《Fracture Fee》


 The Mirror Job

    There are infinite versions of me out there. This one was my least favorite.


    He had the same face. Same voice. Same genetic code, probably. But he had clean eyes. Still sharp. Still bright. I hadn¡¯t seen that look in a mirror in at least four timelines.


    The broker dropped the file on the bar in front of me. Real paper, the kind that smells like dead trees and foreclosures. That was her way of saying it mattered. That and the pistol tucked not-so-subtly beneath her coat.


    I didn¡¯t bother opening it.I already knew what was inside.


    "Target¡¯s embedded in Timeline 72-Beta. Minimal deviation. Still has a mother. Still thinks empathy is useful." She stirred her drink like it offended her. ¡°You¡¯re the only viable anchor to pull him out.¡±


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    I downed what passed for whiskey on this side of the fold. ¡°And what if I say no?¡±


    ¡°You won¡¯t.¡±She didn¡¯t say it like a threat. She said it like a law of nature. Like gravity.¡°You want your debt cleared? You want your memories unblocked? You do the run.¡±


    I glanced out the window. The sky was fracturing again¡ªthin white lines sketching across reality like it was just badly tempered glass.


    ¡°Timeline¡¯s degrading,¡± she added. ¡°You¡¯ve got about thirteen hours before it collapses entirely. After that, we can¡¯t get you¡ªor him¡ªout.¡±


    I lit a smoke.He¡¯d probably never picked up the habit. Of course he hadn¡¯t.


    Thirteen hours. One collapsing dimension.And the version of me that hadn¡¯t ruined his life.


    "Time to rob the man I could¡¯ve been," I said to myself.

 Chapter 2: The Clean Thread

    The jump rig smelled like ozone and burnt decisions.


    You don¡¯t travel between timelines the way you travel between planets. You don¡¯t walk through portals or hop drives. You splice, one tangled thread of existence into another, and pray the tear doesn¡¯t spread.


    My rig was old. Illegal. Mostly made of things that had never been meant to exist in the same space, let alone the same equation. A coffin-shaped capsule lined with neural gel and a web of entangled filament pulled from a retired surveillance satellite that used to spy on corporate dreams. I didn¡¯t name it. Naming ships is for people with plans.


    The broker stood by the entry hatch, arms crossed, watching me suit up like she was already planning the obituary.


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    "You sure you can anchor a re-entry solo?" she asked, tone halfway between curiosity and accusation.


    "Nope," I said. "But the guy I¡¯m bringing back probably can."


    She didn¡¯t laugh. She never laughed.


    I wasn¡¯t being modest. I couldn¡¯t anchor the return jump. Not anymore.


    The neuro-grafting that makes clean jumps possible... threading cognition across timelines without tearing.... breaks down after too much exposure. Too many fractures, too much noise in the signal. My mind¡¯s been stretched too many times, pulled through too many unstable dimensions like cheap wire. I was jump burned. Technically functional. Medically trash.


    But the other version of me? He was still intact. Never jumped, never burned. Still whole enough to act as a proper anchor. Which meant he could guide the rig through collapse.


    Which meant I needed him more than he needed anything.

 Chapter 3: Secondhand Futures

    The jump rig screamed bloody murder punching through the dimensional membrane.


    Reality felt thin here, frayed at the edges.


    The rig bucked like a gut-shot mule as my own degraded temporal signature fought the transit.


    Ozone and the smell of burning circuits filled the coffin sized capsule. Anchoring a solo entry was hell on the hardware, and worse on the pilot when he was jump-burned trash like me. No way I could guide this heap back through collapse without a clean anchor.


    The rig slammed down hard in a spray of gravel and discarded refuse, some grimy back alley in 72-Beta. Close enough. Systems flickered red, protesting the rough landing. Didn''t matter. I popped the hatch, ignoring the protesting alarms and the wave of disorientation that washed over me. A quick scan, cross-referencing local grids with the habits I knew intimately... his habits, the ones I hadn''t corrupted yet. Easy find. Too easy.


    There he was. Sitting on a park bench under a sky that hadn¡¯t started cracking yet, nursing a coffee like it was just another Tuesday. Sunlight caught the clean lines of his face...my face, before the timelines blurred and the debts piled up. I pushed myself out of the alley shadows and started walking towards him, each step grating. Time to meet the man I was here to rob.


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    He stared at me like I was a ghost wearing his skin.


