Time Loop Read online

  Time Loop

  An Outcast AngelsTM Fantasy & Science Fiction Tale

  (originally published under the title “Then Again”)

  by Michael Carney

  Part of the Realms Of Our Own Series

  An ISI Multiverse Collaboration

  Featuring characters from the Outcast AngelsTM series, together with additional characters created by the Iron Sharpening Iron Collective

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  The story “Time Loop” and the Outcast Angels characters and concepts featured therein are Copyright © 2015 Michael Carney.

  The ISI characters Molon Hawkins, Indalrion "Indal" Tay, Karyn Littleton, Grayson Floyd, Cathair, Weebles, Natasha Genesis, Azor and Sophia "Sophie" Sanchez are the property of their respective creators (as listed in the Afterword).

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical including photocopying, recording, taping, or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  Additional Outcast Angels stories by Michael Carney can be obtained either through the author’s official website http://OutcastAngels.com or through leading online retailers.

  ‘Outcast Angels’ is a Trademark for the series of fiction works by Michael Carney. An application for trade mark registration has been filed with the United States Patent and Trademark Office.

  ONE

  The Millennium Dome, London, England, 11:57 pm December 31, 1999

  Jesse quickly checked the time: 11:57 pm. Less than three minutes to find the assassin known only as “the Sheriff” before he attempted to kill the man expected to be Russia’s next President. There were literally hundreds of prospective assailants yet to be screened. Jesse worked frantically, using his prophetic powers to scan the potential futures of the prestigious crowd crammed into London’s Millennium Dome on this last night of the decade, century and millennium.

  The Millennium Dome itself was a massive building constructed especially to celebrate the arrival of the year 2000. Assembled from a combination of steel and tensioned fabric, the Dome had become one of London's newest and most spectacular landmarks. From the outside, it looked like a giant white marquee, its skin punctured by a series of twelve 300-foot-high yellow support towers each representing a month of the year.

  The Dome would be open to the general public on the 1st of January, but on this final night of the old millennium, it served as the venue for the most exclusive private function in all of the United Kingdom. The guest list read like a Who’s Who of British, European and American nobility, sprinkled with leaders of the free and not-so-free worlds and a star-studded collection of stage and screen celebrities. Almost every face in the crowd was famous, with just a few exceptions – and most of the unknowns were, in all likelihood, the bodyguards of those rich and powerful guests.

  With so little time left until midnight and still half the room to scan, Jesse had little choice but to skip over the most famous guests. It was unlikely that a head of state or an A-list Hollywood actor was secretly the Sheriff; or so Jesse hoped, as he worked his way through the merely powerful and their entourages.

  Could that African general be the assassin? Jesse focused, his prophetic powers straining intently. What was the most probable future for that man? In one minute he would get into an argument with the woman beside him – not his wife, interesting, thought Jesse – and then stride outside, just in time to catch the magnificent fireworks exploding over the river Thames. The general would show no awareness of the mayhem about to be unleashed inside the Dome. Not him, then. On to the next.

  The members of Jesse’s Blue team were bursting to take action, but without Jesse’s prophetic guidance, all they could do was keep watch for any obvious threats to the potential victim, Viktor Zhukov.

  Needles, haystacks, thought the Blue team’s leader Natasha, watching Jesse grow ever more frustrated as his gaze shifted from person to person. Another minute ticked by: 11:58 pm.

  “This is getting us nowhere. Why don’t we simply evacuate the room?” Natasha half-whispered, half-shouted over the cacophony of music and conversation and excited buzz.

  The team’s youngest member Sophie, who was scanning partygoers one by one searching for evidence of demonic possession, interrupted her efforts briefly to shout back “No time!” before moving on to the next potential killer.

  The third team member, 18-year-old Cathair, stood quietly, waiting for instructions. He could only sense intentions by actually touching someone, not a very practical skill in a crowd this size.

