Timecaster

TWENTY-FOUR

There are stories that, when confronted with frightening or emotionally overwhelming situations, human beings can exert feats of strength disproportionate to their size. Mothers lifting cars to save their children trapped underneath was an oft-told example.

Those stories were complete bullshit. I couldn’t budge that pool table a single inch, no matter how hard I strained against it, and I’d never been more frightened or overwhelmed in my life. The only disproportionate thing in my entire body was my bladder, which felt enormous and clenched tighter and tighter each step closer Rocket got to me.

The only time I’d ever been this frightened, other than the skydiving fiasco, was years ago, back when being a timecaster meant catching crooks instead of visiting grammar schools. Someone had been planting bombs in nursing homes, and following the perp’s trail led me to a cache of plastic explosives hidden under a snack table during a geriatric polka night. The six seconds ticking down on the bomb’s timer had paralyzed me with fear. There wasn’t time to get the elderly out of there, or even time for me to take cover, so my only choice was to try to defuse it.

Looking at that bomb, I had known I was going to die. I knew it the same way I knew I’d hit the octeract point while timecasting. It was a whole-body feeling, as real and as sure as any tactile experience.

Dying was something I desperately didn’t want to happen, so I’d waited until the last possible moment to take the long shot and disconnect one of the wires. Blue or red. Blue or red. I knew one would save me, and the other would kill me. Luckily, the wire I pulled was the right one.

But now I didn’t have any wires to choose from. I felt the same overwhelming sense of my own demise. Death was counting down for me, and there was nothing I could do about it.

When Rocket finally reached the pool table, he cocked his head to the side, licked his bloody lips, and stared, as if studying a bug on a pin and finding it sexually arousing. Exhibiting superhuman self-control, I managed not to piss myself, and instead used my only remaining weapon. Truth.

“I didn’t kill your aunt. I didn’t even know who she was. Your cousin Neil hired me to find her because she’d gone missing.”

Some of the rage melted off his face, replaced by confusion. “Neil?”

“Do you know your aunt used to be a man?”

“Yeah. He invented the intranet.”

Actually, he’d only invented the search engine the intranet used, but I saw no need to correct Rocket on that point. He raised a fist, ready to pound me into the wall.

“That means”-I spoke quickly, flinching away and squeezing my eyes shut-“now that your aunt is dead, you’re a billionaire…”

The blow didn’t come. I peeked open one eye. Rocket had his hand in the air, but he wasn’t throwing the punch.

“I’m rich?”

“Your aunt is dead. You and Neil are her only surviving relatives. You inherit all of her money and possessions. And there’s a lot.”

He lowered his fist. “Who’s Neil?”

“Your cousin.”

“Don’t have no cousin. My mom only had one brother-Aunt Zelda. I’m really rich?”

“You could hire Donald Trump the Third to be your cabana boy.”

Rocket didn’t look enraged anymore. If anything, he appeared pensive. Maybe I’d actually have a chance to “I’ll save you, Talon!”

McGlade came running up behind Rocket. He had my tiny folding knife raised up over his head.

“McGlade! Don’t!”

“Die, you enormous son of a bitch!”

McGlade stabbed Rocket in the left ass cheek. To my trained eye, it didn’t seem to be a killing blow.

Rocket snarled, then stared down at McGlade. McGlade grabbed the knife’s handle and yanked on it.

The knife wouldn’t budge. It was lodged to the hilt in the roider’s rock-hard gluteus maximus, and I doubted nothing less than a block and tackle would be able to remove it. McGlade grunted with effort for a few seconds, trying both overhand and underhand grips. He even tried bracing his foot against Rocket’s leg. Eventually, he gave up.

“You got a really strong ass, buddy,” McGlade said, out of breath. He wiped his brow with his sleeve, then gave the knife handle a baby pat. “You should keep it there. Makes you look tough.”

“You’re dead,” Rocket told him.

“Kinda figured.”

Then McGlade took stupid to the next level. He reared back and kicked the knife blade.

Rocket’s eyes practically shot out of his head. He howled, the roid rage once again taking control, and backhanded McGlade so hard it could be heard in neighboring states. Then he turned his fury on me. Shoving the pool table to the side as if it weighed nothing, he grabbed my shirt and lifted me up over his head.

I’d felt trapped before. Now I felt helpless, which was even worse.

He tossed me, visions of broken bones and organ failure swirling through my head as I spun through the air.

Incredibly, miraculously, I landed on something soft.

