Threader God

Book 3: Quantum Empirica

by Gerald Brandt

Genres: Apocalyptic; Time Travel

Synopsis

The third and final book of the Quantum Empirica sci-fi series explores an alternate earth where powerful Threads have the power to alter reality as we know it.
Scarred and disfigured, Darwin Lloyd travels the country with Teresa, trying to find a life without Threads—quantum strings that can change or control reality. His only real skill in the new reality he helped create is the Dance, passed on to him by Baila as she took his ability to use Threads.
But time doesn't stand still. Though SafeHaven and Forsyth have control of the QPS, the machine Darwin and his dad built and the reason the Threads exist, and the remnants of Salem and the Qabal are building an army to take it back.
With another brutal war looming over him, Darwin will have to make a decision that may change his and Teresa's lives forever.

Release date: October 11, 2022

Publisher: DAW

Print pages: 272

Sample

1 THE JOURNEY HOME

Light flickered in the dark corners of the room, growing into caricatures of guitars, their strings vibrating soundlessly. The air danced with images made of Threads that shimmered in the still, stifling air of the small space. Motes of dust floated through the strands, highlighting tigers that danced through a living sky of blue and orange.

Darwin Lloyd wove through the images, his feet shuffling on the warped hardwood and his eyes closed. More dust launched into the air, mixing with the images he couldn’t see but could only feel. His hand shifted to the right and the tiger morphed into a dragon rising from the floor. His left foot faltered, dragging a line through the debris, and the sky dimmed into a rusty red. The dragon lunged into the air, its wing tips sinking into the wood floor before rising back up and disappearing through the ceiling. Rain pattered on the still-intact glass in the windows, the wind rattling them in their loose frames. An occasional flash of lightning lit the small space, showing its state of decay and neglect. When the thunder rolled through, his images matched the sound with a rippling, gaping maw that spewed fire, licking the side of his body.

A swarm of brightly colored butterflies fell from where the dragon vanished, each beat of their wings creating eddies in the Threads. Their iridescent bodies glittered with intersecting, gossamer strands as they flitted in delicate patterns through the small room.

Darwin floated in a warm sea as thoughts of Baila ebbed and flowed with the tides, bringing with them new emotions that created images of sunsets and auroras covering a night sky filled with thousands of stars. To him, the room remained dark, except for the flicker of a candle in the corner.

Sweat beaded on his forehead as he danced, even though he barely moved. His limited motion only accentuated the emotions that filled the small room, most of it pouring into the world from him. But not all. Behind the candle sat Teresa, her gaze flicking from image to image.

The constant pain from his burns, the loss of Baila, melded with Teresa’s ache, her mother and brother victims of the war against Salem and his sister. Today he danced for an audience of one.

When he stopped, streaks of tears were already drying on Teresa’s face. The world moved forward. It had been more than nine months since the QPS at Hoover Dam had been turned on, nine months that the world had been allowed to heal from the wars and the greed of people. The scars, like the ones that covered the left side of Darwin’s body, would always be there, but the wound itself had healed.

Until the next person wanted more. Wanted it all, and was willing to do anything to get it.

---

• • •

Gears clacked in the cold morning air as Darwin rolled his bicycle down the front stairs of the ramshackle house they’d stayed in last night. He grimaced when the front tire dropped a step and the skin on his arm and chest stretched. There was still some residual pain, even after all this time. Teresa followed with the first trailer and he dropped his bike in the long, wet grass to help her. Together, they connected it to the bike before they repeated the procedure with hers. They wiped the remnants of last night’s rain that had stuck to the grass off their seats before they mounted and wove down the crumbling street.

They had begun this journey months earlier, leaving Chollas on foot and either walking or hitching rides on handmade carts, the wheels squeaking so much from the lack of grease that they lived with constant headaches until their brains learned to block out the sound. To Darwin, it was just one more layer added to the throbbing of his still-healing body.

Getting a ride from a stranger required a certain level of trust between both parties, and there were times they’d declined an offer even though their feet ached and the packs they wore seemed to carry the weight of the world as the straps dug into their shoulders. Other times, he could see the suspicion on the strangers’ faces as they shook their heads and moved off. If they stuck around long enough to start a conversation, Teresa would mention she was a healer. That would almost guarantee a ride to the next town or farmhouse at least.

