What the Jumps Take

Caspian woke to the taste of copper and the sound of his own pulse in his ears.

He was on the floor of his intake quarters, one cheek pressed against the cold tile, his fingers curled into the edge of the desk as if he’d been trying to pull himself up when the blackout hit. The jump marker on his wrist was dark—no countdown, no destination, just the faint green glow of the Bureau’s temporal signature fading like a bruise.

He didn’t remember lying down.

He didn’t remember the last forty-three minutes.

The gap was a clean slice, like someone had taken a scalpel to his memory and lifted out a perfect rectangle of time. He could feel the edges of it, raw and tender, where his mind had tried to stitch itself back together. There was no pain, not really—just the absence, the way a missing tooth leaves a space that your tongue keeps finding.

He sat up slowly, his ribs protesting. The room was dim, the only light coming from the terminal on his desk, its screen casting a pale blue glow over the scattered papers. The list of committee names was still there, the folded card from Ypres beside it. The archival division’s flagged message was gone—deleted, but not forgotten.

He checked his wrist again. The jump marker was inert. No mission. No countdown.

Just the gap.

Caspian stood, his legs unsteady. The Bureau’s medical bay was two floors down, past the windowless corridors and the locked doors that only opened for the right clearance. He didn’t have an appointment. He didn’t need one.

The halls were quiet at this hour, the overhead lights dimmed to a dull amber. The Bureau never slept, but it did pretend to, the way a predator feigns stillness before the strike. Caspian moved quickly, his boots silent against the polished floor. He didn’t see anyone until he reached the medical bay’s outer door.

Rumo was already there, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed. He looked like he’d been waiting.

Caspian stopped. “You’re not my handler right now.”

Rumo didn’t move. “No. But you’re still my responsibility.”

Caspian exhaled. “I don’t need a babysitter.”

“Good. Because I’m not here to babysit.” Rumo pushed off the wall. “I’m here because you just lost forty-three minutes and didn’t report it.”

Caspian didn’t answer. He didn’t have to. Rumo already knew.

The medical bay was a single room, sterile and bright, the kind of place that smelled like antiseptic and bad news. A technician Caspian didn’t recognize was adjusting a monitor at the far end. She glanced up when they entered, her expression neutral.

“He’s here for the jump degradation,” Rumo said.

The technician nodded. “Sit.”

Caspian sat. The chair was cold, the metal biting into his skin. The technician attached a sensor to his temple, the adhesive pulling at his hair. The monitor beeped once, then settled into a steady rhythm.

“You’ve jumped three times in the last seventy-two hours,” the technician said. “That’s above the recommended frequency for your clearance level.”

Caspian didn’t look at her. “I’m aware.”

“Cumulative degradation is a known side effect of temporal displacement.” She tapped the monitor. “Memory gaps, disorientation, peripheral detail loss. The more you jump, the worse it gets.”

Caspian’s fingers twitched against his thigh. “I know the theory.”

The technician’s gaze flicked to Rumo, then back to Caspian. “Theory’s not the same as experience.”

Caspian didn’t answer. The gap was experience enough.

The technician ran a second scan, her fingers moving over the monitor’s controls with practiced efficiency. The machine hummed, the sound low and steady. Caspian watched the numbers scroll across the screen. The degradation wasn’t linear. It was exponential. The next gap would be longer. The one after that, longer still.

“You’re being placed on a reduced jump schedule,” the technician said. “No missions for seventy-two hours. Mandatory rest period.”

Caspian’s jaw tightened. “That’s not your call.”

“It’s medical protocol.” She detached the sensor, the adhesive pulling at his skin. “You can take it up with Director Ansel if you want, but I wouldn’t recommend it.”

Caspian stood. The room tilted for a second, then steadied. “Fine.”

Rumo didn’t move. “You good?”

Caspian didn’t look at him. “I’m fine.”

Rumo exhaled, the sound sharp. “You’re not.”

Caspian ignored him. He turned toward the door, his boots clicking against the tile. The gap was still there, a hollow space in his mind where forty-three minutes should have been. He could feel it, pressing against the edges of his thoughts like a bruise.

Rumo followed him out. “You’re not going to tell me what you were doing when it happened?”

Caspian didn’t answer. He didn’t know.

They walked in silence, the halls stretching out ahead of them, the overhead lights casting long shadows. Caspian’s quarters were on the third floor, past the locked doors and the security checkpoints. He didn’t speak until they reached his door.

“You don’t have to stay,” he said.

Rumo leaned against the wall, his arms crossed. “I know.”

Caspian hesitated. Then he pushed the door open.

His desk was exactly as he’d left it—the list of committee names, the folded card, the terminal humming softly in the dark. He sat down, his fingers brushing the edge of the card. The paper was worn smooth, the ink faded. He didn’t need to look at it. He knew what it said.

Rumo stood in the doorway, his expression unreadable. “You’re not going to tell me what you’re planning.”

Caspian didn’t look up. “No.”

Rumo exhaled. “You