Memento Mori by W. R. Gingell
English | 2017 | Sci – Fi | ePUB | 3.2 MB
Even time travellers can run out of time.Marx and Kez have been skipping through the known Twelve Worlds, keeping one step ahead of certain capture by the seat of their trousers, and the vastness of time and space is feeling a tad too small.Kez has always been a bit crazy, but now it’s Marx who is getting mad. Someone is trying to kill them, and that’s the sort of thing he takes personally.To add to their difficulties, there are Fixed Points in time that are beginning to look a little less…fixed.Between Time Corp, WAOF, Uncle Cheng, and the Lolly Men, it’s beginning to look like there’s nowhere safe in the known Twelve Worlds for Kez and Marx.Here be monsters…
Kez’s voice said irritably, “I don’t wanna dig a loo, Marx! There’s a flamin’ Hunter out here with too many flamin’ knives!”
The unpleasant feeling in Vladivostok’s stomach deepened. He’d suspected the two of them knew of his presence; it was another thing to be sure of it.
“You’re not digging a loo,” said Marx. “You’re pretending. You’re bait.”
There was a pause.
Kez said, “That’s a n’orrible plan.”
“You’re telling me! You’re the scrawniest, ugliest bit of bait I’ve ever had to use. Ow! Gimme that shovel, kid!”
“No. I’m diggin’ a loo. Where we gonna dig it, anyway?”
Vladivostok gave a sharp, humourless grin. From the scouting of the previous day, he knew there was a clearing up ahead, surrounded by bushes that were as perfect for screening latrine holes as the clearing itself was for making camp. It was a beautiful space with clear throwing lines almost all around it: the humans would be fools not to make use of it, and Vladivostok would be a fool not to take advantage of that.
“There’s a clearing up ahead,” said Marx.
Vladivostok was sliding silently from his nest to circle around and arrive at the clearing before them, when Kez’s voice said with disastrous clarity: “No. We ain’t goin’ there. He’ll be there, waiting. That’s where you get a Hunter knife in the neck.”
He froze in disbelief, and caught the brief, wry smile on Marx’s lips. They weren’t talking about Hunters in general. They were talking about him in particular. About something that hadn’t yet happened—except perhaps in a dream.
“Thanks for reminding me, kid. You’ll have to tell me how you managed that without making holes in time and space—or worse, copies of yourself all over Third World.”
“Ain’t hard,” Kez said, shrugging. She didn’t seem to have taken offence at the suggestion that multiples of herself was a worse outcome than holes in time and space. “Just gotta make sure I come back ’zactly in the right place.”
“What’s exactly the right place?” Marx’s voice was distinctly concerned.
“You know. Right on top of meself.”
“’S’what you did wiv the ’Daisy that time. Two things occupyin’ the same space an’ time.”
“That’s a bad thing!”
“Oh. Well, it ain’t bad for me. Just restarts things, like.”
Vladivostok frowned. Their conversation made no sense, but a tickle of a half-remembered dream in the back of his mind was trying to make sense of it anyway.