Time Trapped (23 page)

October 9, 2061, 12:37
A.M.

Subway Tracks near Canal Street Station
SoHo, New Beijing (formerly New York City)

I
see it, Cale!” relays Abbie over my patch. “The station.”

And then another voice is in my head, an eerily calm one, saying, “Tell everyone to stop and turn around. If you do so right now, none of you will be harmed.”

A second later, Uncle's voice continues, “But if you carry on, when we catch you it will go much worse for everyone and especially for you, Caleb. And have no doubt that we will catch you.”

Sweat breaks out on my forehead. What if he's right? What if in a few minutes he captures us anyway? What would I have gained? Nothing. But I would have put the lives of the recruits in danger. I have no right to do that.

“Cale, quickly, help the last of them up onto the platform,” Abbie says.

As I boost the smallest recruit onto the subway platform I hear a rumbling sound. A train is pulling into the station.

Behind me, blue light flashes, and someone cries out. I quickly push the last recruit onto the platform and then pull myself up.

There are people on the platform; New Beijingers. Some are staring at us, and others are shouting. Fine with me. So long as they don't interfere.

Interfere with what? With our escape? But there is no escape. I should have known all along. There's no escaping Uncle. Maybe if we all turn ourselves in now, things will go easier for us. No! That's not me talking. He's inside my head trying to get me to give up. But I won't. An image of Zach at home in Boston flashes through my mind.

The train pulls into the station, and the doors open. We race to the first car and I herd all of the recruits inside. Dmitri sprints to the control booth.

Just then, there's a loud boom.

“Everyone down!” I yell. I drop to the floor as a window shatters.

Seconds later, I hoist myself up and peer out the smashed window. Uncle and some goons are only fifteen feet down the platform.

Dmitri is shouting something. Let him. It makes no difference.

Uncle's voice is in my head again.

“You can't escape. The subway train has been disabled.”

He's right. There's no escape. We're in a tin can that's going nowhere. The lights of the subway car are full on, and I watch dumbly as Uncle and his thugs approach. And there's Frank, standing behind and to Uncle's right, whispering something to him. But as he does, there's a burst of blue light, and unbelievably, Uncle is falling. Someone cries out, and I can't tell if the scream is in my head or not.

More shouting. I've got to figure out what to do. And quickly.

Frank smiles as he walks toward us, heading up the column of thugs. Someone shouts something, and the doors of our subway car close.

Dmitri's voice rises above everything. “Everyone, I have reconfigured the subway car's operating system to draw power directly from all wristbands arranged in parallel formation. Hang on to an immovable object!”

What is he talking about?

And then I see why Frank is smiling. He's dragging someone by the hair. No, it can't be. She can't be with him, because she's here. On the subway car. But where? I look desperately around but don't see her.

Frank yanks his arm forward and shows me her face.

It's Abbie!

She's struggling to reach her wrist, but Frank's got her firmly in his grip.

“T minus thirty seconds,” shouts Dmitri.

“Let her go!” I yell through the shattered window.

If anything, Frank tightens his grip on her.

Ice-cold anger fills me. I start moving toward the window. Glass shards cut my arms and legs as I step through, but I hardly feel them.

Abbie's voice is inside my head. “Don't, Cale. Think of the others. This is their chance!”

“I'm not leaving you!” I mindshout. “Let her go, Frank,” I repeat. “Take me instead.”

“How noble.” He laughs.

I hold my arms out as I approach. Beyond Frank, I see some movement. Uncle is stirring. One of his hands disappears under his
hanfu.

“There is only one trade I'm making, Caleb,” Frank continues. “Abbie for all of the recruits.”

I keep walking forward. I will not let her die because of me.

Blue light flashes. Frank's smile morphs into a grimace.

Another flash. Someone goes down.

Ragged breathing comes over my mindpatch.

“I cannot reverse the process, Caleb,” Dmitri mindshouts. “You must return immediately! We will be departing in seven seconds!”

Footsteps pounding toward me.

Abbie!

“Quickly!” I grab her hand, and we turn to race back to the subway car.

But something is happening to the car. It's fading.

I can't believe it! Dmitri is actually doing it. He's transporting the entire subway car through time!

Abbie and I are too late.

Or are we?

I stop running and tap out a quick sequence on my wrist. Three seconds back in time, thirty feet forward in space.

Squeezing Abbie's hand, I look into her eyes. They shine with fierce determination. This has to work.

Our gazes stay locked together as the timeleap takes us away.

Time-Space Vortex

N
othing but blackness. The only thing I can hear is the pounding of my heart. It feels like I'm falling and falling but not landing.

Nassim told me about this place once, but I hadn't believed him. He had said that there was a place—a no-man's-land—in between time and space. A kind of black hole opens up in the time-space continuum.

It happens very rarely, he had said. Only once in every one hundred thousand timeleaps.

Is that where I am now? Time trapped in the in-between place? I close my eyes and open them again. No change. I can't see a thing. Or feel anything. I try but am unable to mindpatch Abbie.

Time passes. It is impossible for me to know how long. A second? A day? A year?

