TEMPUS FUGITIVE

by Rob Pegler and Thom Brannan

Originally published in Times of Trouble (Permuted Press, 2013)

1. ASLEEP

The squeal of a car alarm shook the sleeping man from a dreamful of cracking bones, of blood and gibbering.

He came wide awake quickly, and scanned the room with his eyes before moving. A moment of confusion stretched and continued—where was he?

Flashing red and green fluorescence coming through the room's only window gave him his first clue: he was in a motel. That was a good start. Blinking, he sat up and looked around again. Bland, barely useful furniture looked back at him, apathetic as only motel furniture could be.

Worry creased his brow as he tried to recall the name of the motel. Details drifted in and out as he grasped at them, slipping away. The worry deepened as he came to realize that he couldn't even remember where he was. No city, no state.

He swung his legs off the bed and pushed to his feet. As he did so, a heavy bracelet dislodged from the thicker part of his forearm and slid down to his wrist, thumping bone.

The man stared at the bracelet. Worry was starting to graduate to panic in his face; he had no recollection of that bracelet. Or of the tattoo on the back of his hand.

"What the fuck is this?" he said, then gasped at the sound of his own voice. Raspy, to the point of malevolence. He turned, headed for the bathroom and the mirror therein.

For several minutes he stood there, taking in the features of his face. He moved his hair around, noting the iron grey at his temples, and looked at his teeth. They seemed strong, like he'd evolved to eat concrete and rebar. Brushing his hands over the stubble on his cheeks and chin, he finally spoke.

"Well, hello, stranger."

###

The gun in his hand was heavier than it had any right to be, as if it had its own gravity. Considering its purpose, perhaps it did. He'd found it under the pillow while he was tearing about the room, looking for clues as to whom he might be.

Where he was, that was easy enough to answer. The name of the hotel and address was on the phone by his bedside. Who he was… as he turned the gun over and looked at its surfaces, he thought that finding the nearest outlet for law and justice and asking if they knew who he was might be something of a bad idea. And the room was more than likely under a fake name, too.

Hmm.

The clerk answered at the first ring.

"Front desk."

"Hey," the man said, sounding out of sorts. "This is room…"

"Three?"

"Uh… yeah. Three."

"Yes. Mr Desmedt."

Was that my name?

"Yeah…" he said, trying to sound as sure of his identity as the clerk did. "Listen. What ah, what day is it, today?"

"Today is the twenty-sixth. Of February," the clerk added the last with amusement obvious in his voice.

"Wow," the man said. Then, half-laughing, "You sure?"

The clerk guffawed. "Last I checked, Mr. Desmedt."

With a cracked thank-you, the man hung up the phone and took that information in as he realized with a start that he still had no idea what year it was. Idly, he turned the gun over. On the butt of the handle was a small silver plate.

Sirius Weapons Systems, it displayed proudly.

Alright, he thought, standing and blowing out a breath. It's too heavy to be a toy, so let's see what this thing does.

###

The motel sat near the end of a slowly dying road. To the man, that immediately meant privacy. Shrugging to himself inside the heavy black pea coat he'd found in the closet, he started down the stairs, taking in his surroundings. The weight of the gun in his pocket made him feel as if he should be lopsided.

As he reached the bottom of the staircase, he realized that he had no idea where he was going. Or where he could go, someplace where the sound of a gun going off wouldn't draw unwanted attention.

He turned and looked up at the façade of the motel. Then he scanned the area. With a nod, he decided that he'd go left, to where the street dead-ended. It has to stop there for a reason, he thought.

The asphalt petered out, turning to rocks and dust for the last half-mile of the road's run. There at the end, it stopped at a copse of ill-looking trees. Taking a last look around and up at the overcast sky, the man stepped into the wooded area and forged on, blowing vapor from his nose and mouth. It wasn't too long before he heard the sound of water. He slowed, not wanting to step into a pond or off into a river, not in this weather.

A clearing opened before him as he parted hanging branches. Through it ran a clear brook, the merry sound at odds with his mood. He turned slowly, looking all the way around, trying to gauge his level of solitude.