Most of the time the strangers would get a look at Darwin’s burns and shy away. Though the healers in Chollas had done their best to fix him, the Skend burns that covered half his body had been too severe for even them to correct. The skin had been smoothed and forced to heal as best as it could, but there was only so much they could do. He couldn’t remember who had told him the Threads weren’t magic. He kept his hair long and hanging free most of the time now. It didn’t completely cover the melted skin and misshapen ear, but it lessened the recoil most people had when they first saw him. What it never lessened was the display of pity that crossed their faces . . . a look he had learned to hate.

Children were different. More than a few times apologetic parents had yanked their little ones away even as they still asked him what had happened, if it still hurt, if they could touch it. The questions never bothered him as much as the parents’ reactions to them. Kids were inquisitive and trusting and open, and he answered as many of their questions as he could, as he was allowed.

On the good days, it helped him to remember Baila as she had been, before they had tried to turn her into a Skend. She had been the smiling and happy Dance Master, and in some ways his mentor. Definitely his friend. Though her life had been filled with heartache and misery, she’d grown with what the world threw at her and came out the other side a better human being. That was a rare thing.

On the bad days he still saw her face the way it had been at the end, with skin covering her eyes and stretched in strands across her open, screaming mouth. Even in that state, she had been a better person than anyone he’d known. She’d jumped on him, her touch burning as much as it dampened and hid the Threads. It was that touch that had saved him from the insanity that his connection to the QPS offered. It was that touch that took away his ability to See, and it was that touch that had passed on her dancing skills to him. Even now, all these months later, though he could dance and create images for others to See, he couldn’t use the Threads himself. The Source inside of him, and his abilities to use it, remained as dead and dormant as she had made it that day.

There were more good days than bad now, but it hadn’t always been that way.

“Do you think we’ll make it today?” Teresa asked, pulling him from the drone of memories.

Their plan was to reach Gaston before sundown, and that was over fifty miles away . . . not a problem on a good road, but the one they were on had been deteriorating the further west they went. In some places, that meant walking the bikes over loose sand and rubble, or in some cases, leaving the road entirely and weaving through stands of trees and thick underbrush, the bike trailers becoming a hindrance. If past experience had proven anything, the bush and the road would only get worse as they got deeper into Oregon.

He shrugged. “I think so, but you know how bad it can get sometimes. Why don’t we ride till mid-afternoon, and if we don’t think we’ll make it we can find a place to sleep?”

Teresa nodded as she pulled ahead, the concrete breaking up again and forcing them to ride single file.

By noon, the pounding sun had gotten so hot, they were glad for the trees that encroached onto the highway, pedaling faster in the deeper shadows and coasting through the sunny spots. Despite the conditions, they had made good time and decided to continue on.

They rode into Gaston on the main road with the sun casting long shadows that stretched across the open spaces and climbed the buildings across the wide street. They turned left at the small store Darwin had emptied over a year ago before pulling into the front yard of a two-story house. The building looked the same as it had . . . though maybe the paint was even more faded and peeled, and the moss on the roof had grown deeper. This was where Teresa had tried to heal Enton, where they had lived until they realized they couldn’t stay. In a small bedroom on the second floor, the original owners still lay in their bed, their decomposed bodies nothing more than skeletons under decaying bed sheets.

Without a word, Darwin and Teresa turned around and chose a different place to spend the night. It wasn’t the bodies . . . those were beyond doing anything more than take up a bit of space. It was the memories of Enton, of how he had saved them and how they had failed to do the same for him.

An old barn across the street—nothing more than gray weathered wood on a leaning frame—offered enough protection from the elements, and netting they’d traded for just outside of Minneapolis would help with the bugs. There was a house on the property, but its roof had fallen in, leaving a shattered ruin for the local wildlife to inhabit. The first thing they did was build a fire, using the daylight to hide it from view, and boil water they pulled from the creek at the rear of the property. They refilled their water bottles with the hot liquid, saving the rest for later.

Rabbit droppings covered the floor of the barn and Darwin set a trap near the back entrance where the grass grew tall. It took less than half an hour before he snared one, killing and skinning it before running the meat through with a stick and suspending it over the glowing embers. He took what was left of the carcass and threw it near the house, a free meal for whatever found it first and far enough away from where they slept to not attract predators.

