Tom Winters: The Dormition: The Tom Winters Trilogy, #3

By Ed Boulter-Comer

Complete the circle. Become your own fate.
Tom Winters is trapped in the future.
A future he doesn't recognise.
His annoying best friend Sorrell is there too and she shouldn't even be able to slip through time.
Lockwar has been defeated. The battle was won.
But is Tom more like his enemy than he thinks?
Tom Winters: The Dormition.
The climactic ending of the Tom Winters Trilogy.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ed Boulter-Comer
• Release date: May 21, 2018
• ISBN: 9781386691105

Book preview

TOM WINTERS: THE DORMITION

by

Ed Boulter-Comer

The Third Part of The Tom Winters Trilogy

For Dr W and DBMcD

who said ‘why not?’

Copyright © 2017 Ed Boulter-Comer

All Rights reserved

Praise for Tom Winters: The Dormition

Fantastic energy and theatricality…perfect

Carolyn Jess-Cooke - International award-winning novelist

Thought-provoking…excellent characters and stories. A shake up of our understanding [of] how the world might, could, should work.

Elizabeth Reeder - Award-winning writer and novelist

Praise for The Tom Winters Trilogy

Lively and downright hilarious

Carolyn Jess-Cooke  International award-winning novelist

A confident voice…lovely character dynamics…there’s plenty to keep us interested

Zoe Strachan - International award-winning novelist and playwright

Plunges the reader straight into the action

Carolyn Jess-Cooke - International award-winning novelist

Table of Contents

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

AUTHOR’S NOTE

Quia iam olim loquor vociferans iniquitatem et vastitatem clamito

et factus est mihi sermo Domini in obprobrium et in derisum tota die.

Whenever I speak, I howl out, crying violence and destruction.

And the word of the LORD has brought me insult and derision all day long.

Jeremiah 20:8

CHAPTER ONE

The Swan Guard

Slipping through time is like falling through a crystal. It slices you. It has sharp edges. You’re forced in straight lines, but at least at that point you can actually feel where your body is. Time is blue. It’s see-through and almost has a taste. Sort of coins from a coin jar and swimming pools. It’s chemical and afterwards your skin is washed with what feels like an acid burn. I don’t know what an acid burn feels like. It’s a guess. It always feels like I’m guessing when I come round from a time slip.

The sea is a sheet of dull bronze. Is it evening? It’s really hot. A chain of islands stretches into the distance. The sand beneath me is almost tropical. The thing is, this isn’t a beach. This is farmland in the middle of Somerset. At least it’s meant to be. In my time, it is. When the hell am I?

I sit up quickly. Sorrell is lying face down in the sand.

That’s new. I can only time-travel because the technology’s linked to my genetic code; to the Kontakion Gene. Sorrell’s a good friend and everything but we’re not related. How come she’s here?

Tom. Oh my god. My skin! What happened? She’s groggy.

We’re in Wells. This is the future. I dust the sand off my trousers.

Don’t be binary.

We’re in the future.

Oh my god. She stares out at the sea. I’m already going for the upturned cardboard box a short distance away from us. It’s got Toby’s seventeenth birthday cake in it. What’s left of it. We’re meant to be at his party right now. It’s why I’m wearing a tie. I’m done with time-travel; there’s literally no reason for us to be here. I’m getting the cake, grabbing Sorrell and going back home to my boyfriend’s party.

I wonder if they have cake-repair technology in the future, Sorrell says. She’s not taking this seriously enough.

We need to get home, I say. Now.

Sorrell sees them first. Little black dots skittering over the surface of the water, out amongst the islands. They’re moving fast.

What are they? she asks.

How the hell should I know? I’ve only ever time-travelled backwards. Ask me something about 1213AD.

They don’t look friendly.

Nothing looks friendly. I’m sort of used to this, suddenly being in a different version of my home town, but this is my first time in the future. Things are odd. Properly odd. I look across water. The islands are hills I know. The water covers valleys; houses, gardens with apple trees and paddling pools. The sun hammers back out against my eyes as I strain to see what’s coming towards us. What are they?

Let’s do this rationally. I look around for danger. No one else about. The Cathedral’s there, so we’re in the same place. Just the different time. But the Cathedral’s different, too. The three towers now have huge spires made of water and it looks like there are shoals of silver fish swimming about inside them. The future’s just as tacky as the past, then.

Sorrell seems okay. She already knows about time-travel and most of the tech I have from the future but even so. It’s her first time-slip. But it looks like she’s doing well. I hope.

They’re coming towards us, she says.

Get your bag.

What?

Get your bag. We have to leave now.

Sorrell steps backwards and picks up her rucksack. She keeps her eyes fixed on the black shapes the whole time.

What are they, Tom?

I don’t know.

They’re coming this way.

I know. We need to slip back.

I push the cake-box into her arms and get hold of the kyst stone that lets me slip.

Touch this at the same time as me. For, like, the second time in our lives, Sorrell doesn’t argue. We lock eyes as she presses her hand against mine, trapping the stone between us. Nothing happens.

