“Portal,” Kelly said. “Follow the bouncing ball.”
There was a flash and a whoosh of some considerable violence. Killy and Kelly found themselves in the living room. Killy first thing picked up the glass ball at his feet and pocketed it.
“Portal recovered,” he said.
The living room: a couch, some cushions, a pair of mattresses on the floor. A couple of tables loaded with scales, plastic baggies, packed weed. One guy was sitting on the couch when the sonic bomb hit, and there he fell, a bent heap, face tranquil with unconsciousness. Another one collapsed by the table in the kitchen, the broken glass around him from the coffee cup that fell with him.
“Fuck! We’ll have to take Mendoza with us,” Kelly said. “We don’t have time for a chat!”
Killy found Jose “Crash” Mendoza in bed. He had fallen onto it, still clutching a smoking bong. The water stained the maroon bedsheet.
“Shit, he was smoking it,” Kelly said, examining the dark residue in the bong.
He searched around for Moon Dust, looking through the thick cakes of weed, the bags of buds and leaves. Killy found a briefcase full of the stuff in the bedroom, Kelly a small leather pouch. Kelly time-jumped with it all back to the safehouse while Killy went back to the bedroom to check on Crash Mendoza. There was still time before these stoners would come to. Killy scanned all of them, checked their vital signs, and had just reached the bed when he noticed he could see the maroon sheet right through the guy. Crash was fading right before his eyes. He quickly scanned what was happening, getting footage of the irresistible moment when he put his hand right through the fading image of Crash. After a few seconds, just a ruffled sheet, an empty bed, the stink of bongwater.
“What happened?” It was Kelly, having returned from the safehouse. Killy showed him on the mini-screen. “Oh crap,” Kelly said. And he rushed out to check on the others.
“I don’t think they smoked it,” Killy said, examining one of the bongs. “Only him.”
“We’ve got to set up a trace and find him,” Kelly said.
“Won’t he eventually come back?”
Kelly was heading to the kitchen when he heard the sound. Killy heard it too. It was a buzzing, familiar. Growing to a flaming sizzle.
“I don’t think …” Kelly said as they gathered up their equipment, “that we’ll have time to find out.”
There was a bright flash. The far wall in the living room glowed as five figures rushed in. Time Control Enforcement Troopers stormed into the room. A number of loud cracks—flashes from particle guns already drawn. Killy fell sideways in mid-dive, folded up like a snail on a stick. More cracks, as Kelly flipped a table over. Troopers tumbled in all directions. Kelly crawled over to Killy, who was twitching, his body glowing strangely.
“Hold it right there!” one of the troopers yelled.
The firing stopped.
Kelly grabbed the twitching Killy in a tight embrace. “Consuelo,” he said.
There was a brief flash. It was a quick blink. The two of them were gone.
“Fuck! They portal’d out!”
“How they do that?”
“McClaren! Set up a trace!”
The one called McClaren worked his tablet just as there came another flash. The troopers snapped to attention with a shout. McClaren, irritated to see the trace wasn’t working, found himself staring into the face of the Regional Commander himself. It was a harsh, battered face, cheek once slashed by a meat cleaver, his glowering glass eye uncovered by his usual patch.
“Damnit,” he said.
2.
Report to Commission C [SPECIAL]
FROM:
TIME
CONTROL ENFORCEMENT [TCE] REGIONAL COMMAND “D”
Colonel Johannes Belasco
As of date 201262-208==
Primary Report:
As Deputy Commander of all TCE Troopers in the fields of time, I wish to place a complaint with this board
.
For the second time this month we have intercepted two commission agents on a “time disturbance” case. I have been briefed that these two agents, Randolph “Killy” Jones and Rick “Kelly” Santana, are working to correct a time imbalance, confirmed by Time Control “K” traces
.
These two agents are operating in restricted jurisdictions. Their actions come up on random traces and of course our agents respond to all violations of the codes. There are no exceptions and TCE REGIONAL COMMAND “D” would never apologize for its agents doing their jobs
.
I also request that information be given to this office regarding the nature and purpose of their actions in the time zones involved, so that ultimate effect can be certified by TIMELINE SURVEY. Only then should an investigation be launched, always under the auspices, and obeying the codes and jurisdictions of the TCE regional structure. “Killy and Kelly” are no such thing as private investigators. They are ex–TCE Troopers, thirteen years of service between them. And since washing out of the force, they’ve left a trail of time violations a mile long. Why don’t these “agents” put in for clearances or apply for permits? Why don’t they follow the rule of law with regard to time interference? Why do they feel they can somehow act independently of the TCE and its guidelines? And why has this commission enlisted the services of two suspicious characters instead of relying on the TCE which is already running its own investigation? They are a constant danger to that investigation. It is crucial that the commission share its files and all information pertaining to THE ZIEGLER FILE. If this is not done within the next twelve hours, I will sign a warrant for their arrest. These violations must be addressed, and jurisdictions respected
.
I MUST ALSO POINT OUT that while Abraham Ziegler is missing, there is as yet no evidence that he is behind these recent events, or any reason to go outside code or sidestep TCE investigations which are more than well-equipped to handle the case. I hold the commission personally responsible for any setbacks resulting from this affair
.
3.
The strange smell of burnt toast.
Jose “Crash” Mendoza woke up in a room. A dingy bulb, a tiny window. A room of brick walls and stone floor. His brain was sluggish, his limbs rusty and slow. He stood up and looked around. A couple of tires. An old cajón. A dirty old mirror, half covered in a dark cloak. Crash gave himself a good gander in the spotted glass, as if to make sure he was still … “he.” His afro, wild and free, still in effect. His jeans jacket with the Puerto Rican flags on it, his street colors (and that included his prized Young Lords button and that Black Panthers patch). Made him feel good just from looking so wild, resistant, and Afro-Rican. It was Funkadelic, it was Hendrix. Reached for his afro-pick in his back pocket. (Yeah, reassuring feel of that plastic handle shaped like a small black fist.) Pulled it out to give his hair some flow action. But what’s with this room? A slow brain, like when he smoked bad weed. Weed, weed … he remembered smoking weed, right? He looked around the room again. There was only that steel door. The way out.
Crash opened the door slow. He was in a small courtyard between buildings. There was a narrow alley through which he could make out street. A line of trash cans. He walked down the alley carefully, the sight of street growing bigger. Through the steel gate, there were people walking along. Cars rumbled by. A bullet-shaped bus picked up passengers across the street.
Stepping out through the gate, Crash recognized where he was. Prospect Avenue and 149th Street. The hardware store, boutique, dress factory, and pizzeria that used to make up the block were gone, replaced now by a … “superette,” an auto parts store, and a restaurant of some Mexican persuasion. (Across the street was the same story. Whole buildings were gone, replaced by houses.) Walking over to Fox Street, he used to see rows of five-story tenements all the way to Avenue St. John. Only right now he couldn’t. Fox Street didn’t have buildings. It had funky two-story houses. Small green lawns. And that was as far as the eye could see.