Trees are too tall. I'll have to climb one.

Shedding his coat, he stepped to a tree with some low branches that looked sturdy enough to hold his weight. With a grunt, he pulled himself up and into the green. Some minutes (and scratches) later, he was able to see the surrounding area with clarity. He was in the woods. Looking back, the way he came was the only direction that held signs of civilization.

Back down, then.

Shivering with the cold sweat from the climb, he made it down and put the coat back on. He took the gun out of his pocket and looked it over again.

"Who am I?"

He found a switch on the back of the gun, marked with two positions: ASLEEP and AWAKE.

"What kind of person am I, that waking up with no idea of who or where I am doesn't really faze me, and all I want to do is see if a gun works?"

He flicked the switch from ASLEEP to AWAKE, and the gun began to hum in his hand, something inside spinning up.

"All right. Let's see what you'll do."

Sighting in on a stump, the man slowed his breathing and relaxed. Index finger slipping into the trigger guard, he found and caressed a firing stud. Then he pushed it.

A jolt traveled up his arm and twitched his shoulder back as a bright flash and low crump erupted from the barrel of the gun. At the same time, a river of glittering white energy snaked out the end of the gun and touched the stump, vaporizing it.

Blinking, the man stared at the smoking spot where the stump had stood. He nodded once and put the switch on the gun firmly back to ASLEEP.

###

The man thought as he slogged back to the motel. After the initial shock of the memory loss had worn off, he'd been pretty calm about it. And now that he knew the gun in his pocket was real and lethal, he was pretty calm about that. No, not calm… he felt good about it. That thought made him squirm a little inside his pea coat.

He looked at the palms of his hands. They were rough in spots, calloused and dark with engrained something. Was it oil? Dirt? Turning his hands over, the knuckles caught his eye before the tattoo. Knobby and scarred, they stood out from the backs of his hands, a violent mountain range.

Looking up at the sky, he flexed his hands several times. The cold air made them hurt, as if they'd been broken before, and the ink in the tattoo was raised up in protest. Still, his grip while climbing the tree had been strong and sure, even though his lungs protested the climb.

"Weird day to wake to," he said, plunging on through the woods.

Within minutes he returned to where he'd entered the trees. The sky was darkening with his mood, grey clouds deepening in color and gathering, as if they were coming together to assault the city. A light rain started then, pattering around the man's head and shoulders as he trod the dusty road back.

By the time he made footfall on asphalt, the rain had graduated from sprinkle to downpour and the sky was as dark as it could be with the sun still in it. With each step closer to the motel, the bracelet on the man's wrist seemed to grow heavier.

He considered this, dismissing it as psychosomatic; aside from his name and who he was (for he'd already decided what he was… his easy way with the gun and rough hands told him that much) the bracelet was the last mystery. He toyed with it as he walked, but it wouldn't slip over his wrist and, try as he might, he could not see even a seam where the piece of jewelry might snap open.

The motel slowly coalesced out of the darkness, its neon signs something of a beacon. Forgetting the bracelet for the moment, the man ran up the stairs and into his room.

A crinkling sound caught the man's attention when he sat on the bed to take off his boots. He made a face, remembering he'd stopped searching the room when he found the gun. Under the mattress, he found several loose yellow sheets of paper. Flipping on the light in the room, he sat in the chair to read.

###

Hello, me.

If you're reading this and wondering what the hell it is, then your memory is finally wiped clean. My memory. Whatever. Things have been slipping away and it's been so gradual that I didn't realize until it was almost too late. What I remember now might be gone by the time I read this again, so let me tell you (me) a couple of important things.

First off, don't use the gun anymore. I think that's how they found us the last time. I want to get rid of it, but there are other ways for them to track us down, and when they do, I'll need it. You'll need it. Fuck.

Second, the bracelet: try anything you like. I've been trying to remove it for about a week now, and nothing's worked. Good luck with that. With your memory gone, maybe you'll think of something new. Maybe you'll just do all the shit I did all over again.

I guess that's it. It has to be. That's all I really remember now.

