paying me a visit and saving me the effort of finding you. I want to apologize for the unfortunate—”

“You're a chronman,” Maanx said.

“Um, is that a question?” James replied.

“My father trained me to fight. He fought like you do.”

“Well, maybe not quite like me.” James wasn't sure where Maanx was going with this.

“The Teacher was once a chronman.”

Of course. He had noticed Maanx's moves were reminiscent of those used in Academy training, albeit a faint and sloppy impression of them, as if he had learned secondhand. In this case, he seemed to have learned from an ex-chronman who was thirty years out of practice. It also explained why out of all the tribes that the Flatirons fought off, they had agreed to let in the Elfreth. The story of how Elise and Crowe came to an agreement had always felt off, like some facts were missing. Now it all made sense.

“I did not know that. I would love to speak with the Teacher.”

“My father was already old when I was born. He taught me what he knew of his chronman training, but I know he has already forgotten more than he remembers.” Maanx walked past James to the middle of the room and turned around. “Teach me what he has forgotten.”

That threw James. The last thing he thought the Flatiron commander would want was to learn from him. Could this hothead even be taught? Was he willing to listen and obey James's instructions? Did James even want to teach the kid? He wasn't sure.

“I'm not sure if this is a good idea. I'm in recovery, and there's a lot of people out there who think we just got into a brawl. The last thing I want them to see is us fighting more, even if it's practice. Besides, combat training is a teacher-student relationship. Are you sure you want to subject—”

“The Flatirons are at war. I need to be strong for my tribe.” Maanx dropped to a knee and made a fist with his two hands. It was the same pose used by initiates at the Academy during training. “Master.”

“Get up, man.” James fidgeted as the Teacher's son remained kneeling in front of him. “Before someone sees this. Where did you learn that salute anyway?”

“Will you teach me, chronman?”

Chawr raised his hand. “I'd like to learn, too, Elder.”

“I'm not opening an academy here.”

The flyguard shrugged. “I'm just saying. If you're going to teach the Flatiron commander, I want in as well.”

Just like that, in the middle of a rehabilitation stint, James acquired his first two initiates. He had never taught anyone before; the Academy disapproved of chronmen interacting with initiates. James thought it was because the directors and teachers feared the initiates would quit once they learned the truth about a chronman's life.

Starting that morning, James began training them the only way he knew how. He followed the strict discipline and structure that the Academy had instilled in him, half hoping that they would get disillusioned after the novelty wore off. Chawr and Maanx were attentive and enthusiastic students, though. The three of them spent the afternoon running through several basic exercises as he gauged their skills.

Right away, he noticed Maanx was a natural. The lad was not only physically talented, he was quick in his head as well as on his feet. He was also curious, often asking the right questions, which escaped Chawr's grasp. Now James realized that Maanx's position as a commander of the Flatirons wasn't just due to nepotism. The kid might have the personality of a troll, but he had abilities. If he had joined the Academy at an earlier age, he could have made a fine chronman.

They worked straight through dinner, and by the time they finished, all three were drenched in sweat. James felt wiped out as he toweled himself off. He nodded to his new students as they cooled down with the stretching exercises he showed them. He had been in so much pain from the withdrawal and so stationary in this room that he had forgotten how good it felt to move again. Moving around with the alcohol purged from his body felt strange, and all the sensations and reactions that had once been familiar now felt foreign. One would think his abilities would have sharpened, but if anything, they were much worse than before. James tried to tell himself that his diminishing reflexes were just the result of his acclimating to life without the drink constantly in his veins.

“Can we do this tomorrow morning?” Maanx asked eagerly.

“I have to help with the farm,” Chawr said. “Can we start earlier?”

James made a face. “Let's see how you guys feel in the morning. There's no need to rush things.”

He watched as the two bowed and walked into the next room, chatting pleasantly. He figured those two had never shared a word between them before. A smile appeared on his face as he made his way to bed. He hurt all over as he crawled his way into the sheets. Today had been a good day.

“Day's not over yet,” Smitt said, appearing next to him on the chair.

“Go away,” James said, lying on his back and closing his eyes. “I'm not talking to you.”

“You can't ignore me forever,” Smitt said. “In fact, I think it's time we figure this out.”

“You're not real, just a hallucination from lag sickness and drink.”

“You only think that, my friend. You've quit time traveling and drinking. Why am I still here?”

James turned over and drifted off to sleep with Smitt's words bouncing around in his head. Why was Smitt still there? The hallucinations of Grace, Sasha, and the Nazi soldier had all faded. He had seen them only in brief glimpses here and there, and usually as barely more than anything other than shadows in the background. This was his psyche telling him something, but what? Sleep draped over him quickly, and for a few beautiful seconds, everything was black and serene.

