The Paradox Initiative (13 page)

“This whole setup
makes me nervous,” Wolfe growled, climbing into the dingy copilot’s next to Kestrel.

“Shut the hatch, there—the game won’t start
till you do,” Kestrel said, slamming her own side door closed and settling into the cockpit.

“This thing has restraints…” Wolfe
realized, pushing them out of the way so he could sit back in the snug black seat.

“You don’t need those,” Kestrel waved him off, glancing over the weathered control board’s hundreds of blinking lights and buttons. “But you should know—I’m very bad at this.”

“Wonderful,” Wolfe said under his breath, then reached out and slammed his door shut.

The cockpit lights dimmed, the front screen darkened, and
the blue words at the beginning of the game flashed to life in front of them.

ORTHEUS

THE ULTIMATE GAME OF SKILL AND STRATEGY

Kestrel grabbed the levers, which had been wrapped a
round with black electrical tape, and felt for the buttons.

“Your job will be to shoot. There’s your guns,” Kestrel told him, pointing.

“These?” he said in disbelief, wrapping his hands around two joysticks on a moveable platform.

“You can pull them closer to you—yeah, like that,” Kestrel nodded. “The right one is the right gun, the left one is your left gun.”

“Look, if we’re going to do this, you’d better use the right terms,” Wolfe declared. “Starboard and—”

“Port, all right fine,” Kestrel finished. “Didn’t know you flew.”

“I don’t,” Wolfe said, wincing as he tweaked the joysticks back and forth. “I’ve only been on an airplane twice in my life. As a passenger.”

Kestrel’s eyebrows went up.

“Really?”

“
Begin!”
the computer ordered.

The music started—frantic and intense.
Kestrel’s head whipped around to face front. The words dissolved into a simulated view of glittering space—it looked
absolutely
real—and off to Wolfe’s side of the screen, the soft curve of a blue planet glowed.

“What are we doing?” Wolfe demanded.

“We have to safely land on the planet to get our orders for the next mission level,” Kestrel said, swinging the ship around so the planet filled the screen.

“What’s the catch?”

“There’s an enemy blockade in the way.”

“And we’re all by ourselves, here?”

“Yep.”

“Do we have any special advantage?”

“No,” Kestrel shook her head. “We’re
supposed
to get a secret weapon—some sort of time-travel portal—but that’s not until level three.”

“What’s that
out there?” Wolfe pointed.

“Oh, hold on!” Kestrel cried. She hit the accelerator. The shapes in the viewscreen got drastically larger—then formed into claw-like fighters that screamed toward them, firing yellow bolts.

“Shoot, shoot!” Kestrel ordered.

“How?” Wolfe demanded.

“Pull the triggers!” Kestrel said, then yanked on her controls to send their little ship into a sharp bank. The cockpit itself didn’t flip upside down, but the screen did, making Kestrel
feel
as if they were doing loops. She straightened it out, then glanced at her readings.

“Where did they go?”
she wondered.

“I’d like to know how I’m supposed to get a clear shot off when you tailspin us like that,” Wolfe muttered
, pushing himself off the wall and thudding back into his seat.

“You’ll get a chance, here come some more,” Kestrel said, accelerating again as three more fighters emerged.

“Hold it steady this time,” Wolfe said.

“
I
am
—”
The fighters bore down on them, then flew by and strafed them—but not before Wolfe got off three solid shots. One nicked an enemy wing.

“Almost,”
Kestrel said tightly as the cockpit shook, then stabilized. She looked at her readouts. “All right, we just have to make it through three more waves without sustaining any more damage—”

Ping, ping, ping!

Kestrel flinched as the viewscreen flashed and the ship jiggled.

“Like that?” Wolfe said wryly.

“Where did that come from?” Kestrel gasped, looking around. Then she found her status screen. “Uh, oh.”

“What?” He glanced at her.

“We lost our starboard engine.”

Just as she said that, the view began to list to the right. The planet loomed up in front of them, filling the whole screen. Kestrel twisted the controls to the left, grimacing.
The listing slowed, but did not stop. The red speedometer numbers climbed.

“Um…” Kestrel managed. “We’re…I think we’re gonna die.”

“That’s probably a good assessment,” Wolfe nodded, sitting back and folding his arms. They blazed forward, entering the planet’s atmosphere. The whole screen turned white.

The controls went limp in her hands.

The screen turned black.

You were incinerated upon entry, the computer blinked.

“Oh,
no
kidding,” Wolfe snorted. “Good thing we have a computer around to tell us these things.”

Kestrel sat back, a wave of melancholy overcoming her.

“I’ve never been very good at this game,” she murmured, rubbing her thumb on the stick. “Marcus always beats me.”

Sile
nce fell, and she could feel Wolfe looking at her.

“Well,”
he finally said, drawing a breath and taking hold of the door latch. “Now that you’ve made me sick, I think I need a change of scenery. And a drink.”

Kestrel looked at him sideways.

“What kind of drink?”

He shrugged and pushed the door open.

“Anything but that syrupy coffee.”

