Quantum Break by Cam Rogers Page B

there, Actual?”
    “Actual here. What is it, Senior Operative?”
    Gibson eyeballed the space-time distortion filling most of the hole he had blasted through eight layers of sandwiched polycarbonate.
    “Actual … at least one of the two escapees from the time lab are chronon-active. Natively.”
    “Say again?”
    “They’re live. Actual. Teleporting. No rescue rig, no Striker tech. Target spontaneously manifested an M-J field deformation, with intent. Check the feeds.” Gibson slung the M32 over his shoulder, turned to Guardian’s CO. “Good luck.”
    And walked out the door.
    *   *   *
    Will’s body was an arc, eyes to the stars, mouth open in a silent exclamation. Fragments of heated polycarbonate and acrid smoke were suspended inside the bubble with him, a three-dimensional portrait frozen in a sphere of paused time. He had fallen wide of the walkway that connected the fourth floor of the old science building to the admin facility on the other side.
    When the stutter broke, Will would fall 270 feet to the lobby floor.
    The six smiley-faced goons on the floor below were done being impressed.
    Jack dropped through the shattered dome without a thought, straight into the ministutter. Jack’s feet connected with Will’s chest, with zero give.
    Jack balanced there, above the drop, surfing his brother in mid-air.
    “Don’t wake up, don’t wake up, don’t wake up.…” It had been a calculated bet. Will held.
    The squad opened up, Jack flinched, and a hundred military rounds vip vip vip- ed as they impacted the stutter … and caught—leaving the outside of the sphere stippled with lead acne.
    The squad reloaded.
    *   *   *
    Gibson’s playdate with five rounds of forty mike had the attention of pretty much everybody. Monarch’s regular squads had done a good job of preemptively securing the neighborhood—nothing was getting in or out—but now encrypted comms chatter was rattling off sightings of media closing in by road and air. Civvies were congregating on main thoroughfares. It was a cowboy move, lighting up the dome like that, but orders were orders. Monarch wanted the Peace Movement to make an impression; consider it made.
    His earpiece pinged.
    “Mr. Gibson?”
    Shit.
    “Receiving, Mr. Hatch.”
    “Guardian tells me you’re responsible for the chaos I’m witnessing. Is that correct?”
    “More than likely, sir.”
    Gibson was marching toward the last remaining BearCat—one of a couple Monarch had assigned to university security six months ago in preparation for this strike. A plausible story about keys stolen from dead guards was ready for the media.
    The vehicle was still idling on the lawn. Almost all other Monarch forces had been reassigned to crowd control on a four-point perimeter. He muted his mic, put two fingers in his mouth, and ripped a sharp whistle. The pair manning the BearCat—one on the MG, the other stretching his legs—acknowledged with a salute.
    “Explain yourself.”
    Mic on. “I was given orders to make a scene. The scene has been made.” Mic off. “I need your ride.”
    “You are aware that one of the men you attempted to kill is considered a high-value asset? We need him alive.”
    The gunner dismounted as Gibson climbed into the cab. “The skinny guy?”
    “Dr. William Joyce: a pioneer in chronon theory and the originator of much of the technology you have been trained to use.” Hatch confirmed something on another line. “Guardian tells me both targets remain, miraculously, alive.”
    “Sir, I consider it a miracle that Guardian is reporting at all.” The engine woke with a satisfying thud beneath his feet, soundless inside the cab. “And I’m returning forthwith to render them the benefit of my wisdom and experience.” One round left. The BearCat spat dirt and leaped forward, toward the dome.
    *   *   *
    Jack leaped to the walkway and reached inside the stutter. His hand penetrated the sparkling cloud and closed around his brother’s