When I come to, the pool of blood I lie in has started to congeal. For a moment I lie there, breathing shallowly, encased in my pain.
Friedrich is getting away. Taking the Uhrwerkgerät with him.
I have to get up.
I heave. The blood resists. Things I’d rather not rip do so anyway. I think I just left half my eyebrows behind on the asphalt. I grab for my gun.
But the truck is gone. Long, long gone. Police sirens are rushing to fill the space it has left.
The future echo was more powerful this time. Why?
Because we’re getting closer to the point of origin. The ripples in the fabric of space and time getting larger as we approach the actual disturbance, each one rocking the boat of my existence to a greater and greater extent.
Because we’re up shit creek, basically.
I look around. Clyde is lying on his back, still out. The front of his jacket is covered with blood. Tabitha is further away, curled up fetally in the light of a streetlamp. Kayla spread-eagled and shadowed fifty yards ahead of me. The glint of the steak knife still caught in her hand.
And Hannah. She sits a few yards from me, head in her hands and pressed between her knees.
“Are you OK?” I ask. I don’t go to her. The gulf between us is too great.
She looks up. Her face is a horror show. Blood has seeped out from around her eyes, the lashes matted together, the whites bloodshot. It has flowed freely from her nose, painting a sad clown’s carnival make-up around her lips. It has soaked her shirt, her trousers.
“Do I bloody look OK?”
I shake my head. “Not really, no.”
“So why the bloody arse hell are you asking me?”
I actually think about that for a moment. “Because I’m the field lead. Because you’re part of my team.”
Her sardonic laugh is barely audible this time. A bubble of ironic mirth just managing to surface through the mire of… of whatever the hell it is that Hannah feels. Disappointment? Frustration? That can’t be too far from the mark, I think.
“God,” she shakes her head. “You are, by far, the worst agent I’ve ever come across. Ever. I mean, you are truly terrible.” The laughter is stronger this time. “But you know what really gets me? Your crapness isn’t even really the problem. I might be able to work with it eventually. I think I could get you to pay attention to me in the end. Learn some basic fieldwork. It would suck, but I’ve been undercover in Kandahar for six months before, I can do suck. What I can’t do is bloody hopeless. Because it’s not you. It’s all of you. It’s this whole dysfunctional shit show of an agency.”
“The police are coming,” I interject. “We should wake the others. Get out of here.” I don’t need to hear this. This is for Hannah really, not for me.
“Shut the fuck up,” Hannah says. The first real hint of emotion beyond dull disappointment creeping into her voice. “I’m talking. And I really, really hope you actually listen, because it’s about the last time I talk to you.” She pushes her hands deep into her hair. “You’re a disaster. I covered that. But what else would anyone expect you to be? You’re a police detective who has never received a day of training in his life. Apparently none of you have. There is no attempt to educate, to immerse you. Just the hope that the skills you have are enough.” She’s becoming animated now, voice gaining decibels. “And if they aren’t, well, shit, sorry, I guess we gambled the fate of the world on the wrong bloody group of idiots. Our bad. But at least there’s no culpability because no one can complain about your total and utter failure when they’re all fucking dead!”
Her cheeks are flushed now. “You want to know what the real problem is?” She finally releases her head long enough to shake it. “You don’t, because you’re banging her. I mean, Jesus.” Now the head shaking has begun it seems it’s here to stay. Behind us Clyde starts to stir. “I mean,” Hannah continues, “don’t even get me started on that. Actually, no. Let me get started. I mean first off it means she should be discharged immediately. You are bloody military intelligence. That sort of thing is not OK. And if you want an example of why it’s not you’ve got Clyde and Tabitha right there in front of you as a walking, talking, bloody real life instructional bloody video. Jesus. You let them screw basically in front of you in Nepal, and then are all shocked when the situation blows up and leads to us actually creating the bomb you’re trying to stop from being…” She trails off and just froths for a moment. “That was in the field too. That was your chance to stop things. Because, shit, Felicity isn’t going to do it. Because she goddamn sucks. Kayla is the goddamn best of you and she in all seriousness suggested holding a cage match of potential suitors so she could weed out weak seed. She showed me a location she had picked out for the bloody octagon. That is the best you have to offer. Remember that. Please. If you remember nothing else of me. Remember that. This stupid bloody rant, that is likely bouncing off your remarkably thick skull.”
If I remember nothing else of her? I try to puzzle that out. Apparently not even the blood caked on my cheeks is enough to hide that. It just fuels Hannah’s frustration.
“I am putting in for a bloody transfer. The paperwork will take a week or two. But I am out of here. Part of your team, Wallace? Fuck no.”
I stare at her. Her bloody visage staring back at me.
“But,” I say. “The Uhrwerkgerät. The end of the world.” I can’t believe… Except I can. Of course I can believe it. This has been as inevitable as everything else. And it doesn’t matter. In a short-term world of course it doesn’t matter but…
“If I’m going to stop the end of the world,” Tabitha interrupts me, “I’m sure as hell not going to do it working with you wankers.”
And that’s it really. There is no arguing with that. If I even really wanted to argue. This, in many ways, is the desired result. But, Jesus, Felicity is going to kill me.