Judith sighed.

They’d finally located that rock in the center of the silver infestation. Centuries of searching, centuries without form or substance or duration, they’d searched; they’d found. West had been in the original rescue fleet, tattered remnants gathered from the first Enemy war and the temporal refugees of the Forever Dust, the human residue of all broken Whens. Data cycle errors, reflexive overruns, cyclic redundancy checks, cache corruptions: humanity.

The trouble with his stories is that they happen concurrently…People who were killed in the third chapter walk in and ask for coffee and a cigarette in the fifth. He can’t keep it straight; it’s not worth it to the reader to attempt to make sense of something so inherently flawed, something so innately incomprehensible.

“Thanks for the vote of confidence, Jud.”

“Come in.” The warm smile barely contained the acid tongue beneath. “You two fucking yet?”

“Oh god.” Hope sat on the edge of the bench next to the author.

“That’s what they used to call me. Where are we?”

“Ninety-eight over. Last run was almost a complete success.”

“Rad.” Hands went to face, fingertips traced temples as her smile fell off. “You have to get better at this, Paul.”

“It’s not like I even know what the fuck I’m supposed to have lived in these Whens. You have the advantage of knowing everything already.”

“If I could erase it myself, I would.”

“I wish you’d find a way and let me get out of here.”

“It’s not up to me anymore.” Judith stood from her chaise, walked over to the window that showed the latest crop. “It’s up to one of me down there.”

West cleared his throat. “Combat runs have been marginally successful in Fourteen-Three, Seventy-Nine-Nine, Two-Hundred—”

“Stop.” Something behind a god’s eyes, something crawling and caustic. “They’re waiting for something before striking back. Secure our positions along the When—Ha!—Timestream and fortify the forward bases.”