Timeline (44 page)

Kate backed away, realizing that this center beam was too wide, too easy for him. She walked laterally along a horizontal rafter, heading toward the side wall. This horizontal rafter was only six inches wide; he would have trouble. She clambered around a difficult cross-braced section, then continued on.

Only then did she realize her mistake.

Generally, open medieval ceilings had a structural detail where they met the wall — another brace, a decorative beam, some sort of rafter that she could move along. But this ceiling reflected the French style: the beam ran straight into the side wall, where it fitted into a notch some four feet below the line of the roof. There was no wall detail at all. She remembered now that she had stood in the ruins of La Roque and had seen those notches. What was she thinking of?

She was trapped on the beam.

She couldn’t go farther out, because the beam ended at the wall. She couldn’t go back to the center, because Guy was there, waiting for her. And she couldn’t go to the next parallel rafter, because it was five feet away, very far to jump.

Not impossible, but far. Especially without a safety.

Looking back, she saw Sir Guy coming out along the beam toward her, balancing cautiously, swinging his sword lightly in his hand. He smiled grimly as he came forward. He knew he had caught her.

She had no choice now. She looked at the next beam, five feet away. She had to do it. The problem was to get enough height. She had to jump up if she hoped to make it across.

Guy was working his way around the cross-beam bracing. He was only seconds away from her now. She crouched on the beam, took a breath, tensed her muscles — and kicked hard with her legs, sending her body flying out into open space.

:

Chris came up through the stone trapdoor. He looked through the fire and saw that everybody in the room was staring up at the ceiling. He knew Kate was up there, but there was nothing he could do for her. He went directly to the side door and tried to open it. When it didn’t budge, he slammed his full weight against it, felt it give an inch. He shoved again; the door creaked, then swung wide.

He stepped out into the inner courtyard of La Roque. Soldiers were running everywhere. A fire had broken out in one of the hoardings, the wooden galleries that ran along the top of the walls. Something was burning like a bonfire in the center of the courtyard itself. Amid the chaos, no one paid any attention to him.

He said, “André. Are you there?”

A static crackle. Nothing.

And then: “Yes.” It was André’s voice.

“André? Where are you?”

“With the Professor.”

“Where?” Chris said.

“The arsenal.”

“Where is that?”

00:59:20

There were two dozen animals in cages in the laboratory storeroom, mostly cats, but also some guinea pigs and mice. The room smelled of fur and feces. Gordon led him down the aisle, saying, “We keep the split ones isolated from the others. We have to.”

Stern saw three cages along the back wall. The bars of these cages were thick. Gordon led him to one, where he saw a small, curled-up bundle of fur. It was a sleeping cat, a Persian, pale gray in color.

“This is Wellsey,” Gordon said, nodding.

The cat seemed entirely normal. It breathed slowly, gently, as it slept. He could see half the face above the curve of the fur. The paws were dark. Stern leaned closer, but Gordon put his hand on his chest. “Not too close,” he said.

Gordon reached for a stick, ran it along the bars of the cage.

The cat’s eye opened. Not slowly and lazily — it opened wide, instantly alert. The cat did not move, did not stretch. Only the eye moved.

Gordon ran the stick along the bars a second time.

With a furious hiss, the cat flung itself against the bars, mouth wide, teeth bared. It banged against the bars, stepped back, and attacked again — and again, relentlessly, without pause, hissing, snarling.

Stern stared in horror.

The animal’s face was hideously distorted. One side appeared normal, but the other side was distinctly lower, the eye, the nostril, everything lower, with a line down the center of the face, dividing the halves. That’s why they called it “split,” he thought.

But worse was the far side of the face, which he didn’t see at first, with the cat lunging and banging against the bars, but now he could see that back on the side of the head, behind the distorted ear, there was a third eye, smaller and only partially formed. And beneath that eye was a patch of nose flesh, and then a protruding bit of jaw that stuck out like a tumor from the side of the face. A curve of white teeth poked out from the fur, though there was no mouth.

Transcription errors. He now understood what that meant.

