Crucible Zero (17 page)

He placed the last stitches. “It is an interesting life you've led, Matilda Case.”

“Several interesting lives, actually,” I agreed. “Is that it?”

He nodded, turned for the tiny scissors, which Quinten held out for him. “Is the tie-off all right?” he asked.

I glanced down between my breasts. He had a fine hand with thread, each of the stitches holding my skin together evenly spaced and as small as was practical. At the end of my seam, he'd crisscrossed the thread so that it created an eight-pointed star.

“You embroidered me?”

“I can take out two of the stitches and leave an X there if you want, but I thought the seam needed reinforcing. Star stitch seems to do the trick, especially in delicate areas, where the stitches are much smaller.”

It was pretty. Actually, it was the first time I'd ever thought of my stitches as something that could be beautiful.

“I like it,” I said.

“Let me see,” Quinten asked.

He'd been quiet through most of the actual work. I turned his way, my hand covering my breast, my shirt covering my other breast.

Quinten didn't even glance at my breast. He had me slowly turn so he could inspect the stitches from my ribs to cleavage.

“This is good. Very good,” he finally said.

“Thank you,” Abraham said.

“Spread another thin coat of jelly and pull out the old threads; then we'll be done.”

I sighed and let Abraham get busy following Quinten's orders, which he did without complaint.

After it was done and the old thread was removed, Abraham gently wiped the clean cotton over the seam one last time.

“Very nicely done, Abraham,” Quinten said. “Very nicely done.”

“I'm glad you approve, Mr. Case.” Abraham set the last of the things down on the nightstand again and put the lid back on the tin of jelly.

He pushed up onto his feet. “How are you feeling, Matilda?” he asked.

“Other than half-naked and cold? Good.”

“Good.” He stood there, looking at me like maybe he could do something about both of those things.

“So, if you'd step out, I'll get dressed,” I said.

“Of course.” He took a step to walk past me, and I tipped my head back a bit to watch him.

A wave of dizziness slipped over me. I panicked and grabbed his arm. I didn't want this time to slip away. I didn't want him to slip away.

“Matilda?” He paused.

“Are you okay?” Quinten asked.

“I'm fine.” No roses, no bells. But my concussion was getting in the way of me trying to act like everything was okay.

I let go of his arm, but Abraham was having nothing of it. He wrapped his arms around me, helping to hold my hand against my undershirt so I didn't drop it.

“Get her to the bed,” Quinten said.

“Fine. I'm fine,” I repeated. Neither of them was listening to me.

Abraham walked me over to the cot I'd slept in and sat me there, crouching to get a look at my eyes.

“How many fingers am I holding up?” he asked.

I counted probably three-ish, but wasn't about to bank on that.

“I just looked up too quickly,” I said. “Knocked my head yesterday, remember?”

“Is that all it was?”

“Yes.” I didn't want to tell him about the timeways. He wouldn't believe me anyway.

“Not the painful amount of stitching you just went through?”

“I don't hurt now, and it's done. I think it's just a dizzy spell left over from the bump on my head. If you'd give me some privacy, I'll get dressed and put on my boots. We can all eat something before we get back on those bikes and hit the road.”

“Are you sure?” He bit his bottom lip and frowned. He was so sincere, it caught at my heart a moment. But then I remembered this was not the Abraham I knew. This was not my Abraham.

He had kissed me like my Abraham. He had touched me like my Abraham.

“I'm sure,” I said. “Go on, now. We have people to save, remember?” I pointed at the door behind him.

“I suppose we do,” he said. “But I do hope you remember you're people too.”

And then he walked out of the room.

I had no idea what he meant by that.

“Are you sure you're okay?” Quinten asked.

“Cold, bruised, half-naked, and hungry. I'm gold to the gills. Thanks.”

“What really just happened?”

I frowned.

“You were terrified when you grabbed his arm.”

“I wasn't terrified.”

“Matilda,” he said, “please. What's wrong?”

