Free Quantum Break by Cam Rogers

humming with quiet purpose.
    “No one’s here,” Will whispered. It was just them and sequential racks of fat vertical servers: midnight-blue twilight speckled with thousands of yellow and green LEDs. There was only one door, manual, domestic looking, and opened from their side.
    “Hey, Will?”
    “Yes, Jack.”
    “When Paul went through, I caught a look at the readout. It said ‘destination error.’ What does that mean?”
    Will thought about it. “Oh, dear.”
    “Can you elaborate?”
    “Because Paul did not appear prior to his own departure he must have traveled forward. I would assume the error indicates he traveled to a point where a date becomes redundant. It’s likely Paul sent himself far enough ahead to witness the inevitable collapse of the Meyer-Joyce field.”
    “The end of time?”
    “When Paul emerges from the machine he will be stepping into a moment that is infinitely self-dividing. He will freeze, and there will be no coming back from that. I’m afraid he’s gone, Jack. I’m sorry.”
    “Maybe … maybe I can use the machine and get him.”
    “Let’s get out of here alive first. If Paul is at the end of time, he won’t be going anywhere.”
    Jack listened at the door, couldn’t hear anything, and Will risked opening it, gently. The sounds of war outside, still muffled, grew louder.
    “I don’t see anything,” Will said.
    The corridor was dark, lit by illuminated exit signs and a light coming through a wall window at the far end of the corridor.
    “What is that?” Jack said.
    “A glass wall that overlooks the campus. Ordinarily it’s quite lovely.” The applause from outside had become sporadic. “But I’m not sure I want to take a look, just now.”
    “Can … could I go forward and pull him back in? Like I did with you? Would that work?”
    “You’re talking hypotheticals.”
    Low frequencies from the outside didn’t make it through the glass outer shell and brick walls. Higher frequencies fared better: Pops. Screams.
    If Paul really was dead, it didn’t feel real. He had to get Will to safety before it did begin to feel real, and he fell apart. “Anyone…” Breathe. “Anyone likely to be working late on this floor?”
    “No.”
    “Okay. Let’s go. Quietly.”
    One step at a time, gun in one hand and the other on Will’s shoulder, they moved toward the light at the end of the hall. Jack coughed up something watery and acrid for the thirtieth time, unable to contain it.
    “Hey,” he rasped. “What’s that?” He pointed toward a dark, man-sized prism against the wall with one illuminated face.
    “Vending machine,” Will said.
    Jack spluttered again. “Does it…” Coughed. “Does it sell…?”
    “No!”
    There was no explanation for what happened next: Will threw himself backward into Jack, Jack stumbled, and then shots rang out from the end of the hall. The shooter ducked behind the corner as Jack and Will sheltered behind the machine.
    Jack’s heart sank. The vending machine wasn’t going to stop bullets. “Will. Slide down. Get small. When I—”
    The shooter popped back, squeezed off four shots. Three went wide, punching through a corkboard, blowing out clouds of particulates. One hit the machine, knocked a hole in the Perspex, exploded three cans of soda, and exited two feet above Will’s head. Jack responded by whipping out and firing blind, three shots. The shooter responded and Jack slammed back against the wall, air pressure pulsing with each passing slug. Jack’s best guess was that his pistol had maybe four rounds left. Maybe.
    “Hey!” he shouted. “Is there some other way we can do this?”
    The shooter opened up; Jack got low and fired twice. The shooting stopped—nothing but the ringing in his ears.
    “Did…,” Will said. “Did you?”
    “Hey,” Jack called out. He got to his feet, iron sights trained on what he was pretty sure was the right place: just to the left of the open doorway to the elevator bay. “Hey, man. Are