  On the other side of the Dome, over near the band, the two members of Jesse’s White team had found a slightly-elevated vantage point behind a lighting grid and were carefully examining nearby VIPs and their bodyguards. Molon in particular was careful to stay out of sight in the shadows, hat jammed over his head. This was not the time to be spotted in public and face the old “werewolf” accusations.

  The other White team member, Azor, was still in a bad mood. On the way to the Dome tonight, he had shared his carefully-thought-out strategies for the evening with Jesse and had been rebuffed. Now he would just leave it to Jesse to deal with the problem. Let’s see just how well the old angel does without my help, thought Azor.

  11:59 pm. The crowd buzz grew even louder, if that was possible, as the end of the old world approached. Never mind that the other side of the globe was already nearly as much as thirteen hours into the new millennium – this was London, nothing mattered until it happened here (or at least that’s what the high-powered crowd seemed to believe on this very special night). The band played on, the clock on the giant screen was now counting down the last sixty seconds – and the proximity alert flashed on the dashboard of Natasha’s wheelchair. Too many people were crowding around Zhukov. His bodyguards would not be able to cope.

  Natasha looked over at the mob of people around the Russian presidential candidate, many of whom were congratulating him on the day’s unexpected events. Most appeared to be the usual suspects: overdressed social climbers, tuxedo-clad diplomats and their trophy companions. Then one in particular caught Natasha’s eye – a youngish woman on her own, strawberry blonde hair, elegantly attired, dazzling natural smile, hardly the usual political hanger-on. As Natasha watched, unsure quite why she should focus on this newcomer, the woman reached into her purse and pulled out a lipstick. Save the makeover for the Ladies’ Room, sweetie, thought Natasha.

  Before Natasha could do much more than subconsciously register the anomaly, the woman removed the cap of the lipstick, pointed its shaft at Zhukov and pushed a hidden button.

  “Ten . . . nine . . . eight . . .” The crowd began chanting down the new millennium, drowning out the sound of the lipstick’s hidden 4.9 mm gun as it fired at the unsuspecting Zhukov. With all the noise of the countdown, Natasha could hear nothing from Zhukov’s group – but what she could see told a grim tale. The presidential hopeful’s white shirt blossomed crimson and he slumped to the ground, his bodyguards belatedly rushing to his aid.

  “Three . . . two . . . one . . .” And then everything changed.

  ***

  Suddenly, the giant screen showed 11:56 pm again. Everyone in that massive dome stopped in mid-conversation. What had just happened? They’d been counting down the last few seconds of the New Year – but now the clock showed four minutes still to go. Some checked their watches, looked in disbelief at the results. Bemused, most turned to their companions and either chatted about this strange turn of events or returned to their previous conversations, convinced that they must h
ave somehow been mistaken. Too much bubbly?

  Not Jesse, though. The Outcast Angel literally staggered as he felt the instant mental impact of so many changed futures. He quickly searched for Zhukov, who was back on his feet again, clutching his chest and feeling for a bullet wound that no longer existed. As Jesse reviewed Zhukov’s possible new future however, the most likely outcome was still that the presidential hopeful would end up sprawled on the Dome floor in a few minutes, life fading fast.

  Jesse turned to the Blue team members. Sophie and Cathair seemed as confused as anyone else in the room; but Natasha maneuvered her wheelchair through the crowd as she frantically attempted to catch Jesse’s attention.

  11:57 flashed into existence again on the big screen as Jesse alerted Sophie and Cathair and the three gathered round Natasha.

  “What’s going on?” began Sophie, but Natasha waved her aside.

  “I saw the Sheriff. It’s a woman!” Natasha wasted no time. She quickly described the assassin as best she could and all four renewed their search. At least now they knew exactly who they were looking for and what she was wearing.

  Jesse briefly considered alerting Azor and Molon, but the White team was just too far away from Zhukov and the minutes were speeding past.