Then a rushing sound. A tremendous force pulls at me.

Something changes, and I'm looking down at myself from a great height. Am I dead?

I can see Abbie. We are still holding hands, but barely. Only by three fingers. The huge force is trying to rip us apart. “Hold on,” I try to shout, but there is still no mind connection between us. The pressure is tremendous, and two of my fingers slip away from hers. Now our link is only one finger.

A roar explodes in my ears, and my hands reach up to block out the sound. But that can't be, because if my hands are blocking my ears, that means they're not holding on to Abbie!

I feel myself slipping away. Can't hold on to my thoughts. Fighting the darkness. Fighting the force . . .

. . .
of the wind that comes rushing through my bedroom window. I ignore it and lie in my bed gazing up at the ceiling. There is a crack in the plaster that I never noticed before. I follow the path of the crack across the ceiling and down the wall almost to the floor. But the long crack doesn't quite reach the floor. It stops just short. Right above a pair of shoes. The shoes are ancient—black leather, creased and cracked. There is a red streak on one of them. I shudder. The wind howls, and as I sit up, I see branches sprouting off the ceiling crack—a spiderweb of cracks, growing out in all directions. And then the shoes are lifting right off the ground, spinning out of control and hitting the walls, creating more cracks. The bed beneath me lurches, and I'm thrown into the air moments before the bed is swallowed by the biggest crack of all. The spinning shoes are morphing into something—a gloved hand, black as night. The hand reaches down toward me even as I fall, grabbing me and shaking me.

“Caleb, wake up!”

I open my eyes.

Abbie is there, kneeling in front of me.

I stare at her for a moment, seeing but not understanding. And then it all comes flooding back: the escape, the tracks, the subway car, Uncle and Frank.

“Where are the others?” I say, panic rising.

“Everyone's here—inside the subway car—including us,” she says, smiling.

Abbie moves to one side, and I can see the gaggle of recruits, some looking our way with concern on their faces.

A screen above me comes on. “I see the patient is up.”

Phoebe's persona is a doctor in a white lab coat. A stethoscope hangs from her neck. A button on her coat says
VAMPIRES
SUCK
.

I sit up. “Where are we?”

“Central Park, 2061,” says Abbie. “There are a few New Beijingers we have to drop off before we get going.”

A bell chimes, and the doors of the subway car open. I watch as a parade of dazed-looking people step from the train out onto the grass.

The chime sounds again, and the doors close.

“Caleb?” Dmitri calls from the control booth.

“What's up?”

“I believe the wristbands will continue to provide sufficient thrust but if it is all right with you and Abbie, as a backup I would like to siphon some power from your time patches. If you are agreeable, I can manage this remotely so that your patches do not need to be removed.”

“It's fine, Dmitri,” I say, glancing at Abbie, who nods. “Do what you have to do.”

“Excellent. Consider it . . . done.”

“First stop, Uruguay, June 27, 1910,” says Phoebe. “To drop off Recruit Lorena.”

My eyes go wide. We're actually doing it!

“Hang on,” calls Dmitri from the control booth.

I curl my fingers around a pole and close my eyes.

Seconds later, I open them. Through the window I see endless fields and grass as high as my shoulder.

The chime sounds, and Phoebe announces, “Lorena, this is your stop.”

The doors open, and a breeze rushes through the car, bringing with it the fragrant smell of eucalyptus.

The light is so bright, it hurts my eyes to look out.

A slight girl steps forward. She looks bewildered at first, but then a smile spreads across her face. She leaps from the car and races along a path between the stalks of grass toward a small cabin.

A woman steps from the cabin, sees her and runs to greet her. They embrace and the girl's mother, for that is who she must be, takes a step back and stares at the girl's clothes. But the next moment she hugs the girl again.

I feel my eyes watering. I want to see more, but the subway car's doors are closing.

Before the timeleap takes us away, Phoebe rattles off the names of about twenty recruits and tells them to get ready.

This time we land in what at first glance looks like a large parking lot. But then I recognize where we are: the large square in Beijing, China, where I almost snatched the flag of the Great Friendship before Frank butted in.

The twenty jump out when the doors open. This must have been Uncle's favorite recruiting time/place. I watch as the recruits run across the square, finding and then flinging their arms around family members. Some of the parents have relieved expressions on their faces but others don't react at all . . . It's as if they didn't even know their kids were missing.

There must be over five hundred people in the square, and it seems like all of them are making a beeline for our subway car. Time to leave.

“Where to next, Phoebe?” I ask.

She consults her list. “I can't read this one.”

“What do you mean you can't read it?” I say. “Aren't you the one who made the list?”

“Are you saying my handwriting is messy?”

“Not at all,” I say, backtracking.

By now people have gathered around the subway car. Some are looking for a way in.

“Hold on,” Phoebe says. “I can read it now. Anchorage, Alaska. January 3, 1899.”

“Thanks,” I say. “Did you get that, Dmitri?”

There's no answer from the control booth.

“Dmitri?”

As I walk over to the control booth, I can tell something isn't right.

