Broken: A Plague Journal (4 page)

the way things break, the way tomorrows break, the way we struggle to correct yesterdays

and in one she frowned as a nacelle tore from the craft, crew pulled to death between the planet and the star, and in one she fought robots made from wood and organic paste, wiring spun from the silk of system-sized spiders, and in one she had a twin, and in one she watched a planet cut cleanly in half by a light from the stars, and in one she found no enemy left, and in one she sipped a bitter liquid that would keep her awake for hours, and in one she slumped, exhausted from breathing, as a door opened and

Judith sighed.

They’d finally located that rock in the center of the silver infestation. Centuries of searching, centuries without form or substance or duration, they’d searched; they’d found. West had been in the original rescue fleet, tattered remnants gathered from the first Enemy war and the temporal refugees of the Forever Dust, the human residue of all broken Whens. Data cycle errors, reflexive overruns, cyclic redundancy checks, cache corruptions: humanity.

The trouble with his stories is that they happen concurrently... People who were killed in the third chapter walk in and ask for coffee and a cigarette in the fifth. He can’t keep it straight; it’s not worth it to the reader to attempt to make sense of something so inherently flawed, something so innately incomprehensible.

“Thanks for the vote of confidence, Jud.”

“Come in.” The warm smile barely contained the acid tongue beneath. “You two fucking yet?”

“Oh god.” Hope sat on the edge of the bench next to the author.

“That’s what they used to call me. Where are we?”

“Ninety-eight over. Last run was almost a complete success.”

“Rad.” Hands went to face, fingertips traced temples as her smile fell off. “You have to get better at this, Paul.”

“It’s not like I even know what the fuck I’m supposed to have lived in these Whens. You have the advantage of knowing everything already.”

“If I could erase it myself, I would.”

“I wish you’d find a way and let me get out of here.”

“It’s not up to me anymore.” Judith stood from her chaise, walked over to the window that showed the latest crop. “It’s up to one of me down there.”

West cleared his throat. “Combat runs have been marginally successful in Fourteen-Three, Seventy-Nine-Nine, Two-Hundred—”

“Stop.” Something behind a god’s eyes, something crawling and caustic. “They’re waiting for something before striking back. Secure our positions along the When—Ha!—
Time
stream and fortify the forward bases.”

“You’re getting good at this.” West bit a nail.

“That’s why they pay me the big bucks. Next time, you can have god inside of you and hand out the orders.”

Benton activated the sheet of glass she’d carried into the room. “Theory reports that we have a 60/40 lock on Linear. A/O position lock expected within three runs.” Figures danced from the display across her chin, cheeks, half-glints in colorless eyes. “Static’s quiet, though. They could be ghosting our sensor fleets.”

“No...” Judith shook her head. “This time they want us to find them.”

“Could be a trap.”

“They don’t have anywhere to run. This isn’t the first war. We’re in charge now.”

“Right.”

Judith turned to Paul. “Something smart to say, sugartits?”

Layers of frown clouded with uncertainty. “I wouldn’t have made it so simple.”

“You thought too much. Made a very messy existence for us to clean up.”

“Yeah, sorry about that.” The author’s eyes narrowed. “Most books don’t become real.”

the war was beautiful

“Was it?”

“Just slipped out.”

Judith walked to Paul’s side, demure smile on her face. She goosed him. He jumped.

“As long as we’re in your brain, Paulywog, try not to let things ‘slip out,’ alrighty?” She walked to Hope, took the glass from her hand. “60/40? We can do better. Get back in. Take some help. Take… Hope? You up for a field trip?”

“I’ve never—”

“It’ll be good for you. Apply some of those fancy theories.” She turned to Paul. “Get out of here.”

“Yes, dear.”

amidst rivers Lethe and Styx
an enigma wrapped in lies
healing by primary intention
an enigma wrapped in truths
we are forgotten as easily as

“Paul, you need to—”

“Adam?”

 West turned. “Hmm?”

 “Can we have a moment?” Paul nodded toward Benton.

 Eyes slit. “Sure.” West walked down the corridor. “But make it fast.”

 Benton sagged against the wall. “What is it?”

 “We’re at ninety-eight over. Sixty/forty lock. You know you don’t have to come in with us.”

 Starlight in eyelight. “Are you saying you don’t need me?”

 “It’s just—”

 “Afraid of what you’ll find in there?”

 “No.” He sighed. “But if we—”

 “Paul.” Hand to shoulder. “I’ve seen it all before. You don’t scare me.”

 “You should be scared.”