I took a breath, let it out. “Do you remember me telling you about the Wings of Mercury experiment?”

“Yes.”

“Do you know if any part of that machine might still be around today?”

“I haven't ever heard of it.”

“Back in my time,” I said, “it was our ancestor Alveré Case who built the machine.”

“Our great-however-many-greats-grandfather was a time traveler?”

“No. He built a machine he thought would stop time. Instead, it broke time, or, in this reality, it just sort of bent it out of shape. But I think . . . I think there might be a piece of the machine that's still causing those timeways I told you about.”

“You only told me about one timeway.”

“Okay. I think there are more. I don't know how many. When I slip into them, things go a little dizzy for me. That's why I grabbed Abraham's arm. I thought I was falling out of this time, into another.”

“And did you?”

“No. I was just dizzy from the bump on my head.”

He looked down at his feet, and I didn't know what he was thinking.

I turned my back and shrugged into my shirt, my stitches not pulling as much as I'd expected—Abraham really was good with thread—then put on an overshirt and my sleeveless jacket.

“So, if I am to believe you,” he said. “You think there's a piece of that machine that is causing the . . . timeways?”

“It's a theory.” I sat on the edge of the cot and put on a soft pair of socks and my boots.

“Your theory?”

Crap.
I'd hoped he wouldn't ask me that. I glanced over at him. He was watching me. I knew if I lied to him now, I'd never get him to believe me again.

“Not really. I talked to someone during one of the time slips.”

“Who?”

“Slater.”

Quinten pulled his head and shoulders back and inhaled a breath. He held it for a moment, studying me.

“From which time?”

“This one, I think.”

“What did he say?”

I shrugged. “He wants us dead. Threatened to kill you. Promised to kill me. Told me he thought one of us had a piece of the machine and were making time fracture. The usual.”

Quinten pulled his fingers through his hair and tugged carefully at the curls. “That's usual?”

“Well, he's angry and insane, and blaming us for screwing up his plans. That's the usual.”

“I don't want you anywhere near him.”

“You know I can't promise that. For one thing, I have no control over the time slips. For another, I plan to kill him. That's likely to be up-close work.”

“We're going to kill him,” he corrected.

“Even so, I'm not going to be standing on the sidelines. I'm in this, Quinten. All the way.”

“I know.” He didn't sound happy about it.

“I'm guessing you don't have anything—a family heirloom—that might have been handed down from Alveré Case?”

“Nothing. Absolutely nothing.”

“How about the pocket watch?” It was the only thing I knew that our father had gifted specifically to Quinten, since it had been gifted specifically to our father from our grandfather, and on down the family line.

He shook his head. “I've never had one.”

There went that theory.

“Well, it's hard to rely on a madman's logic,” I said. “How about breakfast?”

“I suppose we should.”

He had also managed to put on his boots, though he hadn't tried standing yet.

“Look at you,” I said. “All booted up and ready to kick some plague ass.”

He smiled. “Aren't I just?”

“Can't keep a Case down for long.” I walked over to him. “Why, I've heard tales that we are nearly indestructible.”

I held my hand out for him, and he took it. He stood, groaning as he did so.

“Do you believe in those tales?” he asked as I looped my arm behind his back and we walked out of the bedroom to the kitchen table, where Neds had put out a bowl of soup and hot mug of tea for all of us. “
Nearly indestructible
seems like a high bar to hit.”

“Not at all,” I said. “We're Cases. We set that bar.”

He eased down onto a chair. “I hope so,” he said. “Because what we're trying to attempt is almost impossible.”

“Saving House Earth?” I asked.

“Taking out a dictator who can travel through time.”

Oh. That.
“Don't worry,” I said. “We're hitting that bar, no matter how impossible it is.”

I found it. A way to reach you. Now to see if I can survive it.

—W.Y.

