Under Cover of Darkness (16 page)

Light spilled into the dim apartment from the refrigerator.
Pop-snap.
Vincent stood in the open door of the fridge, bathed in light, drinking a soda. His wasting energy still bothered her.

“Did I ever get my key back from you?” he asked casually, in between gulps.

Kayla gave no answer.

“Kay?” he said. “Where's my key?”

She made no motion, no response.

Vincent's eyes went wide. “Oh, God,” he said. “You turned me in.” He tossed the empty can to the counter. Stepping past her, he turned the dead bolt and slid the door chain across.

“I didn't turn you in,” she said, defensive. “They came to me. You stopped meeting your quota, and then you stopped checking in altogether. They notice that kind of thing. They want me to bring you in.”

“You? Why you?”

Kayla hesitated. “Because of our . . . history.”

Vincent scoffed. “Is that what they told you? Doesn't matter. I don't work for them anymore.” He looked out the door's peephole.

“They don't see it that way.” Kayla didn't believe him, either. Vincent still wore the bracelet that, along with the chronograph, was the mark of their secret profession. A braid of rope in gold—a reminder of their first lesson, to think of time as a piece of rope, and of each moment a fiber twisting together to make up the whole. The bracelet was a constant reminder to all chronographers of their mission and oath to gather lost time, moments people skipped over, which would otherwise slip away into nothingness.

Kayla, like most chronographers, came up with her own simile for time after considering the lesson of the rope. She preferred to think of time like oil; as nonre newable a resource, and just as slippery to deal with.

“Things are so black and white for you, Kay. I wish it were that simple.”

“You steal lost time and use it for yourself. Seems black and white to me. Chronographers are supposed to collect lost time and use it for the future! Without the Guild and the chronographers, who knows how much time we'd have left?”

He laughed. “Still such idealism? I always loved that about you. But it drove me crazy, too.”

“I am idealistic,” Kayla said. “And I'm not ashamed. The work we do,” she caught herself, “the work
I
do is important, noble.”

“Noble? You're the one who's stealing time, not me—you and the other chronographers.”

“That's ridiculous. What we do, we do for the good of everyone, the whole human race. You know our days are numbered if we do nothing about it.”

“How many tomorrows do we have, hmm?” He crossed the apartment. “Have we ever been able to tell how much time remains unused, in reserve? The Guild would have you believe that all we have left is what the chronographers have saved and put back into use. What's that make our lead time? A year? A bit more? Are we that close to oblivion?”

Vincent pulled one edge of the drapes back a bit, letting in a sliver of the day, and looked out across the skyscraper skyline. “All those people out there using up time, skipping over baseline like rocks over a pond, unaware of the moments they have. Humanity entered the twentieth century with one billion people; it exited with more than six. That number will only rise. There aren't enough of us,” he waved his hand back and forth between them, “to keep up the quantities of time people are using. There never could be. It's diminishing returns. We're fighting a war of attrition, one that entropy is destined to win.”

“We delay the end of time as long as we can. That's all the Guild could ever do,” Kayla said.

He rounded on her. “What if the Guild is wrong? We could have a hundred years left, or a thousand, or maybe aeons more. Then what would that make the chronographers, if not thieves?” He crossed back to the door and looked out the peephole again. “It's one thing to
lose
time, and another to have it
taken
from you. How many hours have you stolen, Kay? How many days or years of someone's life have you taken?”

Kayla's mouth worked, but no words came out. She'd never heard anyone speak about the Guild or the chronographers that way. She was not like Vincent! She gathered time the way all good chronographers did—when it wouldn't be missed. And she returned it to the Guild, for the benefit of all to use, not for herself.

She would gather moments from the sleeping, from the excited, from the distracted. So someone would wake up feeling like they'd only just closed their eyes, or someone would see that time flies when you're having fun. Their sacrifice meant those moments would be recycled, available for someone else to use, cheating entropy of its victory for another few seconds. Vincent made it sound like she killed people.

“We all steal time,” Vincent said. “I just use it differently than you.”

He pulled a jacket and small duffel bag from the hall closet. He'd been preparing for an escape. He slammed the closet door.

“Where are you going?” Kayla asked. She turned as if to block his way as he headed for the window. Vincent bumped her out of his way with a shoulder.

“Vincent, where are you going?”

He pulled the drapes open, violently, ripping one from the curtain rod. It peeled away like a skin, and fading daylight streamed in. Vincent pushed the window open and threw one leg out onto the fire escape.

The sound of the bullet entering the pistol's chamber stopped him. He stood frozen for a moment, straddling the window frame, before Kayla finally spoke.

“You can't leave, Vincent. Unless it's with me and back to the Council.”

Vincent looked at her, studied the automatic she pointed at him, and turned back to the window. “If you want to stop me, you'll have to fire . . . and shoot me in the back.”

“They're in the alley, waiting for you!”

Vincent hesitated. “Nice try. But I always knew when you were lying. The Guild knows as much about bringing in a fugitive as a bunch of librarians. Don't take this the wrong way, hon, but if you're who they sent after me I don't think they bothered putting anyone in the alley.”

He waited for a moment before pulling his other leg through the window. There was the sound of footfalls on the fire escape, and he was gone.

Kayla rushed to the window and leaned out. She could hear him getting farther away, rattling down the escape toward the ground, but couldn't catch sight of him.

Dammit!

Strangway, the Guild agent who had assigned Kayla this task, had given her the gun, but she'd never intended to use it. The threat would be enough. But no, not for Vincent. Idiot.

There was a knock at the door. Kayla checked her watch. Twenty minutes and they'd follow her up, they said. Right on time.

Muffled voices outside the door, and then the key she had given them turned in the lock. The door opened as far as the chain would allow. A body slammed against the door. The chain held, but Kayla knew it wouldn't for much longer.

