Struggle
The old man sat hunched over in his cold cell – breathing, tinkering, alive. A thousand thoughts shouted for supremacy in his head, endless patterns, predictions and loops. They struggled and pulled at his attention, dragging his mind away from what was in front of him – but his hands kept moving. His fingers weaved practiced motions with delicate tools, and he let the thoughts eat away at each other.
It was far, far easier when he had a task.
This prison was the first hurdle. If he was to succeed, he must be free, not just from his confines but from notice. Heydrich knew he was alive, and only that svin’ya’s perception of his invalidity perpetuated that state. He saw into the monster’s mind like it was mathematics. Risk of living Legion Member (comatose) < risk of exposure from Nightingale assault. A finely balanced but inevitable outcome, gleamed through eyes of hyper-caution. Over-patience. A weighing he must not disrupt.
Would not disrupt.
The child was being helpful – invaluable, involved. Sudden and noticeable reversal of non‑interference, now seemingly willing to lend him its full support. Not a mere creature of its word then; substance over form. Facilitating in full their bargain/favour/experiment. Thanks to him, Viktor knew when the feeds would go unmonitored – knew the moments shielded from view. Minutes to work in. Hours even. Time to move. Time to build. Time to do.
A blatant escape? Out of the question. Heydrich would pursue. A decoy, substitution? No. There was no replica presently buildable sufficiently mentally and physically lifelike to fool all parties over extended period – telepaths, doctors, guards. The answer then, a discreet one. Nudge, rather than push. Some pride, the old man acknowledged, in its conception; small, precise solutions always much more gratifying than large, messy ones.
The solder he held sparked and hissed, the tiny motherboard magnified many times by cascading lenses before his eyes. The end result would be small enough to pass as a sunspot.
A prototype for many to come.
“Complete,” he announced to nothing, and a moment later the blue-eyed boy stepped dispassionately from thin air. Several thought chains spun out towards the implications of the child’s powers; several more clambered to enslave him. Viktor ignored the latter. For now.
“Manufacturer?”
“A processor plant in Taiwan,” the boy replied, as usual impassive and distant, “Several minor adjustments, and they’ll produce your schematics.”
“Unknowingly?”
The question triggered a brief flash of annoyance across the child’s face. It disliked having its competence questioned. “The production will occur between 12am and 4am during plant shutdown. The assembly line will be unmonitored. The material expenditure will be attributed to a fault in coding. There will be a staff meeting about proper shutdown procedures and then the incident will never be thought of again.”
“Good.” The man they’d called the Mindtaker removed his glasses and raised the tiny metal implant between his thumb and forefinger – then placed it carefully along with a USB into a ziplock bag, which he handed to the child, who vanished.
*****
It took two weeks to place chips first on those who visited his room and then the entire Nightingale staff. His design was simpler than before – much learned from the Athens experiment, plus time to reflect. But the devices’ purpose was also less forceful now. No need – no desire – to take these minds. Just to nudge them.
Once he’d calculated the correct interactions between the occipital and temporal lobes, the function of the devices was quite simple – to create in the minds of the implanted a perception that Viktor Mentok was in his room. Their interactions, as they could perceive and recall, continued with him as before. Their actions, their personalities, free will, all remained entirely intact – their senses simply recorded something that wasn’t there. Beyond that, there would be no impact.
The man they had called the Mindtaker left a cache of additional controllers stored inside his chamber to be affixed to any additional hires, relying on the child to warn him when they were needed. Then, on the seventh of March 1991 he rose from his bed, unhooked his monitors and IV, and walked quietly from ADX Florence without raising the alarm.
*****
“Where now?” he demanded of the time child. He’d come half a mile through barren scrub, the desert looking as he remembered it – dry and flat, rutted by tyre tracks and spindling grass. In the distance, Nightingale loomed silent, its white doors and glass panels undisturbed by calls or alarm. Viktor turned as the boy appeared.
This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.
“A Ford Explorer, two miles south along the highway. The driver stopped to urinate and lost his keys. He’s gone for assistance.”
The sound of metal jingled in the boy’s hand. Despite himself, Mentok smirked.
“Helpful,” he murmured beneath his breath, and turned once more to push his shaking, burning legs towards freedom.
*****
He drove for an hour before his trembling hands and blurring vision forced him to pull over. His retinas felt unaccustomed to tracking movement; every sound, every bead of light sloshing nausea through his thalamus, churning his stomach with bile. His limbs felt heavy – atrophied, yes, after only twelve months. And the Scarlett’s – oh the Scarlett’s. Noise and noise and noise, so hard to keep quiet, so loud when the world kept changing, when body exhausted conscious mind. Pulled over to the side of a stretch of dusty highway, he reclined in the driver’s seat, breathing shallow, pinching the bridge of his nose with bony fingers and closing his eyes. Overambitious. Always underestimating physical constraints. Intellect worshipped as a god capable of overcoming all hurdles. Pah. The child wasn’t wrong.