They ate in almost complete silence, questions about the next day’s journey the only topic of conversation. After a long lull, Teresa spoke as he was cleaning up after the meal.

“We should visit him,” she said, bringing up the topic that had kept them quiet.

He nodded. There wasn’t any doubt. There never had been. Someone just had to say it.

The sun had set, and the western sky glowed a soft orange. “First thing tomorrow,” he said. “If I remember, the road gets pretty rough for a while, and I’d much rather get an early start.”

“Okay.”

Grabbing their food bag, Darwin climbed to the second story of the barn, balancing on the beams instead of walking on the floor. It looked sturdy, but he didn’t want to find out he was wrong by falling through it. He tied the trap wire he’d used to catch the rabbit around a rafter and hung the bag from the roof. Their food would be safe enough overnight, out of reach of any rodents that lived in the relative protection provided by the four walls.

He swept out a stall with his foot and laid their sleeping bags on the dirty floor. Silence descended on them again as he worked. This was routine and comforting, and they both knew what to do without asking or delegating. They lay together in the gathering darkness and watched the moon rise through the slats in the wooden wall of the barn before falling into a comfortable sleep.

The morning heat woke them, the sun shining in the morning sky through the open door and directly into the stall they’d slept in. He could have planned that a little better. They put up with the blinding light for a few minutes before starting their day. They rode out shortly after, the bike trailers reloaded and a breakfast of cold rabbit in their stomachs.

---

• • •

Dappled sunlight hit what was left of the pocked road leading past Enton’s grave and a gentle breeze blew the smell of plant life down the small tunnel created by the overhanging trees. The dense vegetation, the leaves a darker green from lack of sun, creeping over the disappearing highway slowed Darwin and Teresa down as they beat aside branches and bugs to make headway.

They’d missed Enton’s grave without realizing and had to backtrack for almost twenty minutes to find it. Nature was winning the war against what mankind had built here. They left their bikes on the narrow path and maneuvered through the brush and tall grass to the small clearing where he lay in rest. The cairn was overgrown with vines and the cross had disappeared. It looked like some animals had disturbed the site, but nothing had made it through the rocks and chunks of concrete Teresa had used to build it.

Teresa trampled the grass flat and knelt, cutting back the encroaching vegetation before laying a hand on the warm, sun-drenched stones, her head bowed in silence. Darwin stood behind her, unsure of what to do.

“I’d never lost someone under my care before this,” she said.

“You didn’t have the experience or the training to deal with hole injuries. It wasn’t your fault.” The words, though true, sounded hollow even to him.

“I know,” she said in a soft whisper. “It doesn’t change anything, though.”

Darwin squeezed her shoulder, standing silent for a minute. His experience at grave sites had all been personal—not that this wasn’t—but it wasn’t the same as burying a parent. Time had lessened his feelings toward the old man under the rocks. Gone was the deep well of loss he’d felt back then. Too much had happened since Enton had died for him to feel as though he’d lost family.

“I’ll remake the cross,” he said.

He left her alone, walking back through the overgrown brush to their bikes. Grabbing the saw and some of their precious nylon cord, he went back to where he’d sat the night they’d stayed here. It was colder then, and the trees had begun to lose their leaves, but they’d been too scared to light a fire. He’d tried to stay up all night monitoring the Threads, watching to make sure no one came close to them. He could still taste the sharpness of the deer’s hoof that had woken him up at sunrise, the smell of its blood coursing through veins, still feel the roughness of the broken asphalt.

It had been a long time since he’d Seen a Thread. Every time he thought about it he was filled with a longing he couldn’t describe. He missed the connection with his surroundings, missed feeling the pulse of life in everything, knowing what was going on outside of his field of view, of being able to protect Teresa with more than just his hands. Baila had taken all of that away from him, sacrificing herself to save him. The gift she had given him in exchange for her life seemed a poor substitute for what he had lost. He knew her memory wasn’t worth the thought. He was alive because of her, but the loss of his abilities cut deeper than he wanted to admit, even to himself.

He sawed down two inch-thick saplings and cut them down to size, whittling a notch where they crossed over. He tied the final knot and tucked the loose ends of the cord into the groove where the branches met, pulling them behind the bindings. It would have to do. Pushing himself to his feet, he sighed and scanned the small clearing. Enton had done his best for him, and that was more than most in the time he’d been here. The man deserved a better resting place than this, but it would have to do.

