Power in Time

The poisoned, old gentleman stumbled into the dark, stinky alley. He had forgotten how dirty Earth’s cities in the early twenty-first century could be. No one was passing by the alley’s entrance yet, but he pulled his hat low over his eyes, tightened the long black coat that materialized around him, and started making his way toward the early morning light streaming in from the street. With each step, the small bag slung over his shoulder lightly tapped against his thigh. He had to find her before it was too late. He owed her that much. It was his fault she was in this mess. Well, mostly his fault. But now, he was her only hope—as long as he could get them to her. He didn’t have time to invent anything else. Pausing at the alley’s entrance, he stopped against a wall and clutched his chest. Poisons could burn like nothing else. He had to wait for the pain near his heart to subside before he could continue on his quest. I have to find her. That was his all-consuming thought. To give her his one last gift. It would protect her. Help her reach the full potential she didn’t even realize she had. Hope surged in him as he heard a young, lilting voice down the street. Carefully stepping around insect- infested piles of trash bags, he peeked out of the alley to make sure of the voice’s owner. It took years for him to get this close. But just as he caught sight of the young woman he was dying for, his view was blocked by a stained black t-shirt with a white skull and crossbones decorating the chest of a man who pushed him back into the shadowed alley. Another man followed behind skull and crossbones. “Hey, old man.” The larger thug pinned him against the grimy wall with a sweaty, shaky, but surprisingly strong arm. “Hand over your wallet, phone, everything. Wouldn’t want to hurt you.” The trapped man let out a gasp as the deceptively small, poisoned cut below his left collarbone tore open a bit more. He ignored the trickle of blood that steadily began soaking his clothing as he observed the two thieves. They both sported tattoos on nearly every inch of exposed flesh. The smaller one was practically skin and bones, with bloodshot eyes and bruises all along his arms from obvious needle pricks. He also brandished a knife and, the scientist thought, looked like he did too want to hurt him. Larkspur Bei stepped out of the used bookstore, a bag bulging with biology textbooks swinging on her arm and an equally full backpack hanging from her shoulders. As Lark strode down the sidewalk, noisy evidence of a scuffle from an alley across the street broke into her tranquil thoughts of where to get a study snack. Lark tried to ignore it. Don’t get involved. She gripped the straps of her backpack with tight fingers, resisting the urge to massage her neck. You’ve helped enough people around here. You’re leaving today. On to a new chapter. “You’ll only regret it,” she muttered to herself, even as she carefully tucked her sunglasses away. She touched a pair of dog tags tucked safely under her shirt, then started jogging toward the dark alley. More grunts, then, “Now you’re going to get it, old man!” Lark broke into a run. “I don’t have anything useful to you,” the old gentleman told the thieves truthfully. His back was still pressed against the rough, dirty brick of a surrounding building. He could feel the uneven edges through his coat. “You’d be surprised how inventive people can be,” the knife holder spat. “Cough it up. Everything you’ve got.” The scientist struck out with much more speed and force than his attackers expected. The larger thug stumbled back from a punch to the throat, eyes glazing in pain. The smaller one nearly blacked out thanks to a steel-toe boot finding its way to his groin. Dropping his knife, the unfortunate thief fell to the trash-strewn pavement with a gasp. It was too much for the bleeding man. He cried out as he crumpled to the ground, hat falling off his head. His chest felt like it was being ripped open with flames. The poison was working quicker now. He could actually feel himself dying. The bigger of the two thieves recovered enough to growl angrily. “Now you’re going to get it, old man!” He looked up to see the thug pull a gun from behind his back. Then suddenly, he didn’t have it. A dark-haired young woman dropped a bag on the ground at the alley’s entrance, thick books spilling out onto the sidewalk. Blindsiding the aggressor, she managed to kick the gun out of his grasp. She smoothly sidestepped the thug’s clumsy attempt at a hook. When the man almost fell forward, the woman took advantage of his partially exposed back, smashed a downward elbow into the back of his neck, causing him to stumble down on one knee. His dazed eyes didn’t even see her round kick to his jaw, knocking him into unconsciousness. The smaller attacker crawled away in the scuffle, a putrid pile of vomit the only evidence left of him. The woman grabbed a pair of latex gloves from her backpack, slipped them on and pressed her fingers to the throat of the thief she knocked out. Her shoulders relaxed with a relieved sigh. Using the attacker’s own belt, she