The figure hunched over the controls looks too tall to be Dmitri. When I peer through the small glass window, I see another figure slumped on the floor of the control booth. It's Dmitri! But then who is . . .

The person at the controls turns his head toward me and smirks.

Frank!

I pull on the door, but it won't open. He must have locked it from the inside.

I kick at it and then pound my fist against it. Nothing.

Everyone else in the car must have heard the commotion, because they're all gathered around the door now.

“Abbie, we've got to get in and stop him!” I shout.

She unleashes a side kick at the door. It vibrates but stays intact. Another well-aimed kick rocks the door, but that's all.

Abbie gathers her strength for a third try. This time she lets loose with a vicious front kick. There's a screech of metal, and the door flies open.

I open my mouth to say something, but before I can, several angry recruits are pushing past me, trying to get at Frank.

They grab him, pry his hands off the controls and drag him from the booth. Fists pummel his body, and legs kick him. He tries to shield himself from the worst of the kicks, but all he accomplishes is getting his hands kicked as well.

If they don't stop, they will kill him.

My eyes flick from the mob attacking Frank to the figure lying on the floor of the control booth.

If Dmitri is dead, I'm not going to stop them. But even as I think it, his legs twitch and the fingers of one hand curl into a fist. He's alive!

I turn back to the recruits. “Stop!” I shout. But they either don't hear me or pretend not to.

“No!” I scream and launch myself into the mob, yanking at arms and legs. Abbie is there too, pulling recruits off of Frank.

“Get off him!” I scream, and this time my shouting seems to have had an effect. Some back away on their own, and Abbie and I manage to push the others away.

Frank lies on the floor of the car, knees to chest, his face a mask of blood.

“Get up,” I say, but he doesn't move.

“Stand him up,” I say to the two closest recruits. They reach forward, grab an arm each and pull Frank to his feet.

My eyes flick to Abbie. She's kneeling next to Dmitri, cradling his head in her hands. He appears to be conscious.

Looking at Frank now, beaten and bloodied, I wonder how I could hate him. Because at this moment, all I can feel is sorry for him. And a bit sad. Here is the boy I wandered through SoHo with when we were both young, picking through restaurant Dumpsters for scraps.

“Check him for weapons,” I say to the blond-haired recruit standing next to me. He steps forward and pats Frank down. A moment later, he hands me a knife.

Using Frank's knife, I slash one of his sleeves clean off his shirt. Then I take the severed sleeve and tie it tightly around his right forearm just above his wrist.

“This will act as a tourniquet, Frank,” I say. “So that you won't bleed to death.”

Something flashes in his eyes. Anger? Fear?

I hold up the knife to the dim overhead light. The blade looks sharp, but it's probably not as sharp as it should be for what I'm about to do.

“Hold his hands and legs still,” I say, and four recruits come forward to grab his limbs.

“I need one more recruit on his right hand,” I say. I've never done this before, and if I nick an artery, I could kill him.

As I pierce the skin of his wrist with the knife, Frank lets out a gut-wrenching scream.

I cut deeper, until the edge of my knife comes into contact with his wrist patch. There's a lot of blood. So much that it's hard to see what I'm doing.

He screams again, and I draw back, scared. I check the tourniquet. It looks like it's holding.

Taking a deep breath, I plunge my hand into the mess, grab the edges of his patch and yank.

It's not coming.

Another slash of the knife. More blood. Frank's screams turn to sobs.

I pull harder this time. There is a sickening sucking sound and then I'm holding Frank's bloodied time patch in my hand.

I toss the patch aside and wrap another strip of Frank's shirt around his wrist.

“Hold his wrist,” I instruct a recruit, “and keep pressure on it. Abbie,” I shout. “How is Dmitri doing?”

“He must have hit his head when Frank attacked him. But it looks like he's going to be okay.”

“Until he is,” I say, “can you drive this thing?”

“I . . . I'm not sure,” says Abbie. “I was watching Dmitri do it. But I wasn't paying close attention.”

“Do your best,” I say. “I need you to take us to New York City.”

“All right, I'll try,” says Abbie. “Date?”

“How about January 1, 1800,” I say, looking at Frank's wrist. The bandage is soaked through.

“If I were you, I'd get that looked at by a proper doctor as soon as we land,” I tell him.

“Hold on, everyone,” Abbie says.

“You won't get away with this,” Frank says, his voice raspy and weak.

“Too late. I already have,” I answer as the timeleap takes hold.

A moment later, Abbie calls, “We're here.” The door nearest me slides open. We've landed in a frozen field.

A horse-drawn carriage moves slowly along a dirt road bordering the field toward a distant cluster of houses.

“Bring him,” I say and two recruits hustle Frank over to the open door. “Good luck, Frank,” I say.

To his credit, he doesn't make us pry his fingers from the door frame. He just steps from the car and into the field.

“Okay, Abbie. Get us out of here,” I say.

As she works the controls, I have one last sighting of Frank, good hand cradling his injured wrist, trudging forward into the beginning of the nineteenth century.