###

Two things happened at once. The lights in the room flickered and went out. At the same time, there was a low hum and crackling sound, as if lightning was manifesting itself in the parking lot. An answering crackle came from the sky, lighting the world outside the motel window.

The man stood and bent to retrieve his coat. All at once, he felt the need to move on, the room no longer offering the little refuge it had just an hour previously. He put his hand on the door handle as it shuddered from an impact and swung in, showering him with splinters of wood.

"Not this way," the darkened figure in the doorway rasped at him. "We go out the back. I remember that."

2. AWAKE

There was a dumpster behind the hotel, faded red and chipped, one side of the plastic lid held ajar by the bulging garbage bags inside. It was here that Desmedt found himself a moment later, crouched with his back to the grimy metal, shins still aching from climbing out the bathroom window.

He looked sideways at his rescuer, huddled beside him. The newcomer wore a grubby parka, hood pulled up, features still hidden in the gloom. Desmedt saw the outline of a ragged beard, and long stringy hair. The man was leaning awkwardly to one side as he peered around the edge of the dumpster, watching the window from which they'd escaped a moment earlier. A muffled crash indicated the front door to the motel room being forced inwards.

Desmedt started as the newcomer grabbed his arm, rough calloused fingers closing in an iron grip. "Move," he said, and they did.

They stayed low, darting along the rear wall of the motel. To their right was a chain-link fence, too high to climb over. Beyond that, a yard or so of bare dirt ended in a sheer drop down a retaining wall. Desmedt couldn't see how far down it went, or what lay beyond.

The man in front led the way until they reached the far corner, then came to an abrupt stop. Looking around, he pointed a stubby finger to the right where the bottom of the fence was bent out of shape, making a gap about eighteen inches high.

"Ah," he said, in a rough voice. "Right."

As he lowered his hand, Desmedt saw the edge of a tattoo peeking out from the sleeve of the parka.

Climbing under the fence was awkward and painful, and seemed to take forever as the collar of Desmedt's pea coat snagged on the twisted wires. The man in front wasn't waiting for him, already scurrying over to clamber down the retaining wall ahead. Desmedt dragged himself through at last and hurried on, wondering why he was following this ragged individual into the night, and who or what they were running from.

Reaching the edge of the wall, he peered down into the dark. He faintly made out a straight, pale band that could have been a concrete path. A huddled, moving shape on the path was probably his rescuer.

A ray of light caught his attention—a flashlight beam, sharper and brighter than any he'd ever seen, stabbed out from the bathroom window and began sweeping across the fence in his direction. Deciding that being caught in the beam was best avoided, whoever was at the other end, he quickly followed the other man down the wall.

"Keep up," growled the man, as Desmedt landed awkwardly behind him. "If they catch you, it's both our asses."

"Who are they?" Desmedt managed to gasp, still catching his breath from the climb.

The other man was looking upwards, as the flashlight beam swept along the top of the retaining wall. Faint voices could be heard now, coming from the other side of the fence. "Should be more concerned about who you are," he murmured.

Desmedt frowned. "Desmedt?" he hazarded.

The other man dropped his gaze to look at him, and there was a faint glimmer of amusement as he grinned in the darkness. "Ha. Yeah. Why not?" Pushing himself away from the wall, he started away down the path. "Follow me, Mr. Desmedt."

Desmedt glanced upwards. The voices were louder now, booted feet clumping across packed dirt. "Look," he said, fumbling inside his coat. "I've got this gun…"

"So have they," the other man rasped over his shoulder.

"What?"

"It's one of theirs."

The voices were much louder, accompanied by the rattle of the chain-link fence. Gritting his teeth, Desmedt followed the man down the path.

###

There was a place in the woods where a stream—probably the same one Desmedt had seen earlier—passed under the road via a concrete pipe. It was here that the two men stopped moving thirteen minutes later, crouching as they slipped inside the pipe. They'd seen no sign of pursuit for almost ten minutes.

When his breathing had slowed enough for him to talk, Desmedt finally gave voice to the question in his head. "So… who am I?"

Leaning against the curved wall of the pipe, the other man looked up. "Not Desmedt."

