Refraction

  ANGRY ROBOT

  An imprint of Watkins Media Ltd

  Unit 11, Shepperton House

  89 Shepperton Road

  London N1 3DF

  UK

  angryrobotbooks.com

  twitter.com/angryrobotbooks

  An Angry Robot paperback original, 2020

  Copyright © Christopher Hinz 2020

  Cover by Kieryn Tyler

  Edited by Robin Triggs and Paul Simpson

  Set in Meridien

  All rights reserved. Christopher Hinz asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work. A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  This novel is entirely a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Sales of this book without a front cover may be unauthorized. If this book is coverless, it may have been reported to the publisher as “unsold and destroyed” and neither the author nor the publisher may have received payment for it.

  Angry Robot and the Angry Robot icon are registered trademarks of Watkins Media Ltd.

  ISBN 978 0 85766 865 3

  Ebook ISBN 978 0 85766 866 0

  Printed and bound in the United Kingdom by TJ International.

  9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  To the stout of heart who face daily challenges: the shackles of

  disenfranchisement, the viral and the vitriolic.

  CONTENTS

  Part 1: The Kids

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Part 2: The Clerk

  Twenty

  Twenty-One

  Twenty-Two

  Twenty-Three

  Twenty-Four

  Twenty-Five

  Twenty-Six

  Twenty-Seven

  Twenty-Eight

  Twenty-Nine

  Thirty

  Thirty-One

  Thirty-Two

  Thirty-Three

  Thirty-Four

  Thirty-Five

  Thirty-Six

  Thirty-Seven

  Thirty-Eight

  Thirty-Nine

  Forty

  Forty-One

  Forty-Two

  Part 3: The Shroud

  Forty-Three

  Forty-Four

  Forty-Five

  Forty-Six

  Forty-Seven

  Forty-Eight

  Forty-Nine

  Fifty

  Fifty-One

  Fifty-Two

  Part 4: The Insider

  Fifty-Three

  Fifty-Four

  Fifty-Five

  Fifty-Six

  Part 5: The Train

  Fifty-Seven

  Fifty-Eight

  Fifty-Nine

  Sixty

  Sixty-One

  Sixty-Two

  Sixty-Three

  Sixty-Four

  Sixty-Five

  Sixty-Six

  Part 6: The Anomaly

  Sixty-Seven

  Sixty-Eight

  Sixty-Nine

  Seventy

  Seventy-One

  Seventy-Two

  Seventy-Three

  Seventy-Four

  Acknowledgments

  PART 1

  THE KIDS

  ONE

  Most days Henry Carpousis worried about something. Recurring anxieties included losing his job, getting mugged or contracting a flesh-eating disease. But, thirteen hundred miles from home on this warm April afternoon, he had a new concern.

  Running into a killer grizzly.

  The bears were active in this part of Montana’s Rockies according to a local they’d encountered at a convenience store.

  “Wouldn’t head into back country without a rifle,” the man had warned. “You’ll be sorry sons of bitches if you meet a grizzly havin’ a bad hair day.”

  Their guide, Greg Mahoney, insisted they carry no firearms. A retro hippie with ponytailed hair and bandanna, he got all weirded out if you even mentioned guns.

  “Almost there,” Greg said, checking coordinates on his GPS app. He pointed up the slope of the dry ravine they were traversing toward a clump of eighty-foot evergreens. “It should be just past those trees.”

  Thank God. Henry was winded by the exertion. He was fifty-five years old and more than a few pounds overweight. His friend Loren Childs, the third member of their group, also boasted a middle-aged gut. Greg was half their ages and in peak condition. He was one of those stalwart types, flush with wilderness savvy: just what city-breeds like Henry and Loren needed on such a trek. Still, Henry wished Greg had brought a rifle.

  They’d hiked miles from the campsite, far from help should trouble arise. Cell phone reception was nonexistent. Henry’s only weapon was bear spray. Back home in Milwaukee, he’d rigged his can of deterrent to a belt holster and spent hours practicing quick-draws.

  Loren bubbled with excitement. “Oh, man, can you believe it! We’re finally going to see ’em!”

  “Just hope we can get close enough,” Henry said, trying to concentrate on their quarry, the sole reason for risking a vacation week in grizzly-infested mountains.

  Greg selected the least intimidating path up the ravine. Even so, it was a steep climb: nearly forty-five degrees in spots. Henry was soon breathing hard and worrying he’d miss a foothold, tumble to the bottom and suffer a broken back.

  But he reached the top without incident and acknowledged a sense of conquest. The feeling didn’t last. The weathered sign nailed to a wiry pine ignited fresh concerns.

  RESTRICTED AREA WARNING

  DEPARTMENT OF DEFENSE TRANSPORT CORRIDOR

  NO TRESPASSING

  Smaller lettering listed sanctions facing violators, including arrest and prosecution under an array of federal statutes.

  “Maybe we should turn back.”

  Loren rolled his eyes, accustomed to Henry’s apprehensions.

  “Don’t worry,” Greg said. “Tau Nine-One is eight miles away. They won’t have electronic surveillance this far out. The sign is just meant to scare you.”