bound his arms behind him before stepping lightly to the pistol. She checked the chamber to see if it was loaded, then fiddled with a little lever on the side before tucking it into her backpack. The young woman kneeled next to the injured man “Sir? Are you all right? My name is Lark. I’ll—” She paused mid-sentence, finally getting a good look at him. “F-Franklin?” “Finally,” he whispered, laying an affectionate hand on her cheek. He looked up into the face he had been searching so hard for. There was the mesmerizing combination of blue right eye and gray left eye, both now wide with shock. “Dr. Franklin Wright? Is it really you?” She squinted at him. “What happened to your hair?” He had been clean-shaven with his hair dyed white the last time they met. The aquamarine of his natural hair interspersed with silver threads would be unnatural for this era. “What am I thinking?” Lark berated herself. “Are you hurt?” “Merely had the wind knocked out of me,” he lied with a wince as she helped prop him against the wall. “Just give me a moment.” He didn’t relish still sitting on the trash-strewn ground, but Lark would realize something was wrong if his legs gave out. Lark pulled out a cell phone. “Let me call the police and an ambulance while you catch your breath.” Franklin watched her dial 911. As she grumbled her way through several automated steps, he discreetly fingered the wide silver bracelet on his right wrist. He pressed the engraving of a tiger resting under a wisteria tree, and the tree began to softly pulse with a light purple. With any luck, Harold would be there before the police. “We’re across the street from Hailey’s Used Books on North Jackson.” Lark looked at the alleyway’s entrance. “Yes. Thank you.” As she hung up, she turned back to Franklin. “You are hurt!” she cried, kneeling back down next to him. Franklin glanced down at his chest to find blood was finally soaking through his coat. “Nothing you can do,” he murmured. “We’ll see,” Lark said sternly. “Are you having any trouble breathing?” “No.” Franklin clenched his teeth when he shook his head. Breathing was fine for now, but any excessive movement hurt like mad. Lark quickly felt around his head, neck, armpits, and groin area, checking to see if any blood showed up on her gloves. She seemed satisfied when they came away with no red stains. Franklin recognized her brother’s old Army backpack as she swung it around to rummage through. She looked almost exactly as she had the last time they met. Her face was more mature, filled out and refined. She was taller, and now wore a little bit of makeup. Her dark hair was still pulled back, the same baggy cargo pants, with a black leather bomber jacket covering a dark purple t-shirt. But the confident, strong air around her had not diminished in the slightest. Finally finding a small bag with a large red cross on the side, Lark unzipped it and set it on the ground beside her. Franklin peeked in, but saw just a bundle of fabric. As Lark carefully pulled aside the left front of his jacket to see the cut on his chest, he inched his right hand toward his bag. “Do you need something?” Lark glanced at his hand as she pulled a small pair of scissors out of her medic bag. “I’m just thirsty.” Franklin tried to sound innocent. Lark nodded. “Just give me a minute to check this laceration, all right? Then I’ll grab it for you.” Franklin relaxed. “I’m sorry, I’ve got to cut your shirt to see the extent of this injury.” Lark snipped away, not waiting for his agreement. “Do you hurt anywhere else?” She made quick work of wiping the blood away. “Just some minor cuts and bruises.” Aside from the poison, that was true. He was fading quickly. Pushing her hands away, Franklin grabbed his bag. “Stop, Franklin. I still need to finish cleaning this cut,” Lark softly chided. Ignoring her, Franklin pulled the long silver bottle out of his bag, opened the lid, and threw the clear liquid at Lark with near-desperation. Most of it splashed square on her face, but the rest soaked her shirt and arms. “What on earth?” Lark sputtered. “What was that for?” At first, her blue and gray eyes were filled with irritation. But Franklin saw confusion creep in as she wiped her face, fingers almost completely dry. The oily substance absorbed quickly into her skin. “What did you just throw on me?” Lark jumped up, patting down all the places the liquid was rapidly disappearing. Distracted, Lark failed to see a flash of light behind her in the back of the alley. Finally. Harold was here. “Lark,” Franklin whispered. Lark’s eyes narrowed in suspicion, but that was replaced with worry as she crouched down again. “Franklin? You’re awfully pale. Hang on. The ambulance is coming.” Her voice was fading. “Come on, please don’t leave me again. I just got you back.” He stroked her face one last time. It was still such a young face. How old was she the last time they met? Seventeen? Her hand came up to gently cover his. So young, yet so strong. His heart overflowed, but all he could manage to say with his final breath was a soft, “I’m sorry.” Lark held Franklin’s limp hand to her cheek, fighting to