"I figured."

The other man gave a short laugh, more like a cough. "I… don't remember our real name," he admitted. "A lot came back after the bracelet came off, but it's fading again. I'm starting to slip."

Desmedt frowned. Our name?

"I can only remember…" The man faltered, and another hacking laugh spat past his lips. "I don't know if I remember it, or just remember me telling it to you."

Desmedt leaned closer, trying to make out the man's face in the darkness of the pipe. "You wrote the letter."

"Letter?"

"Under the mattress."

The man responded with a weary sigh. "Well. In a manner of speaking. You… ggnnnhhh!"

Desmedt jumped as the man doubled over, clutching at his head. His other hand desperately searched for the bottom of the pipe as he dropped, splashing to his knees in the shallow water. Desmedt began to move toward him when the kneeling man seemed to flicker, the solid shape of his body sputtering in and out of sight like a dying flame. A moment later the interior of the pipe was lit by a brilliant blue flash, lightning flaring up around the kneeling man, arcing out to play across the curve of the cement. Desmedt heard him scream, briefly, the sound cutting out as though someone had pulled a plug. And then it was dark again.

It took several seconds for Desmedt's eyes to adjust, the afterimage of the lightning painting green spider webs across his vision. Even before he could properly see again, he knew that he was now alone in the pipe.

He rose slowly to his feet, looking around, and found his voice again. "Well, that's just gr—"

Lightning flashed again, brighter this time, filling the pipe with light. The vanished man's scream burst through the air again, and there was a loud splash as he dropped back into the water. The lightning faded quickly, becoming a mere flicker around the heaving, steaming shape of the man lying at the bottom of the pipe.

"Aw," he growled, pulling himself to his hands and knees. "That was rough."

Desmedt was almost at the end of the pipe, ready to run, breath coming in short gasps. "What the fuck was that?"

The other man pushed himself up, moving forward in a lumbering gait, coughing against the back of his hand. "Later," he croaked. "That'll bring them running. Let's go."

###

The shed, whatever purpose it had once served, was abandoned now. It sat in the middle of the woods as if it had been accidentally dropped there, nature spreading over its rotted boards, spiders making their home in the hollow windows. It was here that dawn found Desmedt and his companion, huddled in the dank interior of the shed.

"I'm slipping," said the other man. "It won't be long now." He scratched his beard, staring ruefully at the dirt floor. "It happens here. I remember."

Desmedt didn't respond. He was staring at the man's face—older than him, at least by ten years, bearded and ragged, but definitely a face he knew. A face he now recognized as his own.

"What are we?" he asked flatly.

The other him looked up. "There's a few names. Some are dirty." He almost smiled. "People think we're dangerous. Sometimes they're right."

"Because we can…" Desmedt trailed off.

"Travel. Yes."

Desmedt nodded. "How do we—?"

"We just do. It's something we're born with. Random mutation. It doesn't even run in families." He sat back against the wall, closing his eyes. "They haven't isolated the gene yet, or they'd be able to duplicate it. Instead of… what they do."

Desmedt looked around at a whooshing sound from outside, but soon relaxed. Bird wings, probably a pigeon. "And who are they?"

The older man's eyes slid open. "Novus." If he'd said "Hitler", Desmedt reflected, his tone wouldn't have been much different. "They made your gun. The bracelet, too. They make all kinds of things. Time machines. Those are big money."

Desmedt frowned. "You just said they can't duplica—"

"They can't," the older man snapped. "That's why they need us." His gaze dropped to the floor again. "Parts of us, anyway."

Desmedt stared at him.

"Those fuckers chasing you? They came through a rift generated by one of their machines. Somewhere in the guts of that machine is a chunk of brain and a spinal column ripped out of someone like us. Didn't even do him the courtesy of killing him first." He huddled closer to the wall, shaking his head. "It's the only way they can make it work."

Desmedt stood up, not caring if anyone was outside. "Christ." Turning to the window, he stared out at the dull sunlight peeking through the trees. "Look, if you're from… if you're older, how is it you remember all this and I don't?"