James opened his eyes and found himself sitting at the Tilted Orbit back at Himalia Station. Smitt was sitting next to him, pouring them both a shot of whiskey. He slid one over to James, and grinned. “See, I did warn you. You can't ignore me forever.”

 

FORTY-FIVE

C
LOSURE

James stared down at the brown liquid sloshing around the glass cup. Half of it had spilled onto the counter when Smitt slid it over. He immediately felt the alcohol's pull on his body, as if it were a miniature black hole sucking him in. He caught himself staring even as he tried to look away.

“Why are you doing this? I'm trying to be clean.”

Smitt acted surprised. “Oh, so now you're talking to me.”

James's arms trembled and he willed them to stay flat on the counter. He couldn't pick up the glass. If he did, all his suffering and sacrifice would be for nothing. “Get that thing out of my sight. Please.”

Smitt chuckled, took the glass, and gulped it down. “Too bad. That was a twenty-first-century double-barrel Luxe Empire special. Your favorite.”

“What is Luxe whiskey doing in a dump like this?” James's breathing became labored and he squeezed his eyes shut.

“Why indeed, James.”

This had to be a dream. A bottle of Luxe whiskey would cost more than this bar was worth. He turned from the counter and studied the rest of the Tilted Orbit. Now that he looked more closely, everything felt off about the whole place. Yet it wasn't like the vivid dreams he often suffered through where he couldn't tell reality from constructs in his head.

The bar, while loud, felt dead, flat. The patrons were darkened, as if shadows that had come to life. They all sat alone or in small groups with their heads down. He couldn't see anyone's eyes, nor could he hear voices speaking above the chatter. Where was the noise coming from?

“The real question is,” Smitt said, pouring more of the precious Luxe-era whiskey into the glass, “if you know this is a dream, and now know this wondrous Luxe whiskey in front of you isn't real, would it hurt to have a sip? Is it cheating still?”

James looked down at the brown aromatic liquid calling to him. Beads of sweat dribbled down the side of his face. He gulped and stared. It didn't matter. His mind was as sick as his body. Just because this was a dream didn't make it any different, make him want the whiskey any less. He backhanded the glass, spilling its precious contents onto the counter. He jumped off the stool and stormed out of the bar. James kept walking until he was fifty meters outside the entrance. He hunched over and threw up.

Smitt materialized next to him, patting him on his back. “Well done.”

“That was cruel,” James choked, spitting out whatever was left in his mouth.

“You needed to realize what this is,” Smitt said, pointing at their surroundings. “How what's happening here can affect you just as much as when you're awake.”

“So that was a test?” James scowled. “Asshole.”

“Oh, lighten up, James.” Smitt shrugged. “Besides, I'm just a construct of your imagination, so technically, you're the asshole.”

“No one ever argued against that.”

“Come on,” Smitt said cheerfully, pulling him up by the elbow and pointing straight at the wall.

He snapped his fingers, and suddenly they were standing in front of Earth Central. It had been nearly a year since James had seen the behemoth facility, and he was struck by how different it looked from what he remembered. Director Young had always prided himself on keeping ChronoCom's primary facility in relatively good shape. This was unlike him. Like everything else in this dream, Earth Central looked drab, dark, and dirty, as if they were in the future and Chicago, which wasn't very clean to begin with, had finally succumbed to Earth Plague.

“Why are we here?” he asked.

“I want to show you something.”

The two continued down the once-familiar hallways. James had spent much of his Tier-2 and Tier-4 days at Earth Central. He recalled the first time he had stepped foot here, after his first transfer to Earth. Back then, he was still innocent and believed in the agency, believed in its noble goals. He remembered how he stood in awe of the facility, and how after spending most of his life on space stations and in underground colonies, he had reveled in Earth's openness. That was a long time ago. He was quite the idiot back then.

Now, as they walked through the main halls of the agency, past the Watcher's Board, which kept count of all agency personnel, through the ship hangar, and past his old quarters, the memories rushed back to him. Everything was a lie. This agency had long been corrupted, tainted by the influences of the megacorporations and their greed.

They entered the Hops, where the handlers babysat their chronmen. James saw another Smitt working furiously at one of the stations, sweat pouring down his face. His face was bloated and his clothing unkempt. Well, more unkempt and wrinkled than usual. He appeared skittish, continually looking over his shoulder. James looked to his left at the Smitt he had walked here with. They were definitely the same person, but not. The Smitt working at the console looked like he had gained fifteen kilos and hadn't slept in six months. James turned to the Smitt standing next to him. “Is this the future, because that you over there looks like shit.”