The Interminables Read Online Free PDF Page B
Author: Paige Orwin
they leave their tanks, if they could take them along, and why bother with a decoy at all if they could teleport the devices? I think the real convoy is still on its way.>
She nodded.
Istvan scribbled the date and a note on the dayâs events in the notebook. June 28, 2020: Failed interception of Triskelion mercenary Bernault convoy, x20; Mr Templeton, Dr Czernin. Decoy. Red NYC, 30 m.
said Miss Justice, leaning against a nearby bookshelf,
Istvan chuckled.
He winced. He rubbed at wrists that burned in their shackles, the chains he couldnât see enforcing orders he couldnât break.
Ten minutes, and then I expect you back on duty until midnight.
He put the notebook back with a grimace.
Miss Justice frowned, but took it in stride. Sheâd seen it happen before.
Istvan nodded his thanks, retrieved his field cap, and bolted for the infirmary.
Chapter Three
E dmundâs front door was locked. It was always locked. His primary point of entry was inside and had been since heâd moved in fifty years ago. Aside from the sudden conversion from apartment block to free-standing structure, unreliable utilities, the usual difficulty in procuring anything not used or broken, and the occasional giant tentacle washed up on the beach, not much had changed since before the Wizard War.
The house still boasted only a single floor. It still had all of its original furniture. It was still comfortable for two people, yet more suited to one. Despite multiple recommendations over the years, he had never arranged to replace the wallpaper. Fading shafts of twilight slanted in through the blinds. He hung his hat and cape on their well-worn peg by the door, tossed his goggles on the table, and laid out new bowls of food and water for his cat. He put the map heâd drawn in a folder with others like it and put the folder away. Then he heated some of the water heâd drawn from the river that morning, lugged it to the backyard, dumped it in a strategically-placed plastic tank, and drew the curtains.
Shower. He desperately needed a shower.
Once he felt more like a human being again, he threw on a plain white bathrobe, poured himself a glass of gin he assured himself he deserved, and retrieved his ledger from the desk in his bedroom. The mercenaries had at least graciously given him what time heâd requested, and he noted it down in its proper column to form a running total.
Some Time. A Few Moments. Enough Time. Time to Spare. Time to Think About It. All the Time I Need.
Each phrase formed a distinct semantic unit, together with many other permutations less common and even more unforgivable. Each was worth a somewhat flexible but unmistakable span of moments, hoarded and spent like anyone else might spend coin.
The ledger held thousands of notations. Other ledgers, filled and emptied in turn, occupied the deskâs upper shelf.
Years of time. None of it acquired honestly.
Oh, he asked for it, sure. And it had to be freely given. But no one who agreed to it knew what he was doing, or noticed that he was doing anything at all.
He was, for all intents and purposes, a conman who dealt in stolen moments. The hours that slipped away when no one was watching. Lives, plain and simple. Heâd been thirty-five for seventy years, and he could say that only because none of the time heâd lived since 1954 was originally his.
As long as he had marks in that ledger, he could dodge bullets, survive drowning, appear just at the right moment, give others all the time they needed, live forever. If he ran out... well, that was time he wouldnât get back.
He didnât plan to run
She nodded.
Istvan scribbled the date and a note on the dayâs events in the notebook. June 28, 2020: Failed interception of Triskelion mercenary Bernault convoy, x20; Mr Templeton, Dr Czernin. Decoy. Red NYC, 30 m.
Istvan chuckled.
He winced. He rubbed at wrists that burned in their shackles, the chains he couldnât see enforcing orders he couldnât break.
Ten minutes, and then I expect you back on duty until midnight.
He put the notebook back with a grimace.
Miss Justice frowned, but took it in stride. Sheâd seen it happen before.
Istvan nodded his thanks, retrieved his field cap, and bolted for the infirmary.
Chapter Three
E dmundâs front door was locked. It was always locked. His primary point of entry was inside and had been since heâd moved in fifty years ago. Aside from the sudden conversion from apartment block to free-standing structure, unreliable utilities, the usual difficulty in procuring anything not used or broken, and the occasional giant tentacle washed up on the beach, not much had changed since before the Wizard War.
The house still boasted only a single floor. It still had all of its original furniture. It was still comfortable for two people, yet more suited to one. Despite multiple recommendations over the years, he had never arranged to replace the wallpaper. Fading shafts of twilight slanted in through the blinds. He hung his hat and cape on their well-worn peg by the door, tossed his goggles on the table, and laid out new bowls of food and water for his cat. He put the map heâd drawn in a folder with others like it and put the folder away. Then he heated some of the water heâd drawn from the river that morning, lugged it to the backyard, dumped it in a strategically-placed plastic tank, and drew the curtains.
Shower. He desperately needed a shower.
Once he felt more like a human being again, he threw on a plain white bathrobe, poured himself a glass of gin he assured himself he deserved, and retrieved his ledger from the desk in his bedroom. The mercenaries had at least graciously given him what time heâd requested, and he noted it down in its proper column to form a running total.
Some Time. A Few Moments. Enough Time. Time to Spare. Time to Think About It. All the Time I Need.
Each phrase formed a distinct semantic unit, together with many other permutations less common and even more unforgivable. Each was worth a somewhat flexible but unmistakable span of moments, hoarded and spent like anyone else might spend coin.
The ledger held thousands of notations. Other ledgers, filled and emptied in turn, occupied the deskâs upper shelf.
Years of time. None of it acquired honestly.
Oh, he asked for it, sure. And it had to be freely given. But no one who agreed to it knew what he was doing, or noticed that he was doing anything at all.
He was, for all intents and purposes, a conman who dealt in stolen moments. The hours that slipped away when no one was watching. Lives, plain and simple. Heâd been thirty-five for seventy years, and he could say that only because none of the time heâd lived since 1954 was originally his.
As long as he had marks in that ledger, he could dodge bullets, survive drowning, appear just at the right moment, give others all the time they needed, live forever. If he ran out... well, that was time he wouldnât get back.
He didnât plan to run
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