I
wasn't sure what the protocol was for crashing someone's cabin, but Neds and Quinten insisted that was what the cabin had been built for: sheltering people who might have gotten caught out when night closed in—people like us.

They also insisted that House Earth would be by to restock anything that appeared to be running low. That included wood for the stove, food, and linens, if needed. Still, I took the time to clean up the dishes, make the beds, and hang the damp towels to dry.

Then we stepped out into the morning, the sky heavy with clouds. The dampness of night hadn't burned off yet, so it was a little chilly as we got ourselves situated on the bikes. I rode behind Abraham, Quinten rode behind Foster, and Neds insisted, even one-handed, they could drive just fine.

When I'd brought up the possibility of more mercenaries lying in wait for us, while we were putting away the dry dishes and spreading the ash from the woodstove so it would cool safely, the only response I'd gotten from Neds was a box of ammunition for my handgun.

Right. So if mercenaries showed up, which they probably would, our plan of action was to shoot them before they shot us.

Gold.

The road was clear as we made our way through the forest. All of the bikes were running much more smoothly—which meant Abraham and Foster most definitely had spent the early morning getting them tuned up and in good traveling shape.

When we hit the main road, I felt like we were easy targets, out in the clear.

I kept watch for any signs of people following us or lying in wait in the wheat and oat fields that lined the road. When I spotted a farmer driving an ancient tractor out in a field, at a distance from us, I about jumped out of my skin.

Did mercenaries drive tractors?

I pointed him out to Abraham, who gave me the “okay” sign. So apparently mercenaries didn't disguise themselves as farmers. Good to know.

After an hour, we stopped under the neat rows of an apple orchard, where we picked some fruit for our lunch and refilled the bike tanks with the fuel we'd packed on the back of Foster's four-wheeler.

“How much farther to the compound?” I asked Quinten.

“We should be there in the next hour,” he said. “And I think now would be a good time to switch up who's riding with whom,” he added.

“Why?” I asked.

Abraham was leaning against the trunk of a tree, slicing pieces of the apple into his palm with his pocket knife. He glanced up at Quinten, studying him as if he'd just brought up a very interesting topic, then turned his gaze to me to see how I was reacting. The corner of his mouth tucked back, as if he'd just tasted something sour, but he drew an apple slice to his mouth and chewed.

“Because you and I and Neds are House Earth,” Quinten said. “And they most certainly aren't.” He nodded toward Abraham and Foster.

Foster was lying on his back, staring up into the apple tree's branches, munching his way through his third or maybe fourth apple, all of which he consumed—peel, stem, core, and seeds.

He didn't look dangerous. Not at all.

“So, it's safe for me to assume you aren't the only person in House Earth who thinks all galvanized are murderers and thieves?” I asked.

Quinten studied me. “Because they are, Matilda.”

Foster chuckled.

“And, yes.” Quinten held up one hand. “I know you've had a different experience with them—apparently with
all
the galvanized. I will admit Abraham and Foster have been . . . useful travel companions.”

“They saved our lives, Quinten,” I said. “Twice.”

“Which is why I think you and I should be on one bike together.”

“Why?”

“It is going to take both of us to talk House Earth into letting them in past the gate.”

I ran my hand over the noninjured side of my head. “Will they kill them on sight?”

“Galvanized don't kill easy,” Quinten said.

With Shelley dust they did. He knew that. I could see it in his eyes. And I suddenly wondered if our main objective was to get the plague cure to House Earth or get the Shelley dust to them so they could defend themselves against the galvanized murderers and thieves.

Maybe both.

“So, it's a good chance they'll get shot at?” I asked.

He nodded.

“We'll stay out of rifle range,” Abraham said. “Neds will ride with me.”

“Like hell I will,” Left Ned said.

“Think of it as a compliment,” Abraham said, cutting deep into the apple core and lifting the meat of the apple, pinched between the knife blade and his finger, to his mouth. “You're valuable. To the plan,” he added.

“Being your hostage ain't no compliment, stitch,” Left Ned said.