The cat banged again and again; its face was starting to bleed with the repeated impacts. Gordon said, “He’ll do that until we leave.”

“Then we better leave,” Stern said.

They walked back in silence for a while. Then Gordon said, “It’s not just what you can see. There are mental changes, too. That was the first noticeable change, in the person who was split.”

“This is the person you were telling me about? The one who stayed back?”

“Yes,” Gordon said. “Deckard. Rob Deckard. He was one of our marines. Long before we saw physical changes in his body, there were mental changes. But we only understood later that transcription errors were the cause.”

“What kind of mental changes?”

“Originally, Rob was a cheerful guy, very good athlete, extremely gifted with languages. He would sit around having a beer with somebody foreign, and by the end of the beer he’d have started to pick up the language. You know, a phrase here, a sentence there. He’d just start speaking. Always with a perfect accent. After a few weeks, he could speak like a native. The marines spotted it first, and had sent him to one of their language schools. But as time went by, and Rob accumulated more damage, he wasn’t so cheerful anymore. He turned mean,” Gordon said. “Really mean.”

“Yes?”

“He beat the hell out of the gate guard here, because the guard took too long checking his ID. And he practically killed a guy in an Albuquerque bar. That was when we started to realize that Deckard had permanent damage to his brain, and it wasn’t going to get better, that if anything, it would get worse.”

:

Back in the control room, they found Kramer hunched over the monitor, staring at the screen, which showed the field fluctuations. They were coming more strongly now. And the technicians were saying that at least three were coming back, and maybe four or five. From her expression, it was clear Kramer was torn; she wanted to see them all come back.

“I still think the computer is wrong, and the panels will hold,” Gordon said. “We certainly can fill the tanks now and see if they hold.”

Kramer nodded. “Yes, we can do that. But even if they fill without breaking, we can’t be certain they won’t blow out later, in the middle of the transit. And that would be a disaster.”

Stern shifted in his seat. He felt suddenly uneasy. Something was nagging at him, tickling the back of his mind. When Kramer said “blow out,” he once more saw automobiles in his mind — the same succession of images, all over again. Car races. Huge truck tires. Michelin Man. A big nail in the road, and a tire driving over it.

Blowout.

The water tanks would blow out. The tires would blow out. What was it about blowouts?

“To pull this off,” Kramer said, “we somehow need to strengthen the tanks.”

“Yes, but we’ve been over that,” Gordon said. “There’s just no way to do it.”

Stern sighed. “How much time left?”

The technician said, “Fifty-one minutes, and counting.”

00:54:00

To Kate’s astonishment, she heard applause from the floor below. She had made the jump; she swung back and forth, dangling beneath the beam. And down on the floor, they were applauding, as if this were a circus act.

She quickly kicked her legs up and clambered onto the beam.

On the rafter behind her, Guy Malegant was hurrying back to the centerline beam. He clearly intended to try to block her return from her present rafter.

She ran down the beam, back to the center of the ceiling. She was more agile than Guy, and she arrived at the wide central rafter well before he did. She had a moment to collect herself, to decide what to do.

What was she going to do?

She was standing in the middle of the open roof, holding on to a thick vertical strut, about twice the diameter of a telephone pole. The strut had supporting braces that angled out diagonally on both sides, starting midway up the shaft and then connecting to the roof. These braces were so low that if Sir Guy intended to get to her, he would have to crouch down as he made his way around the strut.

Kate crouched down now, seeing what it felt like to move around under the brace. It was awkward, and it would be slow. She got to her feet again. As she did so, her hand brushed her dagger. She’d forgotten she had it. She drew it out now, held it in front of her.

Guy saw her, and laughed. His laughter was picked up by the watching crowd on the floor below. Guy shouted something down to them, which made them laugh all the harder.

She watched him come toward her, and she backed away. She was allowing him room to move around the vertical strut. She tried to look terrified — it wasn’t difficult — and she cowered, her knife trembling in her hand.

It’s all going to be timing, she thought.

Sir Guy paused on the far side of the strut, watching her for a moment. Then he crouched down and started to make his way around the strut. His hand was wrapped around the wood, the sword in his right hand temporarily pressed against the strut.

