Time Out by Jamie Mason

Author:Jamie Mason
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: time travel, area 51, alien contact, teen rebellion, us air force
Publisher: WolfSinger

CHAPTER EIGHT

Chess

I wait three months before making my first move.

I want Father to think he has won.

~ * ~

All great commanders demonstrate a willingness to learn from their mistakes. I am no great commander, but I do wish to emulate one. So in this I begin to assess my own defeats.

Twice I have escaped the Facility and twice been captured and returned. Why? These attempts failed because they were flights in space only. They took place in the physical reality of this When, where I am at a complete disadvantage. That sort of one-dimensional thinking is simple for Chronox to exploit. In order to have a chance, I have to escape the facility in time as well as space.

Given my limited Tipping ability, I can only go back or forward a day in time. Which means that to Tip to yesterday is only to Tip back into this same prison. So that’s not a credible avenue.

As near as I can figure the scientists developed their Machine as an outgrowth of the Tipping Room at Uncle Leo’s cottage, and then tested it on live Chronox subjects—mostly teens—until they perfected it to the point at which it was deemed safe for humans to use. I have no doubt Father intends to turn the technology against those sponsoring its development. His plans are grandiose enough that an agreement with the U.S. military can be considered, from his vantage, an annoying wrinkle to be ironed out at a later date.

In the meantime I resolve to continue meditating and conducting my experiments with Tipping on my own in an effort to improve my capabilities, so I won’t be dependent on the machine as humans are. But I will also study the Machine.

~ * ~

Airman Ryerson’s spinning back kick smashes my solar plexus. I slam into the wall shoulder-first and sink, dazed.

“C’mon, Chris! Get up!”

I shake the stars from my head and roll upright, taking a defensive stance, eyes narrowing in rage.

“Tha-a-t’s it,” she whispers with a smile. We circle. “Get angry! You a fighter? Or a momma’s boy?”

“I’m a fighter, sensei.”

“Then come get me.”

Punch. Block. Sweep, kick. I dodge out of the way. She comes in a little deeper than is wise on her next kick and overbalances. I take advantage of the mistake to whip in and blast her ribs with a four-punch combo then slip back before she can retaliate. I can tell by her sharp inhale and measured retreat she is hurt.

“Good,” she whispers.

“Thank you, sensei.”

“But you’re gonna’ pay for that.”

“Well then come on! Are you a fighter? Or a little fucking girl?”

A look of shocked anger ripples across her face before she comes at me with a snarl. I yell and launch myself into her attack. We meet halfway, no hesitation: all-out war.

This isn’t me, I think, blocking a punch. I’m not this guy. I’m not this vicious, angry warrior.

But karate is making me one.

I don’t think about anything—not my circumstances or my fear or how the black belt sensei Ryerson wears overshadows my white one.

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