A Bridge of Years

Twenty-three


Tom had circled to the front of the house when the last intact window—north wall, master bedroom—was blown out by a second concussion.

The floodlights dimmed, brightened, dimmed again. So did the streetlights down along the Post Road.

He cut through the front yard and across the open width of the road to the gully on the far side. Ben was supposed to be covering the front door of the house; but it had occurred to Tom that Ben was not an impenetrable barrier and that the front door was handy to the basement stairs. He left Doug out back with Joyce and Catherine and prayed the three of them would be safe there.

The shock of being roused out of a deep sleep had nearly worn off. He was as awake now as he had ever been, clearheaded and frightened and acutely aware of his own peculiar position: barefoot and carrying a space soldier ray gun from K-mart, modified. Every window in his house had been blown out and he was tempted to reconsider the logic of this adventure. What kept him moving was Joyce—her vulnerability overriding his own—and the single glimpse he had caught of the marauder in an empty street in Manhattan. Those eyes had contained too many deaths, including Lawrence Millstein's. Eyes not vengeful or even passionate, Tom thought; the look had been passive, the distracted stare of a bus passenger on a long ride through familiar territory. Tom had not especially liked Lawrence Millstein, but it hurt to think that Millstein's last sight had been that leathery muzzle, those thousand-mile eyes.

He's already dying, Tom thought. Dying or being dismantled from inside. All we have to do is slow him down.

He was thinking this when the front door opened, spilling light down the gravel driveway and across the road.

Tom ducked into the roadside ditch opposite his front yard.

For the space of three breaths he pressed his face into the wet grass and dewy spiderwebs, no thought possible beyond the panicky need not to be seen, to make himself small among the Queen Anne's lace and goldenrod, small in the starlight, let this apparition pass him by.

Then he took a fourth and deeper breath and raised his head.

The marauder walked out of the house with the queasy deliberation of a drunk. One step, two step, three step. Then he tottered and fell.

Tom rose into a crouch with the zap gun ready. The marauder was obviously disabled but probably still dangerous. But Ben: where was Ben? A thread of blue smoke rose from the open doorway past the moth-cluttered light . . . Something bad had happened in there.

He chose a Douglas fir growing in the wild lot south of his property as good cover and began a spring back across the Post Road, still crouched, a posture he'd seen on TV: supposed to make him a smaller target though that didn't seem likely under the circumstances. He had just cleared the gravel margin of the road and felt blacktop under the soles of his feet when the marauder began to move and Tom did a stupid thing in response: turned to watch. He didn't stop running but he slowed down. Couldn't help it. This was some kind of spectacle, this golden man lifting himself to one knee, like a Byzantine icon come creaking to life, like some upscale version of the Tin Man in The Wizard of Oz, now standing up, bent back straightening, head swiveling in sudden oiled motion. Tom didn't begin to feel appropriately terrified until those eyes lit on him.

Even in the starlight, the dim glow of a streetlight down the Post Road, dear God, he thought, those eyes! Maybe not even the eyes, Tom thought, just some reflection or refraction in the goggles, the illusion of eyes, but he felt pinned by them, trapped here on the tarmac.

The marauder raised his hand, a casual gesture.

Tom remembered his own weapon. He raised it, felt himself raising it, and it was like hoisting an anchor from the bottom of the sea, cranking it up through the weight of the water link by agonizing link. Why was everything so slow? He realized he'd never fired this device, not even once, as an experiment; that he had thumbed back the little switch marked Safety without being absolutely sure it was part of the weapon and not part of the toy. There were questions he had neglected to ask: questions about range, for instance; was the weapon effective from this distance?

But there was only time to commit an approximation of aim and pull the trigger. Showdown on the Post Road. Some part of him insisted that the whole thing was too ludicrous to take seriously. Only dreams were conducted like this.

He was hit before he could finish. His shot went wide.

The marauder's shot had gone a little wide, too, a stitch of flame from Tom's hip to his armpit and across the biceps of his left arm. There was no impact, only a sudden numbness and the alarming realization that his clothes were on fire. He fell down without meaning to. Rolled like a dog in the dirt at the verge of the Post Road until the flames were extinguished, though this provoked the first stab of a deep, paralyzing pain.

What kind of burns? First degree? Third degree? He looked down at himself. Under the ashen shirt was a peninsula of charred and blackened skin. He closed his eyes and decided he wouldn't look at the wound again because the sight of that blistered flesh was too scary, not useful.

He felt a little drunk now, a little dizzy.

He hauled himself up with his good arm and looked for the marauder. The marauder had fallen down, too. Tom's shot had missed but the encounter had slowed him. That's why I'm here, Tom recalled. Slow him down so the machine bugs can work inside him. Maybe he was already dead.

It was a faint hope, extinguished at once.

The marauder stood up.

There was some kind of heroism in the act, Tom thought. It was a faltering, tormented motion that reeked of malfunction, of stripped gears, overheated engines, buckled metal. The marauder stood up and moved his head as if the goggles had clouded, a querulous and birdlike gesture. Then he stripped off the headpiece and looked at Tom.

