Interference pattern
1544 Words
04:03 a.m.
Canal Route 7, Off-Grid Sector—Grid 42-F
Jake moved in the dark like he was part of it.
The canal narrowed the deeper he went. The brick turned to decayed concrete, the waterline rising to his thighs. Each footstep stirred ripples thick with rust and rot, each breath loud in the silence that pressed around him like a closing fist.
The walls sweated. The pipes overhead pulsed with the last ghost traces of grid power. Jake’s eyes had adjusted fully now-every shape, every motion etched in grayscale instinct. He didn’t need light. He needed speed.
Sammy was just beyond the east ridge.
If his projection was right, Jake would surface on the edge of Sector Shell 43 within the next twenty minutes.
Assuming nothing went wrong.
Movement.
Jake dropped low, hand snapping to the sidearm.
Not a rat. Not water.
Footsteps. Light. Controlled.
Too even for a civilian.
Jake slunk to the far wall, breath tight in his throat. His pulse throbbed in his fingers. Every nerve in his body lit up. He peeked just around the bend in the tunnel.
And saw her.
She was unarmored. No state-issued gear. No insignia. But her stance said military. Not regulation. Not sanctioned. But trained. Fluid. Clean. Her hair was tied back, clothes dusty with travel but tactical in build.
She moved with confidence, a burner rig strapped to her thigh, a modified lens HUD flipped up over one eye.
And she wasn’t alone.
Two more shadows followed behind her. One carried a field sensor. The other, a pulse rifle low and ready.
Operatives. Off-grid. But not from the State. Not from the Tower either.
Jake froze.
Ghost hunters.
The kind the broken resistance used when they couldn’t trust maps. The kind sent to track rumors, smuggle out defectors, or kill old assets gone rogue.
They weren’t watching him. Not yet.
He stayed hidden in a divot between pipe and wall. Silent. Waiting.
Their lead paused suddenly.
Turned.
Straight toward him.
“You’ve been following a bad signal,” she said.
Jake didn’t move.
“Don’t reach for your weapon. We scrambled the safehouse trail. You’re not tagged. Yet.”
Her voice was steady. Low. No threat. Not friendly either.
He stepped out slowly, sidearm holstered but tension visible in every line of his body.
“How do you know where I came from?” Jake asked.
“Because we’ve been watching you for five sectors,” she said. “Ever since the Echo-13 file reactivated.”
She stepped forward. Her eyes met his.
Cold.
But not cruel.
“I’m Agent Layra Voss,” she said. “Former Tier-3 handler, now unaffiliated. Like you.”
Jake didn’t flinch. “What do you want?”
“To stop you from walking into a death trap,” she said bluntly. “We intercepted the signal. What you got was only a partial. The rest? That message? It’s being used as a lure.”
His jaw locked.
“You’re lying.”
She nodded. “Expected that.”
Jake stepped closer. “Sammy’s alive. I heard him. His voice wasn’t fabricated.”
“It wasn’t,” Layra agreed. “But that’s what makes it dangerous.”
The third operative stepped forward now. Field-tech type. Thin, reedy. He pulled a device from his pack and tossed it toward Jake. It landed in the water with a soft plunk, lighting up with a faint shimmer.
The same map Jake had seen in the safe house blinked to life but here, the pulse had multiplied. Three, now. One red. Two blue.
One beacon.
Two reflections.
“A tri-echo pattern,” the tech said, voice tight. “One real. Two artificial. They’re bouncing the signal across shell sectors. Makes it impossible to tell which is the actual location. You pick the wrong one... you walk into a purge zone.”
Jake stared at the blinking markers. “But you don’t know which one is fake.”
“No,” Layra said. “But we know which one just lit up Protocol 03-A.”
Jake’s stomach turned.
The hunter.
“It activated six minutes after your safe house was breached. If they weren’t watching before, they are now.”
Jake’s voice dropped to a growl. “I’m not standing down.”
“Didn’t think you would,” Layra said. She nodded at her team, who immediately began packing up the field gear. “But you need to understand what you’re walking into. This isn’t just about you anymore.”
Jake stiffened. “What does that mean?”