“I don’t know what’s on this level,” Kestrel warned him as the lift plunged. “Usually the bottom level is reserved for night life after
crossing the Liquor Line—”

“I keep hearing about this Liquor Line,” Wolfe said as the lift slowed and the doors whooshed open. He stepped out. “What is it, exactly?”

“It…You don’t know?” Kestrel frowned at him, keeping pace next to him.

“Never paid attention
.”

“Alcohol of any kind is
illegal inside the Liquor Line,” she explained. “Once you get past that, it
is
legal, but you can’t get in fights or break things or drive anything.”

“Aha.”

“If you want to smoke or do other…questionable things,” Kestrel made a face. “You have to get further out into space, past the Vice Line. It’s so far away from any real government that you can get away with pretty much whatever you want.”

“The wild west,” Wolfe mused, heading down the quiet hallway
, hands in his pockets.

“The what?” Kestrel wondered, but he didn’t supply anything more.
Kestrel was forced to push that aside and cast around as she walked.

The floors and walls on this level were obsidian black—mirror-like, with deep sparkles. The ceiling shone like silver, random pinprick lights offering more than enough illumination to see clearly. When they walked, their footsteps caused low
, reverberating musical notes, like the plucking of piano strings.

On
both sides of the hallway, doorways stood locked and barred—doorways to dark dance clubs and lifeless cocktail lounges. No music played. And nobody else walked the corridors. Kestrel shivered.

“It’s eerie down here,” she decided.

“It’s quiet,” Wolfe sighed, running a hand through his hair and lifting his head. “I can actually hear myself think for once. Things aren’t constantly…”

He trailed off and stopped, brow furrowing. Kestrel stopped too.

“What?” she asked.

“Sh,” he held up a finger. “Hear that?”

Kestrel paused, listening. For a long moment, nothing. She opened her mouth to say no…

A voice. Then, a
low tone—
not
a voice.

Then, l
aughing.

“C’mon,” Wolfe urged, and started forward. Kestrel followed. They rounded a corner, then slowed in front of a wide door.

A door with a frame made of
wood
.

No laser gate barred the entrance, but not many lights were on inside. However, Kestrel
could
see the interior: polished cherry wood, a low ceiling. Tall-backed booths, a bar in the back, bordered by sparkling glasses and bottles. A wooden floor, scuffed and pockmarked.

The voices came from inside there. As did the low, jingling tones.

Wolfe stepped inside.

“I don’t think they’re open…”
Kestrel cautioned, but he didn’t hear her. Biting her lip, she ventured in after, hoping no alarms were about to go off…

They maneuvered through the maze of booths and tables and finally came out in front of a well-lit, short, small stage next to the bar. And on that stage sat three
casually-dressed young men. One black-bearded man sat perched on a stool, his arms wrapped around an long-necked, broad-chested wooden stringed instrument that looked taller than he. A blonde man sat on a box, a little stringed instrument resting on his lap. And the last, a red-head, sat on the edge of the stage, holding a medium-sized stringed instrument. They were all in the midst of laughing heartily.

Then
they caught sight of Wolfe and Kestrel. They stopped and turned. The red-head’s bright eyes widened.

“Hello,” he said
, in an accent—it sounded Scottish. “Er, we’re not open yet…” He glanced at his fellows. “Don’t cross the Liquor Line for another few days. We were just practicing.”

“Can we help you?” the bearded man asked, standing up off his stool—he had an accent too, but a different one.
Australian?

“We were just exploring and I heard your guitar,” Wolfe gestured to the instrument the red-head held. “It’s a
nice one.”

“You…You heard that?” the man seemed surprised. “I was just diddling around…”

Wolfe grinned.

“It’
s been a while since I’ve heard a
real
acoustic guitar,” he said. “You don’t forget that sound.”

“Aye, you don’t,” the
young blonde man agreed.

“My name’s Jack,” Wolfe stepped in and held out his hand.

“Jim,” the red-head answered, shaking Wolfe’s hand and smiling.

“This is…This is April,” Wolfe turned and indicated Kestrel.

“Nice to meet you, ma’am,” the black-bearded man nodded to her.

“This is George,” Jim pointed to the bearded man. “And this is Kie.”

“Pleasure,” Wolfe said.

“So,” Jim’s brow furrowed at him. “You play?”

“I did,” Wolfe nodded, putting his hands in his pockets. “But I wound up losing my
own
guitar in a fire, actually.”

All the men
grimaced.

“T
hat’s terrible,” Kie moaned.

“Yes, it is,” Jim agreed. “Would you like to…?” He half held out his guitar to Wolfe. Kestrel watched him.

“You sure?” Wolfe asked. Jim raised his eyebrows solemnly.

“
Least I can do for somebody who lost his instrument that way.”

Wolfe smiled again, and grasped the neck of the guitar.

“Thank you,” he inclined his head. “I’ll be careful with her.”

