All Our Wrong Todays(93)

“It didn’t work,” Lionel says.

“It worked,” I say.

“You went back?”

“Yes.”

“But I’m still here,” he says.

“That’s right, Lionel. We did it. We saved the world.”

I embrace him. His body goes rigid as I press myself against him, enveloping him in my arms.

“No,” Lionel says. “You’ll try again.”

Obviously I didn’t hug Lionel because I missed him. I did it to get close enough to pinch a nerve in his elbow, sending spikes of radiating pain up to his neck, while I tear the device from his wrist that he uses to operate the facility’s systems, drop it to the floor, and stamp down on it, smashing its delicate circuitry under my heel.

There must be a built-in alarm because as soon as it’s off his wrist the security door hurls open and Wen, the thick-necked driver, hurries in with his semiautomatic pistol drawn.

I whirl Lionel in front of me as a human shield and give him a little shove in Wen’s direction, so he takes a wobbly, involuntary step forward to keep his balance. Wen flinches, unsure if his primary source of income is about to pitch face-first into the floor.

I use the moment’s hesitation to lunge at Wen, sideways to make a smaller target. I have no idea how I know to do that. Wen shifts his aim, but it’s too late for him.

My hand grasps his hand on the gun’s grip, twisting the weapon away from me, breaking his trigger finger, while jamming an elbow into his nose, crushing the cartilage.

My other hand wraps around to the back of Wen’s neck and, with a sharp twist, I cut off muscular access to his spine.

Wen’s legs give way and, conscious but temporarily paralyzed, he collapses to the ground, leaving me with his pistol. Blood pours from Wen’s broken nose, but he can’t move anything below his shoulders, so he just twitches like a trapped spider.

I place the muzzle of the pistol against Lionel’s forehead.

The whole thing takes, like, two seconds and, even though I’m the one who did it, feels impossibly badass.

It turns out that integrating Victor into my consciousness gives me access to his feral postapocalyptic survivalist military training. Which opens up some interesting possibilities in terms of my future life choices, but right now I care about only one thing—making sure Penny and my family are safe.

I have my shoe on Wen’s neck, the gun pressed firmly enough against Lionel’s forehead that it’s leaving a mark.

“Wait,” Lionel says. “It was your idea. Do you remember? You told me to make it look like I’d kidnapped them. You said you’d need the motivation. They’re safe and unharmed. Even Weschler, the woman, Penelope, it was fake. I hired a Hong Kong action director to shoot the whole thing. He thinks it’s for a Japanese reality show.”

“The other timeline is gone,” I say. “Permanently. I barely saved this reality.”

“No,” he says, “this can’t be my life.”

“It is,” I say.

“But I wasted it all,” Lionel says.

“You built a time machine, Lionel,” I say. “You’re the greatest scientific mind that ever lived.”

“I didn’t build it,” he says. “I copied it.”

He gives a cautious nod to a small alcove in the wall. I twist my shoe into Wen’s throat until he loses consciousness, and then I gesture with the gun. Lionel hobbles over—that wrist device monitors proper operation of his leg braces, so without it his steps are shaky and off-balance. Inside the alcove is a small metal case with a genetic scanner that opens only for Lionel.

Nestled inside it is the time machine.

“You left this with me on July 13, 1965. I don’t know if you meant to but . . . you did. I understood that I couldn’t just use it myself. That it would be catastrophic for reality as we know it. But I was in no position to build a time machine from scratch. It was impossible. So, I took this one apart. Piece by piece. And I figured out how to fabricate all the components. I did my best not to cheat. I didn’t manufacture any of the pieces until it was technically feasible with contemporary science. When I hit an impenetrable obstacle, yes, I guided the world’s technology to where I needed it to be. That’s why I sold my inventions when I did. Not for money. Out of necessity. You never told me how long I’d have to wait for you.”

“You never told me how long it would take to travel back. Fifty-one years, Lionel. I was trapped for fifty-one years.”

“Yes,” he says, “well, I suppose we both could’ve given the other a bit more information. To avoid some pain.”

“So the loop is closed,” I say. “And we never open it again.”

“No, if you won’t try again,” Lionel says, “I will.”

“You don’t know how close we came to destroying everything. This life you think you wasted, this is what saving the world looks like.”

“But I didn’t do anything,” he says. “I copied myself. I’m a fraud.”

“My mom once told me that’s the secret of life,” I say. “We all think we’re frauds. Everybody’s winging it.”

“I spent most of my life trapped in an ontological paradox and I’m supposed to just live with that?”