Contagion (Toxic City)(40)

“I know so much of what I can do already,” he said. “But there has to be something more. Something that can help us. All I have to do is…” He pretend-grabbed something from the air and clasped his fist shut, staring at it, knuckles white with pressure.

“Not your fault if you can't,” Fleeter said.

“Maybe not,” Jack said. “But I've got to look for something. I feel the weight.”

“Of responsibility,” Lucy-Anne said. “Yeah. I think we all feel something of that.”

Jack smiled at his friend and then at Fleeter, pleased that the girl smiled back. She was changing, slowly. The problem was they no longer had time for slow.

“Won't be long,” Jack said to all of them, and then he sat in a corner between units and closed his eyes.

He fell into his universe. He was a shooting star, a fleeting spark of hope. Infinity was nothing because he had infinite speed, and he moved from one talent to the next. At first he touched abilities he was already familiar with—a shout like Reaper's, Rhali's sense of movement, Fleeter's flexing of time and movement. He gathered them to him and let them go again, comforted by their familiarity. Then he moved on to other stars, reaching out with hopeful fingers.

He could pass through walls, manipulating the quirks and quarks of quantum mechanics. Drawing oxygen from water would become easy. He could read minds, and another talent presented itself that would filter out the terrifying static and interference of another person's thoughts, allowing him to home in on one specific idea. It was chilling and thrilling, but he passed it by.

Amazing, but none of this was of use to him.

The great red star of contagion throbbed and glowed right across his universe, pregnant with possibility.

He searched for anything that might help, skimming from one star to the next, understanding the amazing gifts they might grant him but knowing that none of them would be of use. In his desperation he moved faster, and soon his mind was aflood with new talents he had yet to use. Some of them he did not truly understand, because they were more obtuse. Beyond the normal bounds of human behaviour. Maybe I could talk with the monsters, he thought, but even that would not be of use. Not for what he needed.

Talk could not consume nuclear fire. A mind sensitive to thoughts or heat, movement or deviousness, could not cast aside the sun-hot flash that would soon bloom across London. Angry and scared, Jack opened his eyes and burst from his inner world. He found that he'd been panting hard and sweating, and Lucy-Anne was kneeling beside him looking concerned. He took the bottle of water she offered and drank deep, seeing stars.

“It's hopeless, isn't it?” she asked.

Jack did not answer. He looked at Fleeter, waiting to catch her eye. When she looked at him at last, he spoke.

“You and me,” he said. “We're the only hope.”

Fleeter shook her head. “I don't think so.”

“Yes!” he said. “We flip, go to the bomb. Move it somehow. Carry it, drag it, whatever. Get it on a boat, sail out into the North Sea. We've got time. Eight hours here is eight days for us, or more.”

She shook her head slowly, mouthing, No.

“Fleeter…” he said, and he wondered what her real name might be.

“You've never been flipped for more than a few seconds real-time,” she said. “I have. I know what it feels like, what it does. It feels like forever. After the first few minutes you find it hard to function. Your body shuts down. A distance grows, and it's harder and harder to move or get back. It's a transitory thing, Jack. Like jumping around while everyone blinks. It's a trick, and I don't think we can trick time, or nature, or whatever it is that much.”

“Don't think, or don't know?”

“Damn it, Jack, I know you're desperate, but don't blame me that it won't work!” Fleeter seemed serious, her usual smile absent. “Besides, you know what happens when we move things when we're flipped. Everything's speeded up in this world. We move the bomb, nudge it, drop the bloody thing, and who knows what'll happen?”

“So it's a long shot,” Jack said.

“The longest.”

“It probably won't work.”

“No. It won't work.”

Jack nodded and took another drink of water. “If you won't help me, I'll do it myself.” He climbed to his feet and ran his fingers through his sweat-damped hair.