“You broke my fall,” I said, amazed.

“You broke my ribs,” McGlade groaned underneath me.

I disentangled myself from McGlade and picked up an overturned metal chair. Rocket rushed at me, fists clenched. I kept him at bay like a lion tamer, poking at him without letting him grab the chair and pull it away. He still had my knife in his buttocks, but I didn’t think asking for it back was a smart idea.

“You’re rich now,” I said, as we circled each other. “You don’t want to go to jail for murder.”

“I’ll hire a good lawyer.”

“Bust the chair over his Nazi head, Talon,” McGlade said from the floor. “This fucknut gets that kind of money, he’ll start the Fourth Reich.”

Rocket turned to McGlade, snarling. I busted the chair over his Nazi head. The roider stumbled, falling to his knees. I reared back to hit him again, and he kicked out one of his enormous legs, sweeping my feet out from under me. I dropped the chair and slammed onto my back.

McGlade screamed. I watched. Rocket had his arm. The giant snapped it in half, like it was a breadstick. I saw McGlade’s knuckles touch his elbow. He saw it, too, and lost consciousness in midscream. Then Rocket gave me his full attention.

“No fun when they pass out,” he said. “You gonna pass out on me?”

I felt like passing out right then.

I’ve had some experience with violence. While timecasting discouraged most inappropriate behavior, there were still instances of two people coming to blows because they were both convinced they were right.

Usually, violent acts were fast and ugly. Two or three quick hits, someone going down, and a hasty retreat. People didn’t like to linger. Dwelling on the violence you’ve committed, even if it was justified, was never a satisfying, wholesome experience.

Fights-outside of a televised hyperboxing match-rarely lasted more than thirty seconds. A fight that traversed the entire length and width of a dissy P amp;P bar, complete with smashed furniture, bent bats, tossed pool tables, broken bones, lost teeth, stab wounds, and several deaths… It was unheard of.

So when I forced myself to look at Rocket, it was eight kinds of surreal. This shouldn’t be happening. Not to me. Not at this moment. Not in this country.

I’d spent most of my adult life making sure things like this didn’t happen.

I felt overwhelmed. And tired. So tired.

There might not be dignity in surrender. But there is finality. The willingness to give up, just so it could be over, was a powerfully tantalizing feeling. With one direct punch, Rocket could end my life. My pain would end along with it. My worries would be gone. If victory was impossible, why keep fighting?

I took a deep breath, let it out slow, and realized I already knew the answer.

This battle wasn’t with Rocket. There was no contest. I couldn’t beat him.

So it wasn’t about winning.

The battle was with myself. The measure of a man’s worth was all about what finally made him give up.

Rocket laughed. “You gonna pass-”

I clenched my hands and raised them.

“Just shut the fuck up and fight, bitch.”

For a fraction of a second, Rocket appeared uncertain. Then he came at me.

He swung. I ducked. He feinted. I dodged. I swung. I connected. No effect. I kicked. I connected. No effect. He kicked. I jumped away. He punched. I dodged. I punched. I connected. No effect. I punched. I connected. No effect. He punched – catapulting me off my feet, flipping me end over end until I came to rest on my belly, sucking air and exhaling pain, my cold hands and shaking legs the first symptoms of going into shock.

Rocket towered over me. He was going to reach down, grab my arm, and start twisting until things snapped. Bone, muscle, tendons, ligaments, veins, arteries, flesh, skin. To think that a human being would want to tear off another’s arm was disturbing. To think it was about to happen to me was unfathomable.

Rocket reached down. He took my wrist.

I scissor-kicked the bastard in the nose, hard as I could, elated when it burst like a Fourth of July firework, showering me with streams of blood.

Then I got to my feet, again, to face him, again. This was my fate. To trade blows with this monstrosity, this grotesque parody of a human being, until he beat me to death.

“Come on,” I said, raising my fists. “Let’s go.”

And then I saw something on Rocket’s face I never expected to see.

I saw fear.

But before I could be empowered by it, and take the initiative, and make him feel what he’d undoubtedly made many men feel before he killed them, Rocket reached behind him and grabbed something in his belt.

When he brought his hand forward, I questioned my own senses. He wasn’t holding anything. All I saw was his empty fist.

Then he shifted, and out of nowhere, it appeared.

He shifted again. It was gone.

Again. It was back.

I realized what was going on. I could see it sideways, but not straight on.

“Oh… no…”

Rocket had a Nife.