Fractured: Tales of the Canadian Post-Apocalypse(67)

Loyalty? I figured that went both ways. So I intercepted the next sealed skid of evidence I saw, tore the shrink wrap, grabbed an item that had already been cataloged and would never see the light of day again, and stuffed it into my backpack. And continued, every chance I got.

Disposing of stolen evidence was even simpler than boosting it. Items recovered from ruptures sold for top dollar – and fast. An original Van Gogh, for instance – a previously unknown work, and so new I could smell the paint drying as I photographed it – was the sort of thing I could retire on. I received 100 bids within a minute of posting it online.

Loyalty? Fuck that. I used to believe in loyalty. Until I started believing in every man for himself.

? ?

Between us, Mac and I made 85 arrests that last year we chased together – a record for the district.

Time was, he said as we drove back to HQ after the silverware bust, they used to send us in there after them. He paused to listen to the radio bulletin about the U.S. president’s visit to Toronto.

Imagine working security for that zoo? I asked.

No f*cking way. Mac shivered. I’d rather be ducking back into ruptures. You know the higher-ups stopped us when they figured we might do something stupid in there? Not that they give a shit about our health and safety! No, they were worried we were dumb enough to go back in time and screw up history.

The shit-rats haven’t managed to change history yet, I pointed out.

They’re never there long enough! Mac tapped my shoulder for emphasis. Besides, they’re too lame-brained.

I pondered this for a minute. You’d have to, like, step through a rupture right up next to Hitler – with a gun already pointed at his head! – to make that kind of difference. And what are the chances of that?

Even 15 seconds wouldn’t be long enough. Mac cracked a window to stream out smoke as he referenced the longest rupture on record. Buoyancy is time’s self-defence mechanism. Whenever there’s a breach between one point and another, buoyancy attacks the intruder and drives him out, like antibodies fighting a virus. If time is the immune system, then ruptures are like wounds on the skin.

Lesions in time! I intoned. Thus creating a form of theft unique in the annals of crime.

Fuck anuses. Mac rubbed his face. I’m tired and need a f*cking drink.

? ?

David drowses beside me as I examine the pulsing rupture, now grown to the size of a locomotive.

Back when Mac and I worked together, the government was struggling to contain what it had unleashed. Stolen item recovery was deemed essential to halt the spread of the “cross-dimensional contamination” (their term). Sure, crippling the black marketeers was part of it, but the powers that be actually thought stopping the spread of items leaking in from the past might help them control the rupture problem.

It didn’t.

As I sit here now in this camp chair, my shadow thrown onto the cold cement by a nearby streetlamp, I watch the semi-sentient thing groan and rotate and flex in the night air of the deserted street. Thinking back, I reflect on how na?ve we were, how little we understood.

Three a.m. I take up the duty log and make a note.

Mac’s been dead two years now.

? ?

There was always a ton of paperwork after a chase: statements for local police and RCMP, Canadian and UN military affidavits, reports to Crown Counsel, plus XyTech’s own online report. I spent four hours processing Ball-cap and left the office at 2 a.m. with four hours overtime. Mac was long gone. I signed out at the reception desk, then pulled up the cover on my hoodie against the rain. As I crossed the street, a stretch limo appeared and blocked me at the edge of the parking lot.

The door opened and the Native girl in the dark windbreaker I’d chased earlier that night stepped out and waved a pistol: get in.

I hesitated briefly before clambering in beside the fattest man I’ve ever seen wedged inside an automobile. Bloated from the mahogany scalp of his shaved head to the toes of his high black patent leather shoes, he gripped an oily cigar between the fleshy first fingers of his left hand. When he gestured for me to sit with his right, I noted the clutch of gold rings almost lost between rolls of brown flab encasing his knuckles.

Take a seat, he croaked. His accent was rural black from the Deep South. Jessie will ride in front with the driver, who doesn’t mind the company. My name’s Janus. You will help me with a project. The compensation for this will be substantial for you. The penalty for refusing will be massive. Think about it.

Janus hit a button on his BlackBerry. The limo glided forward and the fat man resumed delivery of his rap in a rapid, asthmatic wheeze.

You predict them. We predict them too. The ruptures. And like you, we can tell where and when they lead to. But our equipment is more sophisticated. Surprised? Don’t be. Corporations in the States have been doing R&D for years, financed by powerful criminal organizations like the one I represent.

Which is—?

None of your concern. Tomorrow at 1946 hours Pacific Standard a rupture in time will open at the corner of Canada Avenue and Second Street in Duncan. You will go through and deliver a package, then you will reemerge. For this task we will pay you $25,000 Canadian. No questions asked. Do we have a deal?

Sure.

Janus hit his BlackBerry again. The limo abruptly stopped and the girl called Jessie held open the rear door for me.

We will be in touch with the package and half the money. The rest is yours on completion. Tell anybody about this and you die. Understand?