  11:58 now. Out of the corner of his eye Jesse caught a flurry of activity near Zhukov. The candidate’s four bodyguards had surrounded someone. Jesse couldn’t see that person properly because those bodyguards were straight from central casting, big hulking brutes, pure muscle. But surely it must be the woman. The bodyguards would have seen her shoot Zhukov before time turned back on itself, and they were now moving to neutralize the threat.

  Except – Zhukov’s most probable future still had him lying on the floor in the next sixty seconds. Was there a second assassin that Natasha hadn’t seen?

  11:59 ticked over and suddenly the bodyguards were struggling to contain their prisoner. As Jesse watched, one bodyguard was somehow propelled backwards into a group of revelers. A second guard toppled to the ground, apparently felled by some sort of martial arts move. Then, before the other two bodyguards could react, there she was, the blonde woman that Natasha had described, rushing over to Zhukov and grabbing him in a chokehold.

  “Seven . . . six . . . five . . .” Audience participation in the countdown was rather more tentative, the crowd experiencing collective déjà vu and unsure what would happen next.

  The woman holding Zhukov had no such doubts. Before any of the bodyguards could move towards her, she adjusted her arm slightly, gave Zhukov’s head a lethal twist and then let his dying body collapse to the floor.

  “Two . . . one . . . z . . .”

  And then the unthinkable happened – again. Time rewound to 11:56 pm.

  TWO

  Wapping, London, England, nearly fifteen hours earlier, 0915 GMT

  The final day of the twentieth century had started off quietly enough in London. Then news broke that Russian President Boris Yeltsin had just resigned.

  Jesse and Ravid and the Raiders crowded around the television set to watch the BBC replay of President Yeltsin’s final speech to the Russian nation.

  “Dear friends, my dears, today I am wishing you New Year greetings for the last time. But that is not all. Today I am addressing you for the last time as Russian president. I have made a decision. I have contemplated this long and hard. Today, on the last day of the outgoing century, I am retiring.”

  The BBC report skipped ahead to the most crucial parts of the speech.

  “A new generation is taking my place, the generation of those who can do more and do it better. In accordance with the constitution, as I go into retirement, I have signed a decree entrusting the duties of the president of Russia to Prime Minister Vladimir Vladimirovich Putin.

  “For the next three months, again in accordance with the constitution, he will be head of state. Presidential elections will be held in three months’ time. I have always had confidence in the amazing wisdom of Russian citizens. Therefore, I have no doubt what choice you will make at the end of March 2000.”

  Normally, the resignation of a Russian president would have had little impact on Jesse. But these were not normal times. Russia and all of Eastern Europe had seen extraordinary changes in the past decade, as the former Soviet Union reinvented itself and evolved its own unique brand of democracy. The new, adolescent Russia stood poised at the dawn of a new era, its immediate future likely to be shaped (for better or for worse) by the country’s next president. Many organizations, including Jesse’s own LOA, had been grooming their own candidates for the upcoming election, scheduled for June 2000. Yeltsin’s sudden resignation, and the rescheduling of the election to a date less than three months away, meant that most carefully-planned election strategies had just been tossed into the trash.

  As the BBC reporter was patiently regurgitating the previous decade’s Russian and Eastern European history, Jesse was summoned away for a phone call.

  Unsurprisingly, the LOA’s Russian branch was calling.

  “Can you send as many of your Raiders team as possible to Moscow – right now? The Yeltsin announcement has triggered murmurings across Russia. It might be nothing – or the seeds of another Russian revolution. We’ve also heard rumors of bioweapons from the old Soviet empire suddenly going missing. We desperately need more feet on the ground as quickly as we can get them here, otherwise New Phoenicia may seize the opportunity to engineer a coup. This looks like their handiwork.”

  Jesse quickly discussed the situation with his fellow Outcast Angel, Ravid.

