The Operator

The world blinked a sharp-edged blue, and suddenly Peri was three steps back, the woman still sitting as she leaned to get her rolling pen, accidently pushing it just out of her reach. Breathing the blue sparkles of hindsight deep into her lungs, Peri held the unspilled coffee tight to her chest, stepping on the pen to stop it, then giving it a little nudge to roll back to the woman’s reach before she could stand.

“Thanks!” the woman said. Her relief was a little too much for the small courtesy, and Peri’s intuition pinged. But then the world flashed red as time caught up—and she forgot.

Peri blinked, finding herself standing before a woman smiling up at her. She had Allen’s coffee pressed against her chest—and no clue why she’d stopped. “Ah, all set?” she asked, scrambling. She’d drafted and rewrote the last three seconds, maybe four, losing them. Why?

“Yes, thank you,” the woman said, holding her pen up as if it meant something.

From behind the register, Jack put a hand to his forehead, dramatically wailing, “Oh, you spilled coffee all down your front and spotted my brand-new pumps! You stupid coffee girl!”

Half-understanding filled her, and Peri frowned. Great. Allen shows up, and she drafts. He would have seen it, being an anchor and trained to not only remember but bring the rewritten timeline back into her memory as well. Resolute, she crossed the floor as the woman put on her coat and left. Jack didn’t know anything she didn’t, but he—or Peri, rather—was getting good at piecing things together from the smallest of clues.

Silent, she stood across from Allen and set the cup down hard enough to spill. His brown eyes held nothing as he looked from the CNN broadcast at the ceiling to wipe the puddle away, his thin hands knobby from being broken and made strong in hand-to-hand. He was in a suit, but he wore it uncomfortably, as if he’d rather be in a BMX racing kit or a harness to climb a rock or jump out of a plane. His dress shoes were soaked and salt-rimed . . . and he smelled fantastic.

Hand passing once over his snow-damp black hair, he leaned back to look her up and down, no smile on his narrow, long face. “You do know you just drafted?”

She hated looking ignorant. “I didn’t want coffee down my front.”

A smile threatened. “It was her front, but close.” Concern pushed out his hint of pride in her. “Are you okay? How many unfragmented drafts do you have making holes in your brain?”

How about I use a bullet to make a hole in yours?

Her shop was emptying as it grew closer to nine, most of the patrons using the at-table option to settle up using phone cash, the p-cash app made for their high-tech glass devices both easy and secure. He’d timed it perfectly. “How did you find me?”

He lifted a shoulder and let it fall. “Process of elimination. I know Detroit is your city and you’re sitting over an old medical dump.”

I should have stuck with sipping the barium syrup, she thought, but at least she knew the residual contamination from the illegal dump had covered the radiation marker Opti had given her. Her year would be over come June, and then she’d truly be free.

“I’m not looking right now to hire help to wash dishes,” she said loudly, ticked he might have blown her cover. “Thanks for stopping in. Have a nice day.”

He grabbed her sleeve as she turned, and she stifled the urge to palm-break his nose. She’d only end up drafting to fix it. She’d always been a softie like that.

“Jack is missing,” he said.

Peri reached for the table, slowly sitting as vertigo threatened. Missing? The real Jack, not the hallucination based on him. Possibilities she’d denied pushed to the forefront, and she shoved them back down. “H-how long?” she stammered, putting a cold hand to her warm face.

“Two days. He was recently moved to a government facility and was boosted in transit.”

“Bill?” she said, but her mind was on Jack, not their handler. The bear of a man had vanished cleanly when Opti fell apart. Damn it. Damn it all to hell. She’d said no. Why did she have to keep saying it?

“That’s my guess.” Allen’s hands were in his coat pockets. He was waiting, just waiting. “I could use some help cleaning this up.”

“Not my problem.” Emotion pushed her to her feet, panic not because Jack was free, but because a tiny glowing spot of want had fanned to life, faint from having been denied, but growing stronger.

“You’ve been marked,” he said, stopping her again. “You aren’t safe anymore. The alliance is gone, but I’ve been working with the government to try to bring Bill in. If we can—”

She put a gentle hand on his shoulder that was all threat. “I don’t do that anymore.”

Unwilling to be bullied, he pushed her hand off. “You have skills no one else does.”

“Go find another one. The psych wards are full of us,” she said bitterly. The few remaining patrons were leaving fast, girding themselves against the snow and finding the door as traffic thickened. “I’m not going to work for the government, not even to tuck the bad back into hiding.” She was flushed, hating it.

“Bill wants you,” he said. “That’s why he boosted Jack. He wants you, and he’s not afraid to send a drafter to bring you in.”

Fear slid through her, and her focus sharpened on Allen’s worry. You never sent a drafter after another drafter. The risk was too great that one of them would end up dead, and they were too rare to waste like that.