  Henry grimaced. It’s doing its job.

  Greg led them into prohibited territory. They emerged from the trees onto a ridge overlooking a narrow valley.

  “Stay low,” Greg warned, ducking behind a line of bushes flanking the edge. Henry and Loren followed suit.

  They were a couple hundred feet above the railroad that meandered along the valley floor. The single track emerged from a natural tunnel of Douglas firs and deciduous trees to their left and vaulted a wide stream on a rock-ballasted truss bridge, its angular framework pockmarked with rust. After crossing the stream, the track swept into a tight S-curve to avoid a series of rocky outcroppings then vanished back into dense forest.

  “Fantastic view,” Loren whispered.

  They’d chosen the location by studying Google Earth and US Geological Survey maps. What looked good from a distance often proved disappointing when actually on-site, but in this instance they’d nailed it.

  Loren set up his tripod and still camera and Henry did the same with his trusty Samsung camcorder. Still, he couldn’t allay the fear that they were too close.

  “What if someone spots us from the train?”

  “Stop being a wuss,” Loren snapped.
“We’re gonna nail some great shots. ROM will go crazy!”

  ROM was Railmasters of Milwaukee, their hometown club. Like many long-time members, Henry and Loren ventured far from their urban enclave in search of classic trains.

  Greg fluffed his backpack into a pillow and stretched out on the dry ground. “Siesta time for me, trainspotters. Wake me when the choo-choo shows.”

  Henry didn’t like the term trainspotters, which was often used to make fun of railfans. It was a bit unsettling being out here with someone not involved in the hobby. But Greg, a trucker whose route included the brewery where Henry and Loren worked, had made it clear that pristine Montana wilderness was the attraction, not documenting old locomotives.

  And Greg had proved invaluable. Henry and Loren originally had intended to contact the Department of Defense for permission to document the train. Greg had dissuaded them, warning that not only would such a request be denied, it could trigger a Homeland Security investigation.

  Tau Nine-One was a top-secret installation. Greg had even tapped some military acquaintances for info but had learned little about the facility.

  The winding sixteen-mile track connected Tau Nine-One with the small town of Churchton Summit to the south. The line was a surviving branch of a defunct carrier, the Milwaukee Road, built to reach early twentieth century gold and silver mines. Following the Milwaukee Road’s abandonment in 1977, the DOD had purchased the severed right-of-way and a set of vintage locomotives and passenger coaches.

  Henry was hungry. Even though he’d read that grizzlies could smell food up to eighteen miles away, he took a chance and opened a bag of peanuts.

  An hour passed. Greg popped awake and got to his feet as the unmistakable growl of a vintage diesel engine echoed through the woods. The sound emanated from their left. The train was coming from Tau Nine-One as expected, on its late-afternoon southward trek ferrying workers back to Churchton Summit. It ran two daily round trips seven days a week: an early morning run to the complex, usually in darkness, and this one.

  Henry double-checked the image in the Samsung’s viewfinder, adjusted the shotgun mike and hit the record button. He would shoot a panorama, documenting the train as it emerged from the trees and crossed the bridge. Loren would nail close-up stills with his zoom. Tomorrow they would get additional shots from public property near Churchton Summit’s enclosed, run-through passenger station. At next month’s ROM meeting they would have all the ingredients for a dynamite presentation.

  The roar of 1,500 horsepower diesel engines increased. Henry’s excitement grew, until he caught a flash of movement beyond the bridge. His first thought was that it was a grizzly. But a closer look identified it as a different sort of animal.

  A man, his camouflage attire blending him into the foliage. He held some sort of electronic device. If he was a railfan, he was certainly audacious. Henry never would have risked getting that close, even to record locomotive sounds.

  The man turned and stared straight up at them. Henry froze, heart pounding, certain they’d been spotted. Abruptly, the man sprinted toward the bridge pier on the north side of the stream and ducked out of sight under the span.

  The train slithering from the trees captured Henry’s attention. The back-to-back locomotives with streamlined contours were gorgeous: vintage F7s built by the EMD division of General Motors, circa 1949. Tapering noses gave them a regal look, an effect softened by their drab color, army brown. Two men, an engineer and conductor, were visible in the cab of the lead diesel. The second loco was a slave unit, unoccupied. Their flanks were devoid of lettering except for DODX beneath the cab windows, a common reporting mark for military trains.

  The locos pulled four passenger coaches in a similar shade of brown. Although the coaches were vintage pre-World War Two heavyweights with turtleback roofs, their windows had been retrofitted with modern shaded glass. It was impossible to see inside.

  The locos slowed as they passed over the stream and entered the tight S-curve. And then the train was gone, again enveloped by wilderness. Henry left the camcorder running to capture the retreating whine of the F7s. He was pleased. They’d gotten what they’d come for.

  “You’re trespassin’. This is restricted property.”

  The three of them whirled. A man wearing a backpack stood in the trees behind them, garbed in camo like the earlier watcher. A holstered pistol hung from his belt. Tall and lean, he had a pale complexion, short-cropped red hair and a thin mustache. He sounded Scottish, or at least the version of Scottish that Henry had grown up hearing on TV. But there was another accent in there as well, maybe something Eastern European.