 “I shouldn’t.”

 “You will be.”

 “I won’t.”

 “Fighting with you is useless.”

 “You wrote me.” Lips upturned.

 “And you,” lips to cheek, “have no idea.”

 Screaming.

 Agony of broken bone within the face. He snuffled back blood, choked on copper, spat. Eyes slicked shut with

 He ground earth from his vision, blinked. Sitting up from the mud and shit and snow, he pried his arms from the impact mark, rolled to free his legs. His helmet was gone. He heard the stutter and stammer of his cardiac shield attempting to lock on to

 West at his side, face gouged by

 “This isn’t good.”

 “Hope?”

 She crawled through the trench towards her partners. “Lock’s splintered.”

 “Yeah.”

 Stutter.

 “Shit. Let me see that.”

 Chest heaving, breath a whisper, the author rolled to his back. Benton checked the readings on his shield. “Okay, it’s stabilizing.”

 “Where are we?” West held his riflescope to a silver eye.

 “Over/under target, that’s for sure.”

 “Okay.” He patted Paul’s cheek. “Can you move?”

 “Yeah. Just a little headache.”

 “Nose’s broken. Maybe your cheekbone. You’ll be fine.”

 “I’m placing a beacon in the Stream. Should be able to lock in a few.”

 “Good. Let’s head toward the ridge.”

 Lights flickered in the valley around the lake.

 Their landing in this time had been particularly rough. West now saw the probable cause of the temporal disruptions in the worldline.

 There were scores of black vessels surrounding the lake. One had crashed into an island at its center. From the sky, the stiletto shapes of Judas warships strafed the ground with lances of white laser. Smoke and fire, screams and static snaps. A shattered upload generator struggled to connect to the Enemy mind-essence under a barrage of weapons fire. Judas and Enemy fought hand-to-hand by the thousands. Humans fading into the shift, humans downloading from the mind-essence, a sweep of snow and cutting wind. The lake was frozen. Ice splintered with shadow.

 A squadron of Judas Mujahadin passed over the huddled Judith, dropping dozens of pattern-charges into the midst of the Enemy horde. One vessel slowed, a fan of zeros and ones sprinkling West, Benton, Paul. Landing struts descended, and retro-forces kicked up spatters of mud.

 It landed.

I remember the throb of nose and right cheek, splintering into eye socket above and rattling teeth below. I don’t remember writing Judas or Enemy into anything else. It concerned me. More blood. I spit again. Breathing was getting easier, marginally, as my blood slowed and thickened. The cardiac shield was quiet.

I guess I’d never really seen a spaceship. I knew it wasn’t just that, but the tickle behind my eyes grew into suspicion and fear. A lucky shot from the valley below slammed into the starboard nacelle of the Muj and dissipated harmlessly into phase shielding. Returning fire from the craft ignited two of the disabled Enemy ships. Shards from the blast tore into and through the field of combatants.

I’d seen it all before... but I’d never
seen
it before.

A hull ramp descended from the Muj’s belly. Armed Judas soldiers ran down the plank, surrounded us. At least the weapons were pointing out, not in. That was a good sign. And one Judas—

“Commander West?”

The frown and flicker of confusion was unmistakable, but he proceeded to hide it well beneath his mask of coagulating blood and diced cheekbones.

“Yeah, I’m West.”

Silver eyes swept forth, back under furrowed brows, sculpted with laser precision, fixed on Adam’s again. “Sir?”

“Listen...” The firefight below and above intensified. “I’m not
your
West. Where are we?”

Realization. “Shit, sorry. Let’s get back to the ship.”

They ran.

That disconcerting joggle in the stomach as inertial dampening systems compensate in an alien atmosphere, butterflies: monarchs? and he felt the suck of the vacuum chair as they rose into a sky shot through with beams of light and plumes of black.

Beside him, Benton wiped beads of nervous sweat from her upper lip. One eye was developing an unpleasant bruise from their rough entry into the wrong When. She caught him looking and smiled quietly, looked toward the front of the cabin where the battle chamber elevator was falling to the floor. The Muj captain got off.

“Okay, let’s figure this out. I just checked with our batteries; nav’s taken us to strato, so we’re out of the battle for the moment.” She palmed the release mechanism on her armor, and silver blades retracted across torso, limbs, settled in seams. “You’re not Commander West.”

He pried himself from his seat, reached to shake her hand. “Not yours. We seem to’ve landed wrong.”

She shook. “It happens. Captain Mindel Frost, Judas Mujahadin Kate, out of Fort John Wayne.”