Layra’s eyes were unreadable.
“Project Theta wasn’t just one subject,” she said. “Theta-7 was the only one who survived integration. But not the only one they built. There were backups. Fail-safes. Twins, in code if not in flesh.”
Jake’s blood went cold. “What?”
“They’re not Sammy,” she clarified. “Not him. But they’re close enough to wear his face.”
Jake stepped back like she’d struck him.
“No.”
Layra didn’t argue. “We have proof. They used him to create a mimic sequence. That’s what you’re seeing now. That’s why you’re feeling doubt. Why the memories are pulling harder.”
“Because they cloned his code.”
“Because they cloned his connection to you.”
Jake turned away.
He ran a hand down his face.
This changed everything. Or it should have.
But it didn’t.
Because he knew what he’d heard. Not the glitch at the start. Not the synthetic open.
He’d heard the part that wasn’t coded.
“I remembered you.”
“I know it’s him,” Jake said, voice quieter now. Raw.
Layra didn’t speak for a moment.
Then: “I think you do too.”
She reached into her coat pocket. Pulled out a thin drive. Tossed it across the canal floor. It skidded to his boots.
“Data we extracted from a crashed relay drone two clicks east of here. Scrambled, but you’ll find an audio thread buried inside. The part they didn’t want playing.”
Jake picked it up slowly.
“And if it’s him?” he asked.
“Then the clock’s shorter than we thought,” Layra said. “Protocol 03-A doesn’t retrieve. It erases.”
04:26 a.m.
Sammy’s Shelter, Sector Shell 43-D, Lower Collapse Level
Sammy stirred in the darkness, half-asleep, half-alert.
Something was off.
The hatch above him vibrated faintly—metal shifting under pressure. He sat up, eyes narrowing. His body still ached, mind fogged by adrenaline fallout and residual system shock.
But instinct screamed.
He pulled himself to his feet just as the far end of the tunnel lit up.
Red.
Slow. Pulsing.
Motion sensors.
Tracking, not alerting.
They were triangulating him.
He scrambled toward the side panel, ripping open a discarded breaker box. Inside: wires, old comm links, one portable scrambler—low power, but usable.
He clipped it to his jacket and activated the feedback loop.
The pulse flickered once. Then blinked out.
But it wouldn’t hold long.
He had maybe five minutes before the hunter found a workaround.
Sammy stood in the dark, shaking.
He didn’t feel fear exactly not anymore. It was something older. Some primal residue the Order hadn’t been able to wash out. A part of him remembered what it felt like to be chased. To be hunted. To be considered property.
But that wasn’t what made him tremble.
It was the thought of Jake.
Of him being close.
Of him walking straight into this.
He activated the comm patch he’d buried in the wall socket a day earlier. A soft crackle filtered through the frequency. Static. Noise. A flicker of voice on the edge.
Sammy leaned into the mic.
“Jake. If you’re out there…”
He paused.
Breathed in.
“I don’t know which one of me you’re hearing. But I need you to know—I’m still me. I’m still… here.”
Another pause. His voice dropped lower, almost shaking.
“I can’t hold the line much longer. But I’m not afraid.”
A whisper, soft as breath.
“I just want you to find the right me.”
04:37 a.m.
Canal Route 7, Exfil Node 3
Jake listened to the message in silence, the one buried in the new drive Layra had tossed him.
The same words. Not repeated.
But mirrored.
Two voices. Two identical vocal signatures. One warmer. The other… off by half a breath.
Just enough to feel wrong.
He closed his eyes and repeated the lines aloud, testing for truth in his own voice.
"I just want you to find the right me."
He pocketed the drive.
Looked to Layra.
"Which echo is closest to here?"
She pointed.
“Red beacon. Ten klicks northeast.”
Jake nodded once.
Then turned to go.
“Hey,” Layra called. “If it’s him… bring him out. You won’t make it through if you try to stay in the dead zone too long.”
Jake didn’t stop walking. “Wasn’t planning to stay.”
“You sure you’re ready?” she asked.
He didn’t look back.
“No,” he said.
“But I’ve been ready for two years.”
- Writer