keep the tears at bay. Focus! She told herself sternly. No pulse. Get the heart pumping. Just as she started adjusting Franklin to lay flat on his back so she could administer CPR, Lark heard something behind her. She craned her neck to see if the EMTs had arrived without her realizing. Seeing herself surrounded by half a dozen well-muscled men caused a stutter in her rhythmic chest compressions. “W-who are you?” she asked, almost forgetting to resume her rescue efforts on Franklin. One of them stepped forward and held up a box with a red cross on the side. “I’m a medic. Let me take a look?” Lark hesitated until she noticed his silver bracelet nearly matched Franklin’s. Perhaps they knew each other. She also realized if this stranger really was a certified medic, he was the best chance to save Franklin. Stepping back, she tried to surreptitiously study the men who still surrounded her. She doubted her scrutiny went unnoticed—nothing seemed to escape their sharp gazes. These men who appeared out of nowhere all wore the same black uniform with no visible emblems or markings. Except maybe the matching silver bracelets. Unlike Franklin’s, there was a larkspur blossom added to the tiger and tree design for most of the men. And these men were big. It looked like they had lived in a gym since they were ten. One covered the prone form of the unconscious thief with what looked like a toy gun. The barrel was long and too thin to hold a bullet. Another man grabbed Lark’s med kit and backpack she had forgotten next to Franklin. “Hey, that’s mine!” She started to jump forward. The stranger to her left was on her so fast she barely had time to blink, much less yell for help, before he clamped a firm hand over her mouth. At least it was her mouth and not her throat. She couldn’t afford to freeze here. Goodness, he was fast! And strong. His arm around her midsection felt like an iron bar. Lark struggled in his grasp as hard as she could, but her captor was immovable. Was the man made of stone? Granted, her strengths–kicks and elbow strikes–were far less effective in her current position, but nothing she did seemed to have any effect on him. “My name is Conan,” the man holding her said. “I’m not going to hurt you, but I can’t let you call for help, either.” Lark paused in her efforts to free herself when another man—this one with salt-and-pepper hair—kneeled next to the medic examining Franklin. He looked hopefully at the medic. “Raphael?” The medic shook his head. “I’m sorry.” Lark’s heart dropped. She barely saw the tears trickling down the face of Mr. Salt and Pepper through her own. “I’m sorry, my friend.” Mr. Salt and Pepper bowed his head. Their whole group stilled with a heavy silence until Mr. Salt and Pepper saw Franklin’s silver bottle on the ground. Carefully, he picked it up with a gloved hand and studied it. He seemed to be the one everyone was looking to for orders. The man’s head whipped toward her. “Did you drink this?” he demanded, voice strangely urgent. Lark glared at him despite the sudden wave of nausea that washed over her. Don’t show any weakness. You’re outnumbered and overpowered. Keep any advantage you have, even if it’s just an illusion. “She didn’t have to drink it,” Raphael said from behind Mr. Salt and Pepper. “As long as it touched her, her skin would absorb it.” All eyes turned to study Lark intently. “How are you feeling?” Conan asked her. Like a creepy dude is holding me prisoner and a man I used to want as a grandfather exposed me to some suspicious substance. So just grand. Thanks for asking. Since her captor was still covering her mouth, she hoped her narrow-eyed glare at the rest of them sent her message clear enough. Mr. Salt and Pepper gave a tight smile as a look of pity softened his brown eyes, but Lark hardly noticed the change as a horrible cramp ripped through her abdomen. She couldn’t stop a groan from escaping through Conan’s hand. “We need to go.” Mr. Salt and Pepper turned to the back of the alley. “It’s not safe here.” Everyone started moving. Two men picked up Franklin Wright’s body. Conan, maintaining his iron grip around Lark, effortlessly carried her toward a strange light at the back of the alley. A kind of muddy liquid in the shape of a rough circle splotched itself in front of the gray bricks. Lark watched in fascinated horror as, one by one, the people in front of her walked into the now softly glowing circle. Before their figures disappeared, the strange, body-eating liquid flashed almost white before fading back to the strangely glowing muddy brown. The rough edges ebbed and flowed, but never got too small to accommodate a person. Lark struggled again, but to no avail. Her attempted screams were still muffled by the strong hand clamped around her mouth. She didn’t feel right—sick to her stomach. Cramps like a bad period, weak and shaky limbs, and a headache beginning to roar behind her eyes. But she didn’t stop fighting until they got to the strange portal. Instinctively closing her eyes, she felt a momentary flash of cold. Then, the unexpected sensation of a fresh breeze on her face coaxed her eyes open.