    I could see it happening... the mental filing cabinet slamming open in his mind, rifling through improbable, unwanted folders labeled fracture theory and interdimensional drift.


    ¡°I thought they shut all the jump programs down,¡± he said finally, voice tight.


    ¡°Yeah. They did. Some of us didn¡¯t get the memo.¡±


    He took a slow sip of his coffee. Still steady. Still composed. I hated that about him already.


    ¡°So what is this?¡± he asked. ¡°A test? A warning? You here to give me the ¡®look how bad it gets¡¯ speech?¡±


    ¡°Nope,¡± I said. ¡°I¡¯m the guy who proves it does get that bad.¡±


    He didn¡¯t flinch. Just leaned back and looked at me like I was a painting he didn¡¯t like but couldn¡¯t stop analyzing. ¡°You really are me.¡±


    ¡°Not anymore,¡± I said. ¡°You made better calls.¡±


    He was quiet a long time. Not scared. Just sad. ¡°So that¡¯s it? You show up to remind me I¡¯m one bad day away from you?¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re missing the fun part. I¡¯m here to take you off the map"


    His jaw tightened. ¡°No.¡±


    ¡°Not a request.¡±


    ¡°You can¡¯t just take someone¡¯s life¡ªyour own life. That¡¯s not how any of this is supposed to work.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m not supposed to exist anymore,¡± I said. ¡°But I do. And I¡¯ve got debts that won¡¯t die just because I did.¡±


    He shook his head slowly. ¡°You think dragging me into your collapse fixes anything?"


    ¡°No,¡± I said. ¡°I don¡¯t believe in fixing anymore.¡±


    ¡°Then what do you believe in?¡±


    looked at him. Really looked. And for a second, I wasn¡¯t sure who was the copy and who was the crime.


    ¡°I believe in survival. And right now? You¡¯re my only shot at it.¡±

 Chapter 4: Reflex

    "You''re my only shot at it." The words hung there, tasting like rust and desperation.


    He just stared back, that damn sorrow in his eyes, my eyes... making my teeth ache. He shook his head, slow, like trying to refuse gravity. "No," he said, quiet but final. "I won''t be your lifeline by becoming... you. There has to be another way."


    Stubborn idiot. Didn''t he get it? The clock was screaming. Reality was cracking at the seams. There was no other way, not for me. I saw the shift then, subtle, but I knew it like my own reflection. He wasn''t just refusing; he was bracing. Maybe to run, maybe to try something stupidly heroic. Didn''t matter. Couldn''t let it happen.


    Talk was cheap, and we were out of time.


    My right hand, already resting near the inside pocket of my coat, closed around the smooth, cool metal of the micro stunner. Not much bigger than a lighter. Set to neural overload ¨C instant blackout, minimal fuss, zero lasting damage unless you held it there for a week. Acquired it two timelines ago for situations exactly like this: when talking failed and breaking bones was too noisy.


    He started to push himself up from the bench, opening his mouth, maybe to argue more, maybe to yell. Didn''t matter.


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    I moved smoothly, not aggressively, just closing the couple of feet between us like I was going to lean in, share a secret. My left hand came up, casually, like I might rest it on his shoulder. Just enough to distract him, maybe guide the contact point.


    Before he could fully register the shift, before his eyes could narrow in suspicion, my right hand cleared the coat. Didn''t even need to aim much at this range. Pressed the stunner¡¯s contact node flat against his chest, right over the sternum. A faint click as I thumbed the activation stud.


    No flash. No loud crackle like the cheap police models. Just a silent, high frequency pulse that probably scrambled his synapses for a millisecond.


    His eyes went wide, then completely blank. The words died on his lips. His body just... switched off. Went utterly slack. If my left hand hadn''t been there, he might have just pitched forward off the bench. Instead, I guided his sudden dead weight down, easing him sideways until he slumped against the armrest, completely out. Head lolled. Peaceful, almost.


    Damn him.


    Quick scan. Park was still quiet. Distant figures hadn''t noticed a thing. Perfect.


    Stood there for a second, the micro stunner cool again in my hand. Quick, clean, efficient. Minimal adrenaline spike. Just another problem solved with the right tool. No need for dramatics.


    Looked down at my own face, unconscious under a dying sky. Time to move the payload. Bent down, slipped the stunner back in my pocket, and got my arms under his shoulders. Felt the familiar weight. Like hauling baggage across a collapsing border.