There was a sound, a rustling to his right in the passenger seat. The old man cracked open a single eyelid. It was the sprite, unsurprisingly.
The child looked him over dispassionately, then with both hands lifted a white plastic bag. Mentok’s gaze fell inside to find bottled beverages and foil-wrapped sustenance.
“Appreciated,” he murmured. Blindly, his right hand felt for the passenger seat and the groceries, which were now sitting alone, the child once more vanished. His fingers fumbled at a protein bar, and he sunk back into this thoughts and his rest while his teeth struggled against the hardened food (whey protein, by-product of dairy production, thought useless, no not useless, prescribed to patients by Hippocrates, Hippocratic oath, born 460 BC died 370, 370 Year of the Tribunates Capitolinus, Medullinus, Praetextatus, Cornelius, Volusus and Poplicol, too many that year, cheesemaking, what I wouldn’t do for some Gollandsky, Spartan invasion of Arcadia, region of central Peloponnese, named for Pelops, Pelops like popsicle, protein? no, frozen sugary treat wouldn’t you like glucose calories nutrients but probably cold headache, internal temperature? weather report, whether weather wether, castrated ram, the rain in Spain falls gently on the plain, plane, flights overhead, monitor, ice cream perhaps, need device to pick-up frequencies, map flight paths, Capricorn, air traffic control interception, encryption? obviously but perhaps TCP/IP gateway, open now, time travel, time travel, time travel, precognition pre-destination fate? the three sisters, weaving weaving weaving weaving, hot tongue dry mouth water Emperor Maxentius eat old fool, just eat). The old man leaned back in the car seat and gave a soft, painful moan. Fare thou well, my Ariel, mumbled one last, delirious thought.
*****
He drove for two days in brief and infuriating patches – an hour of white knuckled, jaw clenched concentration followed by hours of useless, feverish collapse. Impatience, now, as agonising as atrophy. To be free, to be better, to… win. To scour that demon from the Earth.
He drove until he could drive no longer, and then he writhed in agony, and then he drove again.
On the third day his food ran out, and so he turned up into the mountains, teeth gritting with every bump. His hands turned to follow flashes of a child’s apparition, and the cave beneath which he finally alighted was perfect in every way.
He pulled his ragged frame up hills of rock-shard agony, and in the cavemouth vomited foam and blood. The child looked on, impassive.
“This path brings only pain,” he told him.
“Quiet,” Mentok snapped. He wiped a thin hand across his mouth, then leant back against the cold and quiet stone and closed his eyes to breathe.
*****
“This is what I need,” he told the boy. He held out a sheet of scribbled paper. “Achievable?”
The damnable creature didn’t even glance at the words. “Most, if not all.”
“I thought you dealt in certainty.”
“Yet here we are.”
“Fine.” Mentok waved him weakly away and returned to his tinkering with a scowl. The boy vanished once more into nothingness without the slightest sight or sound.
It was fascinating, inescapably. Observations building patterns now, forming preliminary conclusions regarding the time traveller’s nature. Not actually prepubescent; that much obvious. Childlike appearance clearly a projection masking real form, or else side-effect of ability (immunity from time?). Inexpressive but not emotionally stunted – capable of complex empathy. No evidence of ulterior motivation or unstated intent (though data limited and interpretation unquestionably hindered); to the contrary, continued to respond proactively to needs and aid.
Limitations, too, could then be postulated. Able to freely traverse time and distance. Able to transport small items, clothing, objects carriable by hand. Not able to transport people, living things, large items; had not transported him, vehicle, therefore not possible. Items on list in secret gradient, size and weight; would discreetly establish parameters. Potentially. Many, many variables, factors unknown. Clearly limited in events with which can interfere, otherwise would simply murder Heydrich as an infant, prevent Devastation (assuming stated objectives sincere). Had not, so could not. Why? So many questions. Questions, questions, questions. Viktor let the spirals spiral and focused forcefully on his work.
It had been three days now since he’d arrived. The cavern which he had been led to was ideal; remote, anonymous, sheltered from the elements. The car had been dismantled, as much as possible, with its emergency toolbox, between bouts of recovery and rest. His task now was to rebuild Siegfried, for protection, for enhancement, but primarily for rehabilitation. He was no good to anyone if his body continued to fail and rot.
“Over there,” he pointed, as the child reappeared holding a box of circuitry. The boy gave no indication of changing direction and placed the cargo exactly where Mentok wanted it. He disappeared again as the old man resisted a further scowl.
At least talking came easier now. A withered tongue slowly finding its words. So far come; that imperious savant who had sat well-groomed in satin finery and waged philosophy with Caitlin over brandy and cigars. Smoking jacket. A roaring fire. Pithy phrases on his lips.
The ragged old man sat alone in the damp cave and picked his scabbing hands through a box of metal scraps.