“You’d better,” Kie warned under his breath, and the others chuckled. Wolfe sat down on the edge of the stage next to Jim, running his eyes and his fingers over the instrument. He took hold of the neck of it with his left hand, then let his right hand hover over the strings.

A reflexive, broken smile crossed his face.

“
Long time…” he murmured. He set his fingers on the strings, breathing slowly. They all watched him. Kestrel didn’t move.

H
e began to play.

Soft, individual notes—rich and deep and flowing together like a stream over smooth rocks. His left hand fingers pressed down and released the strings with firm, gentle purpose as he bent his head, listening as the tone
s reverberated through the wooden chest of the guitar.

Kestrel’s breath stole from her body. She’d heard guitars before—guitars made of
metal and carbon and plastic and even glass—but never wood. And never alone, without being plugged into an amplification system and accompanied by pounding drums and synthesizers…

She’d never heard anything so beautiful. So honest.

It cut straight into her heart.

Jim, George and Kie gazed at Wolfe, utterly still, as if listening with all their beings. Wolfe played more carefully, more deliberately, drawing the soul out of the instrument.

And then he started to sing.

A deep voice
. Untrained, smooth and simple. And as the words left his lips, Kestrel felt a lump rising in her throat.

“Oh, Shenandoah,

I long to see you,

Away, you rolling river.

Oh
, Shenandoah,

I long to see you,

Away, I'm bound away,

'cross the wide Missouri.”

Jim glanced at George
in startled recognition. Then they began to hum along—

harmonizing, adding two more layers to the profound melody.

“Oh, Shenandoah,

I love your daughter

Away, you rolling river

For her I’d cross

Your roaming waters

Away, I’m bound away

‘cross the wide Missouri.”

Wolfe stopped singing
, and played the chorus one last time as a strange, thrilling pain danced through Kestrel’s chest. She pressed her fingers to her mouth as the notes wandered through the darkened pub, lingering like the summer wind, slowing down…

Fading. And ceasing as he strummed one last chord, and
lifted his hand from the strings.

For just a moment, silence fell. Then, Jim beamed and clapped his hands. The other two instantly joined, and Kestrel felt herself smiling.

“Oh, well done!” Jim commended. “That was gorgeous, mate !”

“Thank you,” Wolfe said, letting his hand stray across the strings again in a quick
thrum
. “It’s a really nice instrument.”

“Almost a hundred years old,” Jim declared proudly.
Wolfe raised his eyebrows at him.

“Really?”

“Yeh, belonged to my great-grandfather,” Jim said.

“You’
ve taken good care of it,” Wolfe nodded, looking at it again. He took a breath, and braced himself. “Well, we’d better—”

“Do you know any duets?”
Kie cut in. “Any group tunes?”

Wolfe’s hesitated
.

“I…Well, I don’t know if you guys would call ‘em by the same names…”

“Well, play a lick,” George suggested.

“
Okay, um…” Wolfe cleared his throat and thought a moment. Interested, Kestrel stepped closer, folding her arms and leaning sideways against the back of a booth.

Wolfe set his fingers on the strings, then plucked eight notes—the first three were the same note, then the others ducked down and swung back up again. He stopped and
looked to them. Then, Jim got up.

“I’m going to need my banjo for this one.” He hurried off the stage to open a different case.

“You know it?” Wolfe asked, surprised.

“We call it
Gold Rush
,” Kie said. Wolfe smiled wryly.

“When I learned it, it was called
Cripple Creek,
but as long as the notes don’t wander too far apart, I think we’ll be all right.”

“We should be,” Jim nodded eagerly, sitting down with a very long-necked instrument—the place where he strummed the strings looked like a small drum. Wolfe
shifted toward the group, watching Jim.

“Ready?” Jim looked at the other men. They sat poised.

“A one and-a-two-and-a-three—” he said—

And off they went. George kept steady, pulsing time on his tall, big-chested instrument, and Kie, Jim and Wolfe’
s fingers simply flew over their strings, their left hands effortlessly sliding up and down to change chords.

Kestrel found
herself grinning like an idiot, completely unable to keep her eyes off them. The rollicking, multi-layered song swung and reeled through the pub, lightning fast, happy and reckless—and none of them missed a beat.

They raced along, exchanging challenging grins as the pace picked up to a blinding speed, built and got louder—

Then, the song turned, spun around on itself, tied up in a nice little tag and finished with a flourish, each man striking the strings and then lifting his hand in finale.

Kestrel burst into applause. Kie laughed, George and Jim inclined their heads to her.
Wolfe hid a quiet smile.

“That was amazing!” Kestrel cried, stepping closer
to them. “That was the most amazing thing I’ve ever seen. Or heard.”

“
Thank you, lass,” George said warmly. “Do you play anything?”

“
Oh—no,” Kestrel said regretfully. “I can sing, but I never learned how to play anything like that.”

“What, and he won’t teach you?” Jim asked, sending Wolfe a berating look. Wolfe chuckled.

“I would if she asked,” he said, glanced up, and met her eyes for a moment. She stood still. His smile gentled. Then, Wolfe stood up, and held the guitar out to Jim.