There was no reply. Turning around, he saw the older man's gaze on his arm. Lifting it, he felt the weight of the bracelet.

He looked up. "What does it do?"

The older man leaned over and coughed. "Anchors you," he said, with a shrug. "Disconnects you from the continuum, keeps you from travelling. But it also keeps you from remembering anything. Unanticipated, inconvenient little side effect."

Desmedt was still staring at the bracelet. "They put this on me?"

"No." This time, the older man did smile. "You did."

###

I felt me die.

It was an accident, in a way. They were supposed to take me alive. Harvested at puberty, when my ability began to show. Take me out of the world, leave no trace behind. I put up a fight, someone got trigger happy, and I was dead.

But I was there, a different version of myself. I felt him die.

I knew I didn't have long. With him gone, I soon would be, too. I waited near the perimeter, waited for one of them to stray from the group. He squawked like a chicken when his neck snapped.

I hid the body, took what I could. The gun, the bracelet. Took them and travelled, before his vitals flatlined on their instruments and they came running. I travelled six more times before I stopped; led them on a chase, confused the trackers. Gave myself time to think.

I was at the motel when it happened. When time caught up with me.

###

"We died seven years ago," the older man explained. "Him… you. Me. Us. Whatever." He shrugged. "We were thirteen years old. They travelled back to capture us. Harvest us for their machines, change history in the process. Stop us from turning into us." He looked over at Desmedt. "You were there. Followed them back to stop it." He shrugged. "You failed."

Desmedt, standing by the door, didn't respond. I ought to feel something, he thought, but I don't remember this. I don't remember… me.

"When he died, our time started to run out. You, me, any others of us still out there, still skulking around between moments. Time's catching up. Trying to set the record straight."

Desmedt turned his head slightly. "Back in the pipe?"

The older him nodded. "I started to slip again. Had to travel ahead forty seconds. Shortest jump I know how to make. Only way I can think of to stay ahead of it. It'd happen to you too, if you hadn't put that bracelet on."

Desmedt looked down at his arm. "Why don't you have it on?"

"It stops working. Another… nine years, I think. You're safe until then, long as you don't use the gun. I'd throw that shit away if I was you." Pushing up his sleeve, he rubbed his bare wrist with a calloused hand. "When the bracelet failed, I remembered everything. Not just what I'm telling you now. Everything. All the things that were erased, all the things that never happened. Everything about them." He spat on the dirt floor. "It's starting to fade now, but I remember enough. Another side effect."

Desmedt turned to look at him. "Can we change it back? Go back and save me?"

The older man sighed. "I've tried. Been trying ever since the bracelet failed. Can't get there. The closer I get to the Event, the faster I start to slip." He kicked at the dirt. "There's a way to fix it. There has to be. I—we just haven't found it."

Desmedt looked the older man over. He looked old and shrunken, a shell of a once-strong man, all fight gone. "Why did you come here?"

The older man's gaze stayed fixed on the floor. "Time's almost caught up with me. I can't stay ahead of it much longer. He looked around at the shed. "I know it happens here. I'll slip soon, and I won't be able to stop it." He looked up with a rueful smile. "Another me told me so. But there's still you."

"Yeah." Desmedt looked down. "There's still me."

"You're still strong," the older man insisted. "You've still got nine good years, if that bracelet holds up. Time to figure things out. Maybe find a way to put things back the way they should be. You might come up with something I didn't. Find something new."

Desmedt smiled. "Or maybe I'll just do the same shit you did all over again."

The older man coughed, choking out a short laugh. "Maybe."

Ten minutes later, he slipped. There was nothing spectacular about it… he was in pain, flickering, and then gone.

Desmedt left the shed right after, heading into the woods. The men from Novus would be drawn to the shed. As long as I'm wearing this bracelet, he thought, they won't be able to track…

The thought stopped him in his tracks.

If Novus had these bracelets, surely they had the means to remove them? He stood stock-still in the dark of the trees and considered his next move very carefully. Is it what he really wanted to do? He knew that he didn't want to follow the other version of himself's path… that was done, already. It was time for him to blaze a new passage.

