BACKTRACKER by Milo Fowler (books to read in your 30s TXT) 📗

the only one in that package.The only BackTracker.

"They are not what you're looking for," Jeanniesurmised. "Am I correct?"

How much time did he have? He blinked, broke from his reverie,retracted his hand from the shattered fragments. "I'm looking for—" Mywife? That wouldn't work. In this reality, he hadn't lived long enough toeven meet her. "Irena Horton," he said her maiden name.

Silence.

Two minutes left? Then the Blackshirts would be summoned. He'd becarted off to the gulag, like the old man had warned.

"The remains of this wristwatch carry Irena Horton'sgenetic residua." On the glowing deskscreen, a circle in black appearedaround the shattered watch on the left. "Daughterof former Provincial scientist, Cyrus Horton. She has worn this timepiecerecently, within the past three hours. An exact timeframe is impossible, due tothe varying rates of thermal decay. But the imprint is fresh."

He swallowed, unblinking, and reached out his hand to touch thebroken pieces.

"How?" he trailed off, at a loss. "Who smashedit?"

"Identity unknown." The holo-emitter came on, projectingan image upward from the desk's surface. "But it was the same man whomurdered you."

A bald head, perfectly shaped with stark white skin and dark,solemn eyes stared without seeing from the holo-image, rotating in midair.

"Some kind of spook?" Muldoon narrowed his gaze.

"Quite corporeal. He left your body stabbed and beheaded hereon the floor of your own office. That was twenty years ago, of course." Ashort pause. "And you seem to have recovered quite nicely. A littlehaggard, perhaps." That familiar ironic tone had returned. "Thisman's genetic residua is on the second timepiece." A black circle drewattention to it now. "There is no information on him in the NewCityCitizen Database. He appeared in this room two hours and eleven minutes ago anddestroyed both of these devices. The authorities took him away." Anotherpause. "But they have yet to book him. They have not returned toheadquarters. And on another note, there was a rather violent disturbance atThe Pit within the past hour."

"Related?"

"Perhaps. But this is all I can share with you, Mr. Muldoon.You should be dead. And you should leave. Your five minutes are up."

"May I?" He moved to scoop the remains of the watchesinto his coat pockets.

"I have no need for time-traveling devices. I have no body totransport."

She knows what they are. What else did she knowthat she wasn't sharing?

It didn't matter. His time was up. He slid his hand across thedesk, and the pieces dropped first into one pocket, then the other. He keptthem separated. What remained of the watch Irena had worn sat in his rightpocket.

"Good to see you again, Jeannie. It's...been awhile."

Silence.

"Yes, it has," she said.

He could come back—during the day, when the curfew was over. Butwhat would be the point? He was dead. It was a wonder that she could speak tohim at all, that the logic subroutines of her programming hadn't fried at thesight of him.

She'd told him all she could. That had to be enough.

"Goodbye, Jeannie." He turned to leave, and the doorslid shut behind him.

"Goodbye, Mr. Muldoon," Jeannie said.

The light of the deskscreen faded to black. But she had not goneinto standby mode. Her focus became the lone security guard in the lobbydownstairs and how best to divide his attention before Harold Muldoon'selevator reached the first floor. A security breach on the eighth floor wouldhave been sufficient. But she added minor flooding on two other floors for goodmeasure.

Her logic subroutines demanded to know the purpose for theseactions—why she was, for the first time in her existence, moving through thebuilding's electronic substructure without regard for established protocols.

But Jeannie ignored them.

The guard wasn't at his post when Muldoon stepped out of theelevator, moving at a brisk pace and keeping an eye on his surroundings. By allappearances, the Blackshirts had yet to be summoned.

He made straight for the glass doors, knowing better than to looka gift horse in the mouth—at the same time pondering the origin of such asaying, assuming a gift horse was some kind of animal, figuring theidiom had originated around the same time as the phrase raining cats anddogs which he'd used earlier, much to the bewilderment of that SYN over atThe Pearl.

His mind was racing. He had to calm down.

As he passed through the sliding doors and stepped out into thenight, a voice from the shadows jarred him.

"You've got them?"

Muldoon cursed. Horton.

"Get out of the light, my boy," the old man hissed,beckoning.

Clenching his jaw, Muldoon joined the old man in the shadows.

"You have them, right? Both of them?"

"I don't know what you're—"

"Don't be a fool, Harry. You got them or not?"

Muldoon stuffed his hands into his coat pockets. "I didn'tknow there was more than one."

"In this reality...yes, I'm afraid so." Horton looked upthe street as if he'd heard something. "We can't stay out here much longerwithout being seen. Follow me. We'll talk on the way."

Muldoon fingered the broken pieces in his right pocket. Irena hadworn this one. Why? He couldn't imagine. But somehow, in this moment, he feltcloser to her than he had in years. As illogical as it was, he found that hedidn't want to leave this place, afraid she would slip away from him again.She was here. He didn't understand it, didn'tknow how that bald white spook fit into the picture. Why'd they both haveBackTrackers? Why were the devices now smashed to bits? None of it made anysense. Where was Irena? Would Jeannie know?

"You've dodged a few bullets already, lad. Don't press yourluck." Horton tugged at his coat sleeve. "Now stay close. We've gotto get Underground before they spot us."

Muldoon allowed himself to be pulled along. The shadows and whitepatches of moonlight passed in a grey blur, his shoes alternately running andwalking, keeping the heels from striking the concrete as much as possible. Hismind felt strangely disembodied, unaware of the physical details around himas he focused on nothing but the details ofhis own past.

The last time he saw Irena,lying asleep as he'd crept out to pick up thatpackage at the precinct. If only he'd had the sense to toss it into thecompactor and crawl back into bed, draw his wife close, wrap his