She ran forward and stabbed his hand with the dagger, pinning it to the strut. Then she swung around to the opposite side of the strut and kicked his feet off the central beam. Guy fell into space, dangling from his pinned hand. He clenched his teeth but didn’t make a sound. Jesus, these guys were tough!

Still clutching his sword, he tried to get back up on the beam. But by then she had swung back to her original position, on the other side of the beam. His eyes met hers.

He knew what she was going to do.

“Rot in hell,” he snarled.

“You first,” she said.

She pulled her dagger free from the wood. Guy fell silently to the ground below, his body growing smaller. Halfway down, he struck a pole from which a banner hung; his body caught on the wrought-iron point, and for a moment he hung there; then the pole snapped and he slammed onto a table, sending crockery flying. The guests jumped back. Guy lay among the broken crockery. He didn’t move.

Oliver was pointing up at Kate and shouting, “Kill him! Kill him!” The cry was taken up around the room. Archers ran for weapons.

Oliver did not wait; in a fury, he stomped out of the hall, taking several soldiers with him.

She heard maids in waiting, young children, everyone, chanting, “Kill him!” and she sprinted along the center beam, going for the wall at the far end of the great hall. Arrows whooshed past her, thunked into the wood. But they were too late; she could see that there was a second door in the other wall, matching the first, and she hit it hard, knocking it open, and crawled out of the hall, into darkness.

It was a very tight space. She banged her head against the ceiling, and she realized that this was the north end of the great hall, which meant it was freestanding and did not abut the castle wall. Therefore . . .

She pushed upward, at the roof. A section gave way. She stepped out onto the roof, and from there she climbed easily up onto the ramparts of the inner wall.

From here, she could see the siege was fully under way. Volleys of fiery arrows hissed overhead in smooth arcs, then descended to the courtyard below. Archers on the battlements returned the fire. Cannon on the battlements were being loaded with metal arrows, with de Kere striding back and forth, barking instructions. De Kere didn’t notice her.

She turned away, pressed her ear and said, “Chris?”

De Kere spun, his hand clapped over his ear. Suddenly he was turning, looking everywhere, along the length of the battlements and down into the courtyard.

It was de Kere.

And then de Kere saw her. He recognized her immediately.

Kate ran.

:

Chris said, “Kate? I’m down here.” Flaming arrows were slashing down all over the courtyard. He waved to her up on the wall, but he was not sure she could see him in the darkness.

She said, “It’s—” but the rest was lost in static. By then he had turned away, watching Oliver and four soldiers cross the courtyard, and go into a square building that he assumed was the arsenal.

Chris at once began to follow, when a flaming ball landed at his feet, bounced, and rolled to a stop. Through the flames he could see that it was a human head, eyes open, lips drawn back. The flesh burned, the fat popping. A passing soldier kicked it away like a soccer ball.

One of the arrows raining down on the courtyard brushed past his shoulder and left behind a streak of flame on his sleeve. He could smell the pitch and feel the heat on his arm and face. Chris threw himself onto the ground, but the fire did not go out. It seemed to be smoldering; the heat became worse. He got to his knees and, using his dagger, cut his doublet open. He shrugged out of the burning coat and threw it aside. The back of his hand was still aflame, from tiny drops of pitch. He rubbed his hand in the dust of the courtyard.

The fire at last went out.

Standing again, he said, “André? I’m coming.” But there was no answer. Alarmed, he jumped to his feet, just in time to see Oliver emerge from the arsenal, leading the Professor and Marek away, heading to a far door in the castle wall. The soldiers pushed them forward at swordpoint. Chris didn’t like the look of it. He had the uneasy sense that Oliver was going to kill them.

“Kate.”

“Yes, Chris.”

“I see them.”

“Where?”

“Going into that corner door.”

He started to follow, realized he needed a weapon. Just a few feet away, a burning arrow struck a soldier in the back, knocking him face down on the ground. Chris bent over, took the man’s sword, then stood again and turned to go.