Grinning in the dark, he flipped the switch on the gun back to AWAKE.

3. SWITCHED

"I know he's here," the Novus agent said into his communicator, a device fashioned to look like Earth-then's Bluetooth ear bud, "he's got to be. You've read his profile… there's no way he'd take off without the gun. We're counting on that."

He nodded at the response and checked the 3D display coming from another device on his belt. The only illumination in the woods, it showed a topographical build of the area he was in, the gun a bright red beacon near the center, his own cool blue star almost on top of it. The agent was dressed in an everyday black two-piece suit, white shirt and socks, black shoes, tie and fedora. Other agents laughed at his mode of dress, but he got fewer second looks and double-takes than any of them.

Humming the Peter Gunn theme, he moved through the underbrush.

"There you are," he said softly, his own gun in his hand. The two icons in his display were overlapped neatly. With a savage set to his lips, he kicked at a pile of leaves and stepped back, expecting the worst.

The fugitive's gun fell to the ground. No fugitive, though.

"What?"

A rustle of leaves from above was all the warning he got. Desmedt dropped from the tree branch above, swinging his braceleted wrist awkwardly and connecting with a solid thunk against the side of the agent's head. They went down as one, rolling in the brush, as Desmedt swung the bracelet over and over. Finally, the agent went still.

In a rush, he stripped the man of every piece of future tech he could find. He sat against a tree and rummaged through it all, only pausing to kick the agent in the temple once when he moved, and grinning the whole time.

The small pile of tech held a small silver rod, about the size of an unused piece of chalk, and something in Desmedt's head recognized it. Thumbing the only button on it, he held it against the bracelet and waited. An invisible seam opened and the bracelet came off with a soft click.

He stood there for a moment, alone in the woods with the unconscious agent, the open bracelet heavy in his hands, the trees silent around him. Okay, he thought. Now what?

Closing his eyes, he waited for something to come back to him. He felt a spark of memory, instinct more than knowledge, sitting in the back of his mind. Something he'd forgotten that he knew. His eyelids snapped open and he barked out a short laugh.

Gathering the bracelet, the release device and the fallen agent's gun, Desmedt barked out a laugh and then disappeared in a flash of light and ozone.

Less than a minute later, the other Novus agent (this one with neon yellow hair and wearing a letterman's jacket) came out from under cover and ministered to his fallen ally. Crouching down, he looked him over, tsking.

"He did a number on you."

Pushing the suited man's sleeve back, he traced a whirl of tattoo to its center and applied steady pressure for several seconds. With a gasp, the suited man awoke, jackknifing to a sitting position.

"He did it. We should go."

###

With a flash and a scream, Desmedt came to be in a darkened room, the walls etched in patterns that immediately gave him a splitting headache. He fell to his hands and knees.

"Fuck," he heard himself say. "They bagged another one."

Except, he hadn't spoken.

Looking up, and feeling as if the joints in his neck had been lubricated with hot sand, he turned to take in the entire room. There with him were various incarnations of himself, some older, some younger, but all wearing identical mixtures of pain and disappointment.

"Don't bother, whatever you have planned next," said an only-slightly older version of himself. "We've already tried it. Just sit back and wait with the rest of me."

"The rest of me," a younger version said, causing a weary titter of laughter among the Desmedts.

"But, I just made fifteen jumps—"

"A trick. A ploy. You were chosen from one of several key moments in our life. Matter of fact, I think you led them to us. There are nineteen of us in there. There's only—"

###

"—one more," the agent said, "and this line is complete, we can get manufacturing up and running and off down-time."

"One more?" asked the suited agent, replacing the items that Desmedt had taken. "Which one?"

His neon blonde partner consulted a chart. "Thirty-pieces-of-silver version should be coming right along."

"And then what? Another runner?"

"Oh yeah. We're ready for a new model. Pieces were starting to slip through on this one. He took your name, Agent. God knows when he heard it."

Agent Desmedt shrugged inside his black suit jacket and put on his sunglasses. "Good. I'm tired of chasing this one. Next time, you take the beating. Your fuckin' turn."

They laughed and waited for this run to close itself.