Muldoon watched them go. He'd done his share of time in thatneighborhood, and he didn't miss it. Not one bit. But he planned to drop byoccasionally from here on out, just to see how his younger self and the clonewere doing. All estimates had the SYN's expiration date fast approaching, andthe kid would be needing a new home soon. Social Services would have tointervene at that point, and the Muldoons would do their damnedest to haveyoung Harry live with them. Until then, Muldoon would keep an eye on theunconventional pair, maybe see to it that New Year's Day came a little early.Unexpected presents always had a way of cheering folks up. And Muldoon couldafford to make their lives a little better.
One of the advantages of re-living the past ten years of yourlife: You know how to invest. Harry and Irena had sacrificed to put every spare credit into stock basedon the success of The Pearl, and it paid off plenty. They'd been able to moveout of the HellTown tenements and buy a small studio apartment on Easy Street,like Muldoon always promised they would.
There, in the heart of the city, the two had lived these pastyears of bliss like a second honeymoon. It was a gift, every moment they spenttogether. They both knew how close they'd come to losing each other forever,and it made them intentional, living each moment in the moment. Notlooking too far ahead, not glancing over their shoulders at what laybehind.
Now was all that reallymattered.
And it was looking pretty damn good for the both of them. So goodthey had credit to spare, and they'd decided a while back that it would bespent on the next generation of NewCity. The humans neglected by theirLink-obsessed parents, like the girl with the bouncing ball that Muldoon couldnever forget. And in the process, the Muldoons were becoming fairly well-knownaround town—despite how hard they tried to remain anonymous—for their generousphilanthropy. In certain circles, their reputation even rivaled that of Gavin Lennoxand Ashland Solomon. Hard to believe, but true.
Sure, they both were older this time around. And wisertoo, he hoped. Harry in his fifties, Irena inher forties—exact age to be determined. Of course she looked great. She said hedid, too, but she was like that. Generous.
He shook the rain from his coat collar and turned up the street,dodging the tide of umbrellas bustling toward him, synthetics enthusiasticallyon their way to wait in line out front of The Pearl. Muldoon remembered thisnight like it was yesterday: carrying the kid over his shoulder after Horton's clonemet his demise in that alley. Torn apart by mandroids. Left to rot.
Not this time. Things were different now.
And I didn't even need the BackTracker.
Muldoon glanced down at his bare wrist. He didn't miss the thing.Greatest understatement of the century. With any luck, he'd never see anythinglike it again.
Would Cyrus Horton continue fiddling with the fabric of reality?Could he stop himself? Time would tell. The old man's personality had evolvedas the timelines twined. His older, future self vanished once his world nolonger existed, and the version of Horton that had lived on The Pearl's side ofthings ended up merging with the manic Underground genius of The Pit's reality.Still eccentric? Oh yeah. And still a recluse. But Irena received messages from him every so often—letters circledin priceless books from his secret library. Horton was living off the grid,outside the Provinces, now that the Underground no longer existed, and he likedbeing left alone. He described his post-apocalyptic scenery and crazyencounters with drifters in great detail, but he never shared what projects hewas working on, if any. Every message ended with him asking about Irena's work and whether her husband was worthy of her.
Easy answer: he was working on it.
With half a grin, Muldoon stuffed his hand back into the pocket ofhis coat and forged ahead through the driving rain. He headed home to his wifeand the dinner she had waiting. It was her turn tonight, and Irena had promised lasagna—his favorite, the way she made it.And they'd be having some company: Allie, that little girl with the bouncingball. One of Irena's clients for the past fewyears.
Therapy had helped ease the girl out of her isolation, once shewas remanded to Social Services, and now she attended a private secondaryschool sponsored by the local Wayist temple. Living on-campus with plenty ofother Link orphans while their parents went through rehabilitation. Nothingonline for Allie; she preferred face-to-face, flesh-and-blood interactions. Hertime with Irena had done wonders for her self-esteem, her self-image.Sure, she was clean and well-groomed now, but what mattered more was what wenton behind her eyes. Life sparkled in them.
Irena had that effect on people. Muldoon could vouch for itfirsthand.
He quickened his pace, humming a tune he'd heard recently on theLink. Something with accordions, about pizza and a full moon. He'd searched forit just in case he felt the need to break into song over dinner. Lately, henever knew when the mood might strike. He'd become unpredictable that way.
Tomorrow, Harold Muldoon,private investigator, the last of his kind in NewCity, would return to hisoffice in the Hancock Building—twelfth floor, eighth door down. Jeannie wouldgreet him in her customary manner, with that familiar tone of borderline irony,as though she was completely cognizant of the fact she knew more than he everwould about everything there was to know. She just liked to let him think hewas able to solve cases on his own. She never came right out and said it, buthe could hear it in her voice. And he adored her for it—as much as he couldadore an office AI assistant.
She would direct his attention toward something that had appearedon the floor in a corner of the office in the wee hours of the morning.
A black plastic wristwatch.
And Muldoon would crush it underfoot without a second thought.
Aboutthe Author
Milo James Fowler is the author of Captain Quasar, Spirits ofthe Earth, BackTracker, The Interdimensionals, ThoseWho Wait, Westward Tally Ho, Coyote Cal, VicBoyo, Dahlia & Brawnstone, Mercer the Soul Smuggler, RoadkillJoe, and a whole