Why isn’t it working? She’s starting to panic.

I don’t know.

I use my disrupter and kyst stone to time-travel every week. It’s easy. I just slip to the right moment. Pinpoint every time. What’s going on?

What do you normally do? she asks.

I don’t know. I just go to the right time in the past. Then to come back I think about, I don’t know, coming back.

Coming back home?

Normally I just think about seeing Toby or something.

Oh, brilliant. She wrinkles her nose.

What?

He’s not exactly my favourite person, is he?

For god’s sake. Concentrate.

Why couldn’t you fall in love with a feminist?

The black shapes are really near. Sorrell realises, turns round and screws her eyes shut as she tries to think.

Toby. Toby. Toby, she chants.

It’s no good. Nothing’s happening.

The spheres swarm towards us across the water. They draw themselves together as they get close, pulling into the shape of a person, flying over the low waves.

Run. I tell her. I power off the sand towards the Bishop’s Palace.

You two. Freeze!

The sound of her voice is deafening. Metallic. I turn in time to see Sorrell stumble. The cakebox hits the sand again. The black spheres swarm together and take the shape of a woman. She looks military. Or police or something but she’s hanging in the air. It takes me a moment to realise she’s not actually here. The shapes have made some sort of screen of her silhouette. Her face and body are shining out of them.

Freeze!

A pale stream of light hits out from the black shapes and smacks into Sorrell, forcing her back into the sand. Screens can’t do that.

And you!

Whatever that light is, it hurts. I know what it feels like to be dragged through time without shielding. I know what it’s like having every atom of my body fly apart. This is worse. It feels like earache and travel-sickness in every cell, all at once. Especially in my bones. I try to move but I can’t even talk. I’m sort of ground up against the moat wall of the Bishop’s Palace and the path. I can see Sorrell. She can’t talk either. But her face is striped with tears.

You are under arrest for electronic vagrancy. Now, I haven’t said this in a few years. Name?

The policewoman-shape flicks her hand. Something happens to Sorrell and she cries out.

Stop making a fuss. It’s only a halt-glow. You never been arrested before? I’ve freed your face. Now. Name?

Susanna.

What? Sorrell looks up at me. Her face is still covered in tears but she’s ready for a fight.

My name is Susanna Karné and I wish to talk to your superior immediately.

Something happens again, as the policewoman swipes her hand. I don’t think Sorrell can talk. The black shapes split in two and an older policewoman comes into focus, hovering over the sea, next to the first.

Gov, the younger woman says. This one wants to speak with you.

Looks like she’s got a halt-glow on, Over-Sergeant.

She has, ma’am.

Not going to be able to do much talking then, is she?

No ma’am.

Shame. The second policewoman turns and disappears. The shapes pile back into the projection of the first.

And you. By the wall. Name? She waves her hand again and the pain drains away from my head. I can speak.

Tom.

Tom?

Yes.

Nothing else?

No. Just Tom.

Right you are. I’m bringing you both in. She makes some gestures with her hands. Might hurt a bit. I’m working at a distance.

The pain is incredible. I judder up from the path and start to float towards the shore and Sorrell. She’s in the air, too. So is her bag. Even the battered cakebox. I can tell this is hurting her, maybe even more than me. At least I know how to take a hit from playing rugby. And fighting in a medieval battle. I’m still a bit sweaty from the most recent one, actually, and I’m so not letting the future get the better of me. I’m getting us home.

I try to turn my disrupter on. I visualise it in my pocket. The dull silver shine. The criss-cross of straight lines on its surface. I only have to think of black and it lets me pull every molecule of my body apart like a cloud. That’s easily enough to get out of this.

No.

I can think of the word black but that’s it. No images come. The disrupter stays off. I still can’t move. Oh, Christ. I’m the reason Sorrell’s trapped in the future and I can’t save her. This is my fault.

We’re shifting towards the water. Is she floating us out across the sea? I drop sharply about a metre in the air. It hurts even more and now I’m upside down. I can’t see Sorrell.

Sorry about that, calls out the policewoman. Wonky connection at our end. I’ll try not to put you in the water. It looks like she’s concentrating. Have you synced swimming? I can’t read your files; you’re not hooked up to the grid. ‘Spose that’s why I’m arresting you, she laughs.

The sun is blinding on the water. I’ve got no control which way I hover and I can’t work out where Sorrell is. I can’t even hear if she’s okay. Part of me knows she’s not.

The shape of the policewoman follows us slowly. She’s enjoying this. Then she isn’t. There’s something wrong. Not with the arrest glow or whatever’s holding us in the sky. Something wrong that only she can see.

In a blast of white, a swan bursts through the policewoman’s chest. The black spheres from her torso scatter then reform. The halt-glow only holds us in the air for a second before Sorrell and I plummet to the soft sand. We scramble up towards the path. I’ve got her bag, Sorrell holds onto the box.