  Jesse and Ravid were angels who had been part of the Great Rebellion against God and had been sent into exile as a consequence. However, Jesse and Ravid and several hundred other exiles had subsequently repented and so had not joined Lucifer and his demon followers. This splinter group, who called themselves Outcast Angels, chose instead to stand against evil wherever they could. The resulting guerrilla warfare, former angels against angels-turned-demons, had continued over thousands of years and the Outcast Angels had suffered many casualties along the way.

  Because the Outcast Angels were so few in number compared with Lucifer’s multitudes, Jesse had also recruited from the human population, encouraging them to join the secret organization he had created, the LOA. This group was named for the institution under whose guidance it was originally founded, the Library of Alexandria. Like its namesake, the LOA’s primary purpose was information. However occasionally direct action was required, especially to combat the activities of subversive groups such as New Phoenicia. To meet this need, the LOA had set up several rapid response teams around the world.

  Jesse turned to Ravid, who usually headed up the local rapid response team (which had dubbed themselves “The Raiders”).

  “What do you think, Ravid?” asked Jesse. “How do you feel about going back into Russia?”

  Ravid had long and painful memories of the country, especially of his incarceration in the Siberian gulags.

  “Of course I’ll go,” said Ravid. “This is too important an opportunity to pass up. The Raiders and I will go over there on the next available flight. But I think I’ll travel inside the plane rather than fly there myself – the last time I was flying over Russian airspace, things didn’t go so well.” As usual, Ravid was a master of understatement – his aerial encounter with a MiG29 had very nearly ended in disaster.

  “One thing, though,” added Ravid. “We will be trapped inside that flying tin can for several hours. You’ll be on your own during that time. What’s your plan if anything goes wrong over here?”

  Jesse looked unperturbed. “I’ll bring in the trainees. It’s about time they went out in the field.”

  The “trainees” in question were an unlikely group – seven individuals with whom the LOA had been working at a hidden training facility near Stonehenge. In common with many such recruits, several of these trainees had been rescued from the clutches of New Phoenicia. Regrettably, those trainees had all been experimen
ted upon by New Phoenician scientists during their time in captivity, with unexpected and in some cases still unknown results.

  Ravid looked skeptical at Jesse’s idea of bringing in untested, possibly-damaged individuals as backup – but then shrugged. He and the Raiders would only be unavailable for three or four hours. What could go wrong?

  THREE

  The Millennium Dome, London, 11:56 pm again

  Karyn – known professionally as “the Sheriff” – looked around in frustration as time again reset itself. What was it going to take to kill this Zhukov and ensure he stayed dead?

  Within the Dome, many people looked shocked as they recognized that once again they were condemned to relive the last few minutes of the millennium. Stunned silence was gradually replaced by a low buzz of conversation, no longer excited or hopeful, as partygoers realized their plight – and also that there was absolutely nothing they could do about it.

  Karyn peeked through the crowd at Zhukov. Not so many people surrounding him anymore. Those who had witnessed the previous assassination attempts were quickly backing away from the presidential hopeful, anxious to avoid trouble – and in the process, unfortunately, making it much more difficult for Karyn to get close to Zhukov without being seen.

  Worse, Zhukov’s bodyguards were now on heightened alert. They knew who she was, they knew what she looked like and they now knew her Jeet Kune Do capabilities. They would no longer be so easy to subdue.

  11:57 pm. Should Karyn even try to carry out the assassination a third time? Better to wait until later, perhaps take Zhukov down on his way back to his hotel. But the client had been insistent – Zhukov had to die today. She hadn’t been told why – the client might just have been superstitious. Or perhaps – a chilling thought –was he the one causing these time-jumps?

  Uh-oh. While Karyn had been reviewing her options, she had been spotted by a bodyguard. As 11:58 ticked over, three of them began moving in her direction, leaving a single thug guarding Zhukov. Perfect – this gave her an ideal opportunity. All she had to do was outflank the three coming towards her and she had an almost free run at the would-be president.