The Breach - Ghost Country - Deep Sky

outrun the effect. They couldn’t.
    Green. Blue. Green. Blue. The flashing saturated everything in his field of view, like intense stage lighting at a rock concert.
    Green. Blue.
    He knew what it meant—but it was impossible. How could he be catching up to the present from within a Tap memory if he hadn’t used the Tap?
    Green. Blue.
    The knife fell from his hand, bounced and spun on the carpet. Holt looked confused.
    Travis staggered backward, stumbled against one of the chairs, turned and leaned down and steadied himself on the table.
    Green. Blue.
    He was about to be drawn out of this memory against his will. Any second. But drawn out to what? And to when? When and where had he put the Tap into his head?
    Green. Blue.
    Black.
    He flinched and opened his eyes. He was back in the study, at the plane’s tail. Holt and Porter were standing in front of him, Richard Garner just beyond them and off to the side, still bound to the dolly. Travis looked down and saw that he himself was bound to a dolly now, right where he’d been in the dream.
    Which hadn’t been a dream.
    Neither had it been a projection sent to him by somebody else.
    It hadn’t been either of those things.
    He had less than a second to think about it, and then his memory simply wiped itself away. Vanished like a sand picture in the blast of a leaf blower.
    Where was he?
    How had he gotten here?
    What the hell was he tied to?
    An old man who looked like Wilford Brimley leaned into his viewpoint, scrutinizing his face.
    “Can you understand me?” the old man said.
    But before Travis could reply, his memory blew away again, no more than a second after it’d begun to form.
    Where was he?
    How had he gotten here?
    Garner watched Travis struggle against the drug. As strange as it was to experience the effect yourself, it was almost more so to see someone else endure it.
    He watched Travis’s eyes keep losing the room and finding it again. Rediscovering his surroundings every second or so as his memory fractured.
    Porter was leaning in with his nose six inches from Travis’s.
    “Tell us who goes through the Breach,” he said—framing it as a command, not a question.
    Travis blinked, no doubt having lost the statement already. He stared at Porter and said nothing.
    Porter repeated the instruction. And again. And again. Carefully and patiently. Working it into Travis’s subconscious like a dog trainer setting a patterned response. He’d been doing this for years.
    “Tell us who goes through the Breach.”
    Garner had undergone the questioning himself all night and all day. Sessions like this every hour or so, seventeen in all. The needle marks on his arms helped him keep count.
    He’d given up a lot of information. He knew it. He also knew he’d held on to the only piece that would matter in the end. He knew by the frustration he’d seen in their eyes, each time the narcotic’s power dissipated and his memory stabilized. They hadn’t gotten it from him. He’d been protecting it too long to surrender it now, even under the drug.
    It would be different with Travis. If he knew the answer, he’d learned it today.
    Porter gave the command a sixth time: “Tell us who goes through the Breach.”
    Travis’s eyelids drew close together. He seemed to grasp the instruction, even beneath the crumbling memory.
    “Tell us who goes through the Breach.”
    “I do,” Travis said.
    Porter narrowed his eyes. He drew back a few inches.
    “I go through,” Travis said. Something like amusement crossed his face. “Lucky me.”
    “Is he playing with us?” Holt said. “Is the effect wearing off?”
    Porter looked at his watch. “It’s probably starting to. We used up three sixteen while he was in the memory.”
    “Get the Tap back out of him,” Holt said. “While you can still make him cooperate.”
    Porter nodded. He leaned in again and said, “Think the Tap out of your head.” He repeated it, his speech precise and direct. He said it a third time and Travis shut his eyes and seemed to concentrate hard on something. A few seconds later he gasped. His face twisted in pain. Then the Tap began to emerge from the same pinprick hole it’d gone in through, a bright green tendril snaking and darting. Porter held up his hand and let it collect in a mass on his palm.
    “Try again in an hour,” Holt said. “We’ll have the whole four or five minutes to question him then. We’ll get it.”
    By the time they left with the Tap—reformed into its cube