They faded out as Martin Hatch, the man who had ordered them killed, concluded his homily.
Nick kept his fists jammed in the pockets of his borrowed suit, sweating.
“Friends, here is where I think chronon technology shows its worth. Take a scene like the one that terrorized this town this morning, then bracket the location with four high-strength zero-state pylons. Everyone within that bracket freezes. Time stops.”
Hatch stood aside, swept an arm toward a person standing at the back of the stage.
“Our chronon Technician.” A jumpsuited Monarch employee stepped forward. Running the zip down her front she revealed the lightweight chrome-and-wire frame that followed the lines of her torso and limbs. “Our lightweight model, built for the basics. Operative Wilson here is wearing a ‘rescue rig.’ This enables her to move freely in a zero state and to release items and people from that state at will. Next…”
A larger figure strode in from stage left, carrying an assault rifle. In profile he was a man in modern white armor fitted with a black gas mask. On his back was a broad dome, studded with what looked like soda-can-sized fuses. Each of the fuses glowed with a pulsing amber heat. The figure pivoted and walked downstage, into the light.
“Our Striker. Fully mobile within a zero state, he is armored for combat operations. As an added extra he is also able to manipulate his relationship to his personal Meyer-Joyce envelope, folding deeper into the stutter, briefly inhabiting a smaller subdividing moment within a larger one-but with no loss of mobility. What this means,” Hatch said, “is that within a zero state the Striker has the capacity for superspeed, crossing short distances in quick bursts. Useful for rapid response and flanking maneuvers.”
Hatch spread his arms and two spots found the oversized, seemingly headless, blank-surfaced exoskeletons stationed at either end of the stage.
“And finally, our large friends: the Juggernauts.”
The crowd went nuts. They couldn’t get enough of the big guys.
“Gentlemen, if you’d be kind enough.” Hatch made circling motions with both hands.
The Juggernauts rotated in an ungainly fashion, displaying their open backs. There was a clack and a soft whine as the two pilots released from their harnesses and stepped free.
“We’ve left off the back half of the Juggernauts’ signature clamshell design to give you a better look at how these fellows work on the inside.”
The stuff they were showing off was pure eye candy. Nick wanted to see more of the show, especially all the detail on the Juggernaut prototypes, but he couldn’t. He had to find Beth, and a nearby elevator pinged open. As its passengers exited Nick stepped inside.
An infoscreen opened up on one glass wall. “Welcome, visitor. How can I help you?”
“Uh…”
Nick realized he had no idea where to go, and also that most of the building was locked off without a security pass.
Out of nowhere a rush of bodies and hardware filled the elevator carriage: big dudes and one serious-looking woman in Monarch fatigues, all packing sidearms.
“Floor thirty-five,” one of them said.
Someone swiped a card and hit the button.
The last one in was Randall Gibson.
Nick’s spine snapped rigid. He didn’t move, pretending to be deeply interested in the wall map.
“Nobody touches her,” Gibson said, low. “We find her, we do her, we report it.”
Busted, messed-up Gibson. He filled the elevator with the thick smell of old sweat and smoke. One of his eyes was actually fused shut.
Any one of these people could kill Nick as easy as turning off a TV. The elevator began to rise. Nick watched the atrium fall away beneath him.
“How’d you make it, boss? I heard-”
“Triangle of life,” Gibson muttered. “I hit the dirt alongside a couch. Beams and shit hit the couch, left me a tight shelter next to it. Debris hit the shelter, left me in a pocket.” He coughed. Sounded wet. “I’m good.”
“Rigs on,” one of them said. “Stutters.”
Thirty seconds later the elevator shushed to a stop on thirty-five, pulling level with its glass-walled neighbor-as two people filed into it.
Nick looked through the glass walls that separated the two elevators and instantly recognized the two people inside the one opposite.
Jack and Beth.
“Boss!”
Beth’s head snapped toward them, recognized Gibson’s squad-then clocked Nick.
Nick shook his head tightly, terrified. Do not acknowledge me in this elevator full of killers.
Nick’s elevator emptied in a heartbeat as the doors to Beth and Jack’s hissed shut. She glared at him, mouthed What the fuck?
And then they descended.
“Senior Operative Gibson, sir!” Two Monarch regulars came to a halt before the squad. “Sir, Jack Joyce… he’s…”
Nick stepped out of the elevator just as Gibson’s squad rushed back in to pursue Jack and Beth. The elevator chimed shut and departed.
The two Monarch guards, looking as though their careers were flashing before their eyes, disappeared through the security door they’d appeared from, barking into ear mics.
“Right,” Nick mumbled, trapped. “Now what?”
Martin Hatch accepted the applause. “Now, friends, if you would be kind enough to stay within the yellow zone we would like to conclude with a practical demonstration of this world-changing technology. We’ll need all of you to space out evenly, and marks have been provided.”
People shuffled, each choosing a mark for themselves, taking position.
Hatch got a thumbs-up from the four chronon techs.
“Three. Two. One.” Hatch snapped his fingers.
The techs activated the pylons, the chronon levels within that sectioned-off piece of the M-J field dropped, and the entire crowd froze.
The operatives onstage got into new positions. The pylons shut off, the crowd reanimated, exclaimed as the operatives “teleported” before them, and burst into applause.
Hatch snapped his fingers. The crowd froze. The operatives rearranged. The pylons shut off. The crowd came to life. Their laughter and applause turned to an ecstatic roar.
Repeat.
Disbelief. Delirium. Dollar signs.
From the audience’s perspective each time Hatch clicked his fingers everything changed in a moment.
Hatch’s smile was wide, but there was no joy in his eyes.
He clicked again.
Paul, in his quarters on the forty-ninth floor, sipped a small glass of champagne, dressed for operations in underarmor and urban camouflage.
Martin’s demonstration was playing out on a closed-circuit feed displayed on a laptop. It all seemed to be going well.
Then the call came in over a Monarch secure channeclass="underline" Jack was loose.
Paul immediately switched the feed to elevator cams-and there was Jack in the company of a Monarch employee, headed for the ground floor. For Martin’s demonstration.
Sofia. She was down there with Martin, waiting to give her presentation.
The elevator identified the employee accompanying Jack as Beth Wilder. Paul called up her file. Her face looked back at him, and he felt, viscerally, a lost part of his own story click into place. “I know you. Beth.”
He tapped the desk, contacted the on-duty security chief. The voice on the end of the phone demanded identification.
Paul Serene had effectively founded Monarch, and yet he’d be stopped at reception if he walked in unaccompanied.
“I’m placing an alert on Beth Wilder, employee mike-romeo-one-zero-one-four with Martin Hatch’s authority, code mike-romeo…” What was it? What was the blasted number? “One-one-niner-four-golf-sierra. Do you copy?” Choosing one thought above all others hurt so much. His hand throbbed. He needed another treatment, and soon.