“He means that he knows we like you enough, we won't leave you with him for long,” I said.

“Hostage is hostage, Matilda,” Right Ned said. “I won't play that role.”

“Fine,” I said. “Then I'll do it.”

“No,” Quinten said. “You will ride with me.”

“If someone has to act as a bargaining chip, it should be me,” I said. “I'm the only one strong enough to hold my own against both of them, if it came down to a fight. Since I happen to be galvanized too. Not human.”

Foster, still on his back, chuckled again.

Abraham's head was bent, but he smiled.

Quinten exhaled loudly. “You make everything harder than it has to be.”

“Really? I'm pretty sure I just solved our problem.”

“Fine,” Quinten said. “We'll all ride up together, all of us in rifle range. But Matilda still rides with me.”

“Great,” I said. “Love the plan. I'm driving.” I seated myself on the bike Abraham had been driving.

Abraham pointed with the knife. “Take the quad; it has the best engine. Foster?”

Foster pushed up, walked over to me, and held out the keys to drop into my palm. “Third sticks.”

The keys fell, and the world slipped sideways into the scent of roses and the soft echo of a bell.

*   *   *

I stood there, my hand extended. There were no keys in my palm. There was no Foster, no apple field.

I was in a darkened auditorium, can lights set in the high ceiling casting small circles of light against dark maroon carpet. The stage was in front of me, unlit, with a huge, clear screen behind it. The chairs that filled the curve of the space were dark and uniform and empty.

“Matilda?” A man's voice said.

I spun to my left, expecting Slater.

Instead, Welton Yellow sat in a chair just a few feet behind me.

“Welton?” I said, surprised and incredibly happy to see him.

“All patched back together,” he said with a strained hiss at the end of his words, as if his lungs were being powered by more than just his body.

Welton Yellow, head of House Technology, wore a thick coat and loose trousers that made him appear bulkier than I'd ever seen him. His straight brown hair was cut too short, shagging high on his forehead to make his heavy-lidded eyes even more prominent and sunken, with dark circles ringing them.

He'd never been a tanned or athletic man, but he seemed pale and fragile under the bulk of his clothes. He might be alive, but he was not well.

“I know you don't have much time,” he said, “and you're probably happy to see me alive. I'll just answer the things I think you need to know. I've been tracking the time ripples since you were sucked back into time, and predicted this would be a cross point. Got that right, so gold stars for me.” He smiled, and the mechanical wheeze of his breath filled the room as he continued.

“There must be a piece of the Wings of Mercury machine in the main timeway—your timeway. And, yes, I know this isn't the most viable reality, which might be a relief from your point of view, since Quinten, your grandmother, Abraham, Gloria, Neds, and Foster all died in that damn blast.”

“I'm so sorry,” I said, knowing how much he cared for Foster.

He gave me a sad nod. “Are they alive in your timeway?” he asked, a small hope in his eyes.

“Yes. All of them.”

“Am I?”

“I don't know. It hasn't been that long for me since I've been back.”

“That's fine,” he said, talking fast again, as if there were a timer counting down. “It doesn't matter. I'm not very alive here either. But they're alive in your time. And we are going to keep them that way.”

“What happened to you?” I asked. “Why aren't you dead? I saw Slater kill you.”

He shrugged, but it was a jerky motion, as if all of his joints weren't quite working fluidly together.

“My cousin, Libra, had me . . . reconstructed. It might not have been my best idea to put an unstable woman who is very bad at saying good-bye in charge of all the technology in the world.” His light tone betrayed the shadows of pain etched in his face.

“What about Oscar?” I asked.

“Dead from the gunshot. His snake of a brother, Hollis, is destroying all the good Oscar did in the world. And, before you ask, the galvanized are being permanently beheaded and imprisoned. This is not much of a world to live in right now. Not for me. Certainly not for you. I doubt it will get any better for a long time to come, not that I'll be alive to see it. But there has been no sign of Slater. I suppose that's a plus.”