Teresa had replaced most of the displaced stones, shoring up the cairn. Darwin reached into the center of the pile and jammed the cross back into place, moving some of the rocks to hold it before helping her. When they were done, Enton’s resting place looked stronger than when she’d first built it. She stood, brushing dirt of her hands and knees.

“Can we find somewhere else to stay tonight?” Teresa asked. “This place has too many memories.”

Darwin nodded, leading the way back to the road, and pulled his bike from the tree it was leaning against. “Let’s ride for another hour and see where we end up. If I remember the trail, we’ll be sleeping at the side of the road tonight either way.”

More than the hour had passed before they decided to stop for the day. Though the road had opened up, it was still as damaged. They’d ended up walking a good portion of the way, pulling the trailers through deep holes, and they were both exhausted.

Turning down what was left of a driveway led them to an old farmhouse. All that remained of it was a pile of rubble covered in vines and weeds. They set up camp at the end of the dirt path, eating a meal of cold brown beans and dry bread they dipped into the sauce, before tying their food bag high in a nearby tree and zipping up the tent for the night.

If they followed the route they’d used the last time they were here, they would end up back in Salem, and they both knew that was someplace they didn’t want to be. Darwin pulled a tattered map from his pack and spread it over his sleeping bag.

“We should hit the turn-off heading south tomorrow,” he said, his finger tracing the faint black line. “If we stay on this road and keep heading east, we could be at the coast tomorrow.”

“The coast is more populated.”

Darwin shrugged his right shoulder. “We’re running low on supplies anyway. More people means more of a chance to restock.”

“And more chance for trouble,” Teresa said.

“We’ve dealt with that before. We’ll be okay. And more people means a higher chance for needing a healer. That should get our supplies back up pretty quick.” He didn’t say it would get them as far away from Salem as was possible.

Teresa nodded in the dwindling light.

The plan was as firm as any other they’d made over the last nine months.

---

• • •

Morning brought a threat of rain with it. Black clouds scudded overhead and the wind had picked up, adding an extra chill to the air. They’d be fighting the wind all day. Darwin’s whole body ached at just the thought of riding through a thunderstorm. He pulled their rain gear from Teresa’s trailer and put his on before retrieving the food bag and putting together a quick, cold, breakfast.

The deluge started before they’d ridden ten minutes, turning the already gloomy day into a wall of gray that pushed against any forward progress. His shoes squished on the pedals with every downward push, and despite the rain jacket and pants, they both got soaked. Their pace slowed to almost a crawl. Lightning arced across the sky, casting the area into a stark black and white outline that burned into his retinas. He felt the resulting thunder ripple on his skin less than a second later. Riding in the rain was one thing, but riding in a thunderstorm was stupidity. They turned down an overgrown driveway, hoping to find some place to shelter until the storm passed. A single-story structure grew out of the gloom and they headed for it. What they could see of the yard and condition of the house—both covered in tangled vines and rotting leaves—told them the place was abandoned. They pulled their bikes and trailers through the partially open door and into what was once a living room. The roof leaked, leaving a large brown stain and disintegrating drywall on the floor, but it had a wood fireplace with a solid-looking chimney. The window had been boarded up long ago, and though it let in some of the wind, the place was better than staying outside.

Darwin burrowed to the bottom of the trailer for a bag of wood and unwrapped the torn plastic bags around it. The fact that the wood was still dry was the first good thing in the drab day. He stuck his head into the fireplace and looked up, seeing a spot of light at the top. The cap was missing, but the flue looked clean enough. Teresa stripped down as he started a fire and hung her clothes wet over the mantel. She was as beautiful as the day they had met, and he pulled her into his arms.

Teresa laughed and pushed him away. “Your clothes are soaking, Romeo.”

Her smile lit up the room and the look in her eyes made his heart ache. He turned his back to take off his shirt, a habit he’d acquired since Hoover Dam. Baila had thrown herself on him as he lay on his back, leaving it unscarred. The skin on his chest matched what was on his face. The left side drooped on his body, looking more like melted wax than skin. Hair refused to grow there, the follicles destroyed by her intense heat. ...