Underneath the machine, Will decoupled a few fat, insulated wires from each other, using the Countermeasure as a go-between for the chronon flow between core and corridor.
“The Countermeasure is built to brute-force a recalibration of the M-J field,” he said, “resulting in this timeline falling back in synch with itself. If it works we should see an end to the stutters. If that happens it means the field is no longer bleeding out, and universal chronon levels have restabilized.” He made the final connection.
Jack gasped, toppled into the wall of the maintenance loop. Will steadied him.
“It’s coming. A really big one.” Jack held on to his brother, found his feet. “This isn’t going to work if the Countermeasure isn’t charged. Can you show me what to do?”
Will had lived his share of terrible moments, keeping his secrets, sacrificing his life on a long shot that maybe he could save the world. Jack didn’t want to add another, but there was no choice.
Soberly Will pointed to the access hatch, about the size of a fist. “The device is hooked into the machine. I can activate it remotely from the control room upstairs. The depth of the maintenance well and the distance from the machine should protect me from the… effects.”
“You turn it on, I do my thing. Easy.”
Will nodded. “Jack…”
“Beth explained everything. Let’s finish up here, then go get a couple of beers. You and me.”
The two brothers left it at that, Will laying a hand on Jack’s arm before climbing out of the maintenance ring.
The second pre-stutter blasted through Jack. It wasn’t just the world falling to pieces. The next stutter that hit was going to start taking people apart.
“Will? Hurry!”
Twelve different jacks socketed into the core, eliciting a thump and bass hum from the corridor. The machine was online.
Jack held the Countermeasure in both hands, nestled awkwardly amid a tangle of wall wiring. Counted down from three. Thought of Beth.
Catches flipped, the hatch popped open and all the light of heaven spilled out. Jack plunged his hand inside, felt the Countermeasure’s heat penetrate his cells.
Jack poured every particle of energy he had down his arm and into the Countermeasure.
Above him familiar distortion waves were building off the corridor-ring. The light grew brighter. In a room overhead William Joyce flicked a switch, and the corridor-ring activated.
The Countermeasure flared as bright as a sun, and Jack Joyce was lost in light.
23
Monday, 31 October 2016. Riverport, Massachusetts. Twenty-one days after the Riverport disaster.
It says something about the spirit of a town that even after disaster and calamity people take time to celebrate traditions. Though porches and stoops were shattered, lawns piled with gathered rubble and wreckage, jack-o’-lanterns sat on rails and steps, and cardboard witches dangled and turned from eaves. Halloween was a lot more homemade this year, but it felt good. A lot of people had left Riverport after the disaster, or were selling up, but those who remained were coming together as a community in ways that Amy had only ever heard her dad talk about in stories from when he was a kid.
“Riverport, oh Riverport, such a pretty little town.”
Amy looked at the guy sitting on the bench to her left, next to her homemade stand. “You went to Riverport High?”
The man shook his head. “Nah, I’m from Jersey. Just visiting.”
Shaved head, glasses, beard. Layered against the autumn chill in a two-piece suit and wool overcoat, just watching the river. O’Sullivan Park had a good view of the river, and at this time of day it looked like molten silver. From there you could watch crews rebuilding the bridge.
“Speculator, huh?” she said. “Come to see if there’s money in reconstruction?”
The visitor glanced at her. “I ain’t a speculator, sweets. Like I said: just visiting. You really believe that stuff you’re handing out?”
Her card table was stacked with flyers. Postdisaster they’d been a nightmare to get printed, and nobody was taking them. The sign she’d taped to the front of the table read I WAS THERE: MONARCH IS LYING. READ THE TRUTH. The flyers featured the high school photograph of Jack Joyce. FRAMED was stamped over his face in provocative rubber-stamp font.
Amy saw the paper folded in his lap, the one with the same front page as every other paper and Web site for the last few days. Martin Hatch’s face, speculation about October 10, and the news that universities, labs, and agencies the world over were either losing or outsourcing key personnel to Monarch’s new project: the project that was going to save the world.
“You really believe that stuff you’re reading?” She threw his question back at him. He glanced at the paper. “This time last month I’d have thought the Meyer-Joyce field was where the Riverport Little League met on weekends. Then it’s brownouts and blackouts all over, and then there’s all that stuff on the Internet. Real smart people are saying it happened, and real dumb politicians are saying they need more evidence, so…”
“The Peace Movement, man. Four incidents, all those witnesses, all that footage? You don’t fake that.” Amy handed him a flyer. “Read it or don’t. Your call.” She started gathering the stacks, putting them into her backpack.
“‘Respect Existence or Expect Resistance.’ Nice.”
“It’s yours.”
“You givin’ up?”
“I gotta take my neighbor’s kid trick-or-treating.”
“Weird place to be celebrating the night the veil between worlds is thinnest. Who the hell wants ghosts at a time like this?” He stood up. “Nice to meet you.”
Amy kept shoveling pamphlets into her pack. “Sure thing.”
The man turned, crumpled what was in his hand, and tossed it into the trash. Amy’s last year in metaphor, right there. She zipped the bag, folded the table, and headed home. Passing the bench, she glanced in the trash, the bright red of the crumpled paper snagging her curiosity. What he had thrown wasn’t her flyer. It was something else.
Fishing it out and unfolding it she found herself holding a balled-up return ticket to Thailand, made out to someone she knew.
Main Street and surrounds looked like Kabul with a Starbucks. Gas mains, power lines, infrastructure, cars and trucks, they’d all been fucked up beyond belief. To hear Sofia Amaral explain it, it was areas with densest populations that got it the worst. Something about the web of cause and effect being far thicker and more varied in any location with a lot of people. Those last few stutters had played hell there. The last one especially had gone beyond messing with things and really got to the people. The final hour of the disaster had been a spawning ground for heartbreak and horror stories.
Unexpectedly, sadly, beautifully, that was probably a big part of what was bonding people after the madness: a desire to make amends. Civilized people had lived the alternative, and the value of what they had became crystal clear. The people of Riverport had a cause now, and that cause was, for the time being at least, looking out for each other.
Hazard tape, construction signs, and warnings were taped or lashed across the frontages of more buildings than not. Street corners were piled with brick. Trucks worked twenty-four seven clearing the ruin. Signs were pasted on each block offering rewards for information. Each of those signs displayed two faces: Paul Serene’s, and his own.
Jack adjusted his glasses and kept walking. He walked differently now, purposely, and when he spoke he angled his jaw forward just slightly. This changed his silhouette, it changed his face, it changed how he formed words. Sometimes that was all it took. He’d learned a lot from Beth. The Jersey accent was all her.