  He wore a faint smile. Henry had the impression he was trying to contain amusement at having startled them.

  “We were just shooting the train,” Henry babbled. “We’re from Railmasters of Milwaukee.”

  “Sorry to hear that, mate. You carryin’ firearms?”

  Henry vigorously shook his head. “No sir, absolutely not!”

  The man whipped out the pistol and pointed it at them. “You’ll be comin’ with me.” He gestured toward the woods, motioning for them to walk in front.

  “What about our cameras?” Loren asked.

  “They’ll be confiscated.”

  Greg stood his ground. “Confiscated by whom?”

  “Special Security Service.”

  “I’d like to see some ID.”

  “Shut up and move your asses.”

  Greg took the lead, followed by Henry, Loren, and their captor. Henry felt sick. They were going to be arrested. Even if he evaded prison, he’d have a criminal record. The brewery would fire him. Without steady income, he’d go bankrupt, lose his apartment, and end up living in the gutter.

  Greg’s boot snared a vine. As he leaned over to untangle himself, Henry realized he’d faked the mishap in order to slip a hunting knife from an ankle sheath. Greg pocketed the knife and whispered in Henry’s ear. “This guy’s not right. There is no Special Security Service. Only US Marines guard Tau Nine-One. We may have to take him down.”

  Henry’s dread reached new heights. Take him down! Oh, God, this isn’t happening!

  “No talkin’,” the man barked. “Keep movin’.”

  They reached the top of the steep ravine. The man ordered them to turn around at the edge. He spoke into a small mike on the lapel of his jacket. Henry noticed he wore an ear bud. Considering the area’s lack of reception, it must be a radio rather than a phone.

  “Kokay, we’ve got a little problem. My location, on the double.”

  The man studied each of their faces before settling his attention on Henry. “OK, video man. You going to tell me what you chaps are really doing out here? And no rubbish about watchin’ trains.”

  “But it’s the truth,” Henry said. “I swear, that’s the only reason we’re here! Honest, we didn’t mean to trespass.”

  Loren nodded vigorously. The man turned his attention to Greg.

  “You don’t look the part, mate. Not an anorak?”

  “Anorak?”

  “Railway nerd.” The smile radiated no warmth.

  “He’s our guide,” Loren said.

  Henry struggled to remain calm and not give in to escalating fear. Loren looked more indignant than upset, probably concerned about their cameras being confiscated. Whatever Greg was feeling, he hid it well. His attention remained riveted on their captor.

  A second man, the one referred to as Kokay, emerged from the trees. He was the figure who’d ducked under the bridge. Dark-skinned and with the build of a linebacker, he had several electronic devices hanging from his belt. Henry had no idea what their function was.

  Kokay scowled. “Hell of a mess, Nobe. Whadda we do now?”

  The newcomer had a deep Southern drawl. The left side of his face didn’t move when he spoke, as if some of the muscles were paralyzed.

  “The Clerk will decide,” Nobe said. “Watch ’em.”

  Kokay drew his sidearm. Nobe retreated a few paces into the fores
t and got back on the radio. Henry couldn’t make out what he was saying.

  Nobe finished the call and returned. “The Clerk’s gonna send a shadow.”

  Kokay gazed uneasily into the surrounding woods, troubled by the impending arrival of the shadow. Whatever that was.

  Henry made another attempt at convincing their captors of innocent intentions. But Nobe wagged his finger, warning him to be silent. He clamped his mouth shut and waited.

  A few minutes later, the space between Nobe and Kokay darkened. A strange figure took shape, hovering several inches above the ground. It appeared to be a man in jeans and a pullover sweater. His face was hidden by what appeared to be a cheap version of a King Kong Halloween mask.

  Henry squinted, trying to wrap his head around what he was seeing. The ape-faced figure was partially translucent. Bits and pieces of the forested background occasionally became visible through his body. Was it some newfangled kind of hologram, a 3D image transmitted from a distant location?

  Nobe spoke to the mysterious figure over the radio. “Trainspotters. Wrong place at the wrong time.”

  Henry could see the man’s lips moving under the mask. Although he heard nothing, it was apparent the figure was responding through Nobe’s ear bud. Hearing only one side of the conversation elevated Henry’s fear.

  “I agree… Uh-huh, not a problem, we’re far enough from Tau… Consider it done.”

  The ominous dialogue ended. Nobe turned to Kokay and gestured to the electronic gear on his belt.

  “Get what you need?”

  Kokay nodded.

  “Take off. Encrypt everything and upload the data.”

  Kokay gave a wary glance at the spectral figure before sprinting into the trees. Nobe returned his attention to the three of them.

  “Well now, mates. We need a volunteer to get things off on the right foot. Any takers?”

  “Takers for what?” Loren demanded, planting hands on hips and glaring at Nobe. Henry had seen such behavior by his friend in the past. You could only push Loren so far before he became blustery and indignant.

  Nobe smiled. Then he lunged forward and landed a brutal kick to Loren’s midsection.

  One moment, Henry’s friend was by his side. An instant later he was flying backward off the ravine.