A second swan smashes into the group of spheres, honking and thrashing with its wings. It scatters them as the first swan comes in for another attack. The two of them smash into the policewoman’s shape over and over again. They hold back each time, waiting for her to reform and just as she does, another huge crash of wings scatters her image.

Are you musicians, then?

It’s a man’s voice. Loud. Behind us. Really strongly Somerset-y.

What? I shout at him.

Are you the musicians?

As a matter of fact, we are, Sorrell recovers.

Get on that path and hold on the wall. He’s wearing a robe. Like a medieval robe from the Cathedral. We’re meant to be in the future. The swans pull back and the shape of the policewoman reforms in the air.

You’re interfering with an arrest. What’s your authority? She’s angry.

You’ve got no jurisdiction. They’re touching the Moat Wall. Sorrell isn’t and slams her free hand against the stones. She never does what she’s told when she’s meant to.

I’m Over-Sergeant of the West. The policewoman shouts. This is the West, so yeah. I do have jurisdiction, actually.

Wells is a designated thinking space, isn’t it? I’m Swan Guard of Wells and I am defending a legitimate thinking space from invasion by them telespheres. He’s completely aggressive.

I’m using telespheres to arrest two suspects in my jurisdiction. You do realise neither of them are synced up to any system I can find? They could be dangerous.

They’re musicians.

Musicians? All musicians are synced. Have been for years.

Not these. They come from a licenced non-synced teaching group up in Orkney.

Bloody hippies. She looks furious. I’m sick of this festival. Bringing all sorts into the area. Fine. I’m not doing them for electronic vagrancy. I’m doing her for carb-violations.

Doing me for what? For god’s sake, Sorrell. Don’t get involved.

Scan that box. What is that? Six? Seven thousand calories? And all in the same meal.

It’s a cake. Sorrell, please, back down.

A what?

A birthday cake. For a friend. I’m not going to eat it all myself. I’m not binary.

A cake? What’s a cake? the Over-Sergeant booms. You’re in possession of a huge amount of refined sugar, much too much for personal use, and now you’re admitting you intend to supply it to your friends. I can get you for that, too. Pre-meditated.

The Swan Guard is having none of it.

If you wanna arrest them, you’re going to have to come here for yourself, not use them drones.

A telesphere is not a drone! She actually sounds hurt.

Telesphere, drone. Pretty much the same to a swan. Now I suggest you go find summat else to do. These two are seeing Mrs Toombs.

Mrs Toombs? The policewoman looks worried. She swipes her hands serval times and it looks like she’s reading something on a screen I can’t see. You don’t have to mention this to Mrs Toombs. I’ll erase this search. From the… she flicks her hands again in panic. From the. There. It’s gone. There’s no need to mention this. Sorry. Didn’t realise it was musicians for Mrs Toombs.

What’s your name, officer? The Swan Guard threatens.

"Sometimes, I’m glad you hippies aren’t synced up. My name is mind your own business." And with that the spheres fall silent and start to flick back out to sea. The two swans flap after them lazily for a few beats, then swoop back and slide onto the Moat.

Come on.

Sorrell dithers with the cakebox. She begins to open it and the lid yawns with melting fudge and disappointment.

Just leave it, I tell her. She dumps it half on the path, half on the sand and licks her thumb.

The Swan Guard sets off round the Moat. The swans keep pace alongside in the water. Sorrell and I follow.

Apologies for not meeting you. No information about your travel plans. We thought you might’ve been taken in that explosion on the road, yesterday. Bloody Syncist Terrorists. You realise it’s not safe to travel through the West without being synced up?

Yeah, I reply.

Why is that? Sorrell lumps in. She doesn’t know how to manage herself in another time. How to keep safe, avoid attention. Keep her mouth shut.

Could be arrested for electronic vagrancy outside of Wells, couldn’t you? The authority of the Little Enlightenment only reaches so far.

I’m a bit of a scatter brain, she says. I tend to forget.

Drawback of being non-synced, the Swan Guard offers. I’d stay synced if I could. Have to turn it off for the job. But I miss it. It’s a bit lonely being in your head on your own, in’t it?

Oh, I don’t know. I’m fantastic company, Sorrell offers.

I can see you are Mx...?

Mix what?

Your name.

Susanna Karné.

Nice to meet you Mx Karné.

I’m Tom. Tom Winters.

Mx Winters. The Guard’s leading us round the Moat towards the Market Place. Well, at least it’s called the Market Place when I know it, though the buildings are pretty much the same just here. Maybe this is a conservation zone or something.

And do you have a name, Mr Swan Guard? Sorrell asks.

’Scuse me?

A name...? Sorrell tries to back off.

We don’t know each other well enough for that level of informality, young Mx. I don’t know how things are in Orkney but this be a civilised society. We don’t just blurt out gender. Wait ‘til you’re asked.

Sorry, Mx Guard. Sorrell, Susanna, just gets it wrong. All of the time. I try to stare Sorrell down. I suppose it’s not really her fault. He does have a beard.

My name’s Woźniak.

"Delighted