“He's in my timeway, trying to rule the Houses.”

“Prick,” he said. “Do me a favor, Matilda, dear. Cause that bastard a lot of pain before you kill him.”

“I'll do everything I can to make him pay.”

“You are a sweetheart.” He paused a second to breathe again. “I've looked for the cause of the time slips. The Wings of Mercury machine has been destroyed in this timeway. It, or some part of it, must be in yours.”

“I don't think so. Slater's looking for it too, and Quinten hasn't even heard of it.”

“Well, fuck,” he said. “I thought he might have it. That was the easy answer.”

“Do you know the hard answer?”

“Probably. You and Slater both went back in time. Your modern minds caught in galvanized bodies. That created a loop between you. A current that you both complete. Positive and negative. Time is flowing between your immortal bodies. Until that is broken, the ripples will not stop.”

“So, how do we break that current?”

“My best guess? You kill him, or he kills you.” The mechanical inhalation filled the room again. “That should also put an end to the echoing, the ripples of these timeways. But it's not going to be easy.”

“Nothing about this has been easy,” I said. “I'll find him. I'll kill him.”

“Love the sentiment, but there's a wrinkle. Whatever is triggering the time slips won't allow either of you to kill the other.”

My fingers fanned up to my collarbone where the bullet had struck me and disappeared.

“I think I've already experienced that. So, how do I kill him?”

“First you'll need to break the circuit between you before he does.”

“I thought you said killing him breaks the circuit.”

“No. Killing him anchors the timeway you are in—whichever one that is—as the strongest, most viable reality. The other will disappear. So you'll want to make sure you kill him in the time you want to live in.”

That would be the one where my brother, grandmother, and all the rest of the people I loved were alive. But I didn't know if Welton was alive. “Welton, I'm sorry . . .”

“Hush. I just told you which reality I want to thrive. Yours. Got that?”

“Yes. So, how do I break the circuit?”

“Find the thing that was a part of the Wings of Mercury machine. The thing that has traveled in time. Break it; destroy it.
Then
kill Slater. In that order. And twist the knife a couple times for me, will you?”

“I promise I will. Do you know what part of the machine I should be looking for?”

“I have no idea. I'll keep looking. In case we meet again.”

“I hope we do,” I said. “Thank you, Welton.”

“It's nothing.” He lifted a couple fingers by way of a wave. “Tell me: is Foster okay?”

I nodded. “He's wonderful. Lying on his back, eating apples in an orchard and watching the clouds go by.”

Welton grinned. “Nice.”

“I'll tell him all about you once I get the chance.”

His smile never wavered, even though his eyes were sad. “I'd like that. And if you get the chance . . . tell him . . . well, tell him I loved him.”

I opened my mouth to make that promise, but no sound came out. The world crumbled around me, whisking away with a dizzy twist and ringing with the scent of roses.

*   *   *

I held my breath. Then the world stopped and I was standing in the apple orchard, Foster in front of me.

The keys hit my palm.

“Oh,” he said, a frown creasing heavy lines into his face.

“It's fine.” I was out of breath even though I hadn't moved. “I'm fine.”

Quinten was grumbling about me driving and otherwise paying no attention to me. Abraham was watching me through narrow eyes, but said nothing. Neds were already getting on one of the bikes.

I took a few more breaths to calm myself and let my brain settle back into the here and now. If Welton was right, I had the beginning of a plan. I needed to find the piece of the Wings of Mercury machine before I could kill Slater.

Quinten finally looked over at me. “What?”

I held up my hand and pointed at my stitches to remind him I was as strong as a galvanized, which meant I was much stronger than him. “Don't make me wrestle you for the driver's seat,” I said.

Besides, his color was still pale and a little green. I knew he was in a lot of pain, no matter how hard he was trying to ignore it. I hoped he was a smart enough man to know when to stow his ego.