What would they do, she wondered, when they found out Vincent escaped? It would be the end of her career, at best. They might let her stay on as one of the rank-and-file, patrolling every day, gathering stray bits of time day after day for years, until retirement. She didn't relish the idea of such mediocrity.

“Stop! Freeze!” she yelled. That sounded like the right kind of thing. The crashing at the door stopped momentarily. She scrambled on to the fire escape and held the gun high above her head, pressing a finger in one ear and the other ear into her arm. “Freeze!” she yelled once more for good measure, and squeezed the trigger.

She jumped at the sound, but the kick was what really surprised her. There wasn't normally any call for a chronographer to use a firearm.

There were shouts in the hall, and as Kayla flew down the first set of metal stairs she heard the splintering wood of the doorframe giving way.

When her feet finally hit the ground, she ran hard down the alley. Would they know that she'd hesitated, or that Vincent had a three- or four-minute head start?

As she cleared the alley, which opened on to a busy city street, Kayla looked to the darkening sky. She couldn't take the chance that he was right about how much time was left. She had to find him. Otherwise, her charade wouldn't make much difference—she'd be finished in the Guild, and time itself would be in danger.

 

Though she had her chronograph out, Kayla relied more on feel to guide her through the city streets, in what she hoped was Vincent's direction. She found the usual fluctuations from baseline, but nothing out of the ordinary.

Sitting on a park bench, Kayla clicked shut her chronograph. She needed to gather her thoughts, focus her attention. She drew deep, slow breaths, emptying her awareness, focusing on becoming a vessel for time to pass into. Kayla waited for . . .
something
, some clue to where Vincent might have fled.

The glow from a hundred office towers, each a shimmering finger of glass, steel, and light, illuminated the downtown core. People in suits emptied from them, filling the streets to teeming. Each of them rushed somewhere, distracted, minds racing ahead of them. The city intruded on her awareness.

She'd never considered how many moments she could gather from these rat-race types. There was no need to check the chronograph for confirmation. She could tell there was time here, ripe for the taking; she could see it in their eyes, feel it in her bones. It would be hard to find Vincent through such a jumble.

Learning the true nature of time—that it was a real and tangible thing, as elemental as fire, as invisible as the wind—was one thing. Look at how time ravaged and wrinkled the faces of the elderly, or how the monuments man built wore and decayed as the ages passed, and it made sense. Learning the ebb and flow of moments people use but don't observe, how to take those seconds or minutes without being noticed, was something else entirely.

She had skill for it, more than some Guild recruits, and she found her own instinct often as good as data gleaned from a chronograph. So she closed her eyes, and imagined herself reaching out to them, scooping up their unwanted time like sand on a beach. Instants, seconds, moments slipped through, each one distinct to her, like sand against her skin. She could not save them all. Entropy would have its due. But she could save some.

Something indistinct pulled at her, there, over her right shoulder. Her attention shifted. There was a definite pressure, familiar . . .

Vincent!

Into the park she ran, deep into its darkness, with no thought of what might lurk there. He was close, she was sure, and that was what mattered.

She slowed her pace as the pressure built, like pin-pricks all over her skin, like the tingle of a sleeping limb. It was right in front of her, and it was . . . nothing. Kayla paced near a stand of trees, feeling the pressure stronger here, weaker there, the boundaries of a bubble.

Kayla knew something of such spaces from her time with Vincent. She closed her eyes, preparing. She moved through the barrier. How seductive it was. How easy it would be to give in as she had so many times, unaware, with Vincent.

Opening her eyes, she saw the world overlaid upon itself. Night and day flexed and jostled, each trying to impose itself over the other.

Kayla was still within the same stand of trees, but there were children suddenly, half a dozen, all nine or ten years old, playing in the dying sunlight of a late August day.

Each part of Kayla's awareness fought for dominance, just as the flickering night and day did. Two moments: one theirs, one hers. Their moment was an echo for her, she realized, a flash into how they were experiencing time. Children wove around her, running after one another. Did they see her? Was she really there?

Kayla's brow tightened. Guild agents used time differently from others, were more “in-moment,” in Guild parlance. They observed baseline more closely, used time at a fairly constant rate regardless of circumstances. But even they sped through moments sometimes. Everyone, even chronographers, lost stray seconds without noticing, like losing eyelashes, or shedding skin cells.

Those children, though, did not. They had every second at their disposal. There was no room for Kayla to reach in and take moments. She could feel them using and attending to every moment individually, perfectly, like no one she'd ever encountered . . . But how? They couldn't all be so naturally in-moment.

Until she had appeared at his door that afternoon, Kayla hadn't seen Vincent in almost a year; he'd made no effort to contact her. But now he wanted her to find him. It was the only thing that made sense.

Vincent had somehow given these children time. He knew that she would recognize the strange sensation and track it. The children were a marker, part of a trail. Vincent led her to them, and was leading her to himself. But why?

Time began to move faster around her. Kayla turned to see the sun falling behind the skyline, felt coolness against her skin as buildings' long shadows raced over her, filling the park. In the same moment, she saw the moon, the starless urban sky, the glistening office towers.

The flickering between moments intensified as they moved to merge at baseline. It was her presence, she realized, her observation of this strange sliptime, that was bringing things back into synch so rapidly.

And it was night again suddenly, Kayla's moment. The children called good-bye to one another, promised to play again the next day, as they scattered in all directions.

A young boy collided with Kayla. Perhaps he hadn't seen her, she thought, for there was surprise on his face at running into a strange woman who, for him, had not been there a moment earlier. He ran off without an apology.

Kayla began running, too, in the other direction. Vincent was close now, she was sure. And he wanted to be found.