Tim Lebbon - Contagion

“Of responsibility,” Lucy-Anne said. “Yeah. I think we all feel something of that.”

Jack smiled at his friend and then at Fleeter, pleased that the girl smiled back. She was changing, slowly. The problem was they no longer had time for slow.

“Won’t be long,” Jack said to all of them, and then he sat in a corner between units and closed his eyes.

He fell into his universe. He was a shooting star, a fleeting spark of hope. Infinity was nothing because he had infinite speed, and he moved from one talent to the next. At first he touched abilities he was already familiar with—a shout like Reaper’s, Rhali’s sense of movement, Fleeter’s flexing of time and movement. He gathered them to him and let them go again, comforted by their familiarity. Then he moved on to other stars, reaching out with hopeful fingers.

He could pass through walls, manipulating the quirks and quarks of quantum mechanics. Drawing oxygen from water would become easy. He could read minds, and another talent presented itself that would filter out the terrifying static and interference of another person’s thoughts, allowing him to home in on one specific idea. It was chilling and thrilling, but he passed it by.

Amazing, but none of this was of use to him.

The great red star of contagion throbbed and glowed right across his universe, pregnant with possibility.

He searched for anything that might help, skimming from one star to the next, understanding the amazing gifts they might grant him but knowing that none of them would be of use. In his desperation he moved faster, and soon his mind was aflood with new talents he had yet to use. Some of them he did not truly understand, because they were more obtuse. Beyond the normal bounds of human behaviour. Maybe I could talk with the monsters , he thought, but even that would not be of use. Not for what he needed.

Talk could not consume nuclear fire. A mind sensitive to thoughts or heat, movement or deviousness, could not cast aside the sun-hot flash that would soon bloom across London. Angry and scared, Jack opened his eyes and burst from his inner world. He found that he’d been panting hard and sweating, and Lucy-Anne was kneeling beside him looking concerned. He took the bottle of water she offered and drank deep, seeing stars.

“It’s hopeless, isn’t it?” she asked.

Jack did not answer. He looked at Fleeter, waiting to catch her eye. When she looked at him at last, he spoke.

“You and me,” he said. “We’re the only hope.”

Fleeter shook her head. “I don’t think so.”

“Yes!” he said. “We flip, go to the bomb. Move it somehow. Carry it, drag it, whatever. Get it on a boat, sail out into the North Sea. We’ve got time. Eight hours here is eight days for us, or more.”

She shook her head slowly, mouthing, No .

“Fleeter…” he said, and he wondered what her real name might be.

“You’ve never been flipped for more than a few seconds real-time,” she said. “I have. I know what it feels like, what it does. It feels like forever . After the first few minutes you find it hard to function. Your body shuts down. A distance grows, and it’s harder and harder to move or get back. It’s a transitory thing, Jack. Like jumping around while everyone blinks. It’s a trick, and I don’t think we can trick time, or nature, or whatever it is that much.”

“Don’t think, or don’t know?”

“Damn it, Jack, I know you’re desperate, but don’t blame me that it won’t work!” Fleeter seemed serious, her usual smile absent. “Besides, you know what happens when we move things when we’re flipped. Everything’s speeded up in this world. We move the bomb, nudge it, drop the bloody thing, and who knows what’ll happen?”

“So it’s a long shot,” Jack said.

“The longest.”

“It probably won’t work.”

“No. It won’t work.”

Jack nodded and took another drink of water. “If you won’t help me, I’ll do it myself.” He climbed to his feet and ran his fingers through his sweat-damped hair.

“Jack, no,” Lucy-Anne said. “I’ll not lose you as well.”

“Then dream me safe,” he said, smiling. He hugged Lucy-Anne, and as she hugged him back, she stiffened.

“What?” Jack asked.

“Andrew,” she said. “He’s here.”

“Jack!” Jenna called from the restaurant outside. “Everyone! Someone’s here.”

Lucy-Anne pulled away and rushed through the swing doors, and Rhali stirred at the raised voices.

“What’s happening?” she asked.

“I think a ghost’s come to visit,” Jack said. Fleeter went first, then he helped Rhali to her feet and supported her through into the restaurant.

Just inside the front doorway stood someone who was barely there.

“Lucy-Anne,” the ghost breathed, his voice barely a whisper. “I can stop the bomb. But I need your friends’ help.”

“How did you find me again?” Lucy-Anne asked.

“How could I not?” The remnant of Andrew stood close to the restaurant window as if avoiding shadows. Sunlight barely touched him. She could see that he was trying to be his old self for her—the cheeky smile, the way he pretended to lean against the wall—but everything was subsumed beneath his ethereal sadness.

“What will happen to you?”

“I’ve already gone,” Andrew said. “You have to accept that, and understand it. I’m only here as an echo.”

“But you are real. If you weren’t, how could you be helping us? How could you have helped this man you’ve hidden away?”

Andrew shrugged, and for a moment he really was his old self, so much so that Lucy-Anne laughed. “Weird times,” he said.

“Yeah. Tell me about it.”

The others were bustling. Andrew’s appearance was a shock, but now they were filled with a new sense of urgency and purpose. Jack’s frustration at not being able to help had been palpable, and his insistence that he would do alone what Fleeter said was impossible together had been a sign of his desperation. Now, there was another way.

Lucy-Anne only hoped the man was still where Andrew had left him.

“Come with us?” Lucy-Anne asked.

“I’ll be watching you,” he said.

“My guardian angel.”

“I wish.” Andrew lifted a weightless hand and moved it close to her face, but not close enough to touch. She guessed he did that for her; to not feel his presence might be too much. But she could see from his eyes that he also did it for himself.

Andrew could no longer feel, and much about his sister must remain a memory.

“I’m so sorry,” she said. The tears came, quiet but forceful. Andrew watched, helpless, able only to soothe her with hushed words. He whispered of their parents and how proud they would be of Lucy-Anne for carrying on, and being strong. He sang a song they’d made up when they were both young, nonsense lyrics about a frog and a toad walking a long road. It made Lucy-Anne laugh, and cry some more. She felt far too young to suffer from painful nostalgia, but Doomsday had made everyone grow old. That was one of its unspoken effects—it had made everyone involved, and the country as a whole, age.

“Ready,” Sparky said. He stood behind Lucy-Anne and placed his hand on her shoulder, and she closed her eyes and pretended the contact was from Andrew. When she turned around and opened her eyes, Sparky was staring wide-eyed at Andrew, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down. “Whoa,” he said.

“Yeah,” Lucy-Anne said. “And yes. Ready. All of us together.”

Sparky leaned in and gave her a wet kiss on the cheek, and as she pushed him away she was surprised at the sound of her own laughter.

They were preparing to leave the restaurant, possessed of a newfound urgency. Even Rhali seemed more lively and alert, and Jack had to shove his guilt over her to the back of his mind. He should be supporting her, listening to her story and helping her overcome whatever had happened to her in the Choppers’ custody. Instead, he was rushing her back across London.