Tom couldn't discern much of his features in the dim light, but it seemed to him this was even worse than the mask had been, the revelation of a human face underneath. With what expression on it? Something like despair, Tom thought. He felt a dizzy urge to call time-out. I'm hurt. You're hurt. Let's quit.

But the marauder took aim, a little raggedly, with his deadly right hand.

Oh shit, Tom thought. What happened to my gun? He'd left it in the road.

Inadequate lump of polystyrene and impossibility. It hadn't done him much good anyhow. It was yards away. The yards might have been miles.

The marauder aimed but held his fire, advancing from Tom's gravel driveway in a crippled but steady lope. If I move, Tom thought, he'll kill me. If I go for the gun or roll into the gully, he'll kill me. And if I stay here—he'll kill me.

He had pretty much decided to go for the gun anyhow, count on surprise and the work of the cybernetics to give him a chance against that deadly right hand—when the miraculous event occurred.

The miracle was heralded by a light.

The light made strange, wide shadows on the pines and the shadows swayed like something huge and alive. Then he heard the sound of the engine, the sound of a car coming down the Post Road from the highway, high beams probing the slow curve south of the Simmons house.

The car was traveling fast.

Tom turned toward it as the marauder did. The lights were blinding. Tom took the opportunity to pitch himself left, into the ditch at the side of the road. He put his head up and saw the marauder dodge toward him as the car seemed at first to veer away . . . Then tires squealed against blacktop, the car swerved again, and the marauder was fixed in the glare of its lights like a fragment of a dream, motionless until the impact lifted him like a strange, broken bird into the air.


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Ordinarily Billy's armor would have protected him from the impact—at least in part. Maybe it had protected him: the collision hadn't killed him. Not quite.

But he was broken. Broken inside. Armor broken, body broken.

Blood oozed out of his armor at the broken joints. The gland in the elytra had been crushed, the last of its stimulants dissolved. Billy was only Billy.

Nevertheless, he stood up.

Felt the shifting of ribs inside his chest.

He turned to the house. He ignored Tom Winter, ignored the pinwheel rotation of the night sky, attempted to ignore his pain. He could not fathom a destination but the tunnel, which he had confused with escape or going home.

He hurried through the open door of the house, this bar of light. This door which contained a door which was a door in time which was all he had ever wanted, an unwinding of his life, a way home. He imagined it as a road, pictured it in his mind with sudden clarity. A dusty road winding into dry, distant mountains under a clean blue sky.

Sanctuary. A door into the unmaking of himself.

Billy peeled off the battered fragments of his armor and entered the house.

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Past reason, past calculation, Tom picked up his weapon and followed the marauder into the house.

Forced to justify the action, he might have said it was still possible for the marauder to escape, follow the tunnel back to Manhattan, heal himself and repair his armor. The idea that the events he had just endured might not be an ending was too painful to consider. So he rose and followed the marauder into the house under the blinding weight of his own burned flesh. Doug Archer and Joyce and Catherine came around the corner as he was at the door, called out to him to stop, but he barely registered their voices. They didn't understand. They'd missed the main event.

The house was full of a gray, cloying smoke but the cybernetics had extinguished all the fires. Ben Collier lay bloody and prostrate at the top of the stairs. Tom registered this fact but set it aside, something to be dealt with later.

He felt giddy going down the stairs. He was in pain, but the pain was distant from him; he worried about shock. Probably he was in shock. Whatever that meant or might later mean. It didn't matter now. He made himself walk.

He found the marauder some yards into the tunnel.

The marauder had collapsed—probably for the last time, Tom thought—against the blank white wall. He was armorless, weaponless, naked, hurt. Tom felt his fingers open, heard the rattle of his own weapon as it fell to the floor. The marauder didn't look.

Tom reached out a hand to support himself but the wall was too smooth; he lost his balance and sat down hard.

Two of us here on the floor, Tom thought.

He was at the brink of unconsciousness. The pain was very bad. He spared another glance at his ruined left side. His light-headedness lent him some objectivity. Singed meat, he thought. He had never thought of himself as "meat" before. Barbecued ribs. It made him want to laugh, but he was afraid of the sound his laughter might make in this empty tunnel.

This transit in time. Not a tunnel under the earth; something stranger. Strange place to be lying with what might be a mortal wound, next to the man who had wounded him.

He saw the marauder move. Dismayed, Tom raised his head. But the marauder was not hostile, only frightened, trying to back his broken body away from this:

This sudden apparition.

This halo of fight in the shape of a human being.

It came toward the marauder at a terrible speed.

Time ghost, Tom thought, too sleepy to be terrified. Doug had called it that. Ghost of what? Of something native to this fracture in the world. Of a kind of humanity uprooted from duration.

Something too big to be contained by his idea of it. He felt its largeness as it hovered a few feet away. It was large in some dimension he couldn't perceive; it was many where it seemed to be singular.

He felt the heat of it wash over his face. He felt it consider him ... and pass him by. He saw it hover over the marauder, saw it contain that frightened man in a veil of its own intolerable light. And then it disappeared, and the marauder was gone with it.



Tom heard voices calling his name, Joyce's voice among them. He turned with a feverish gratitude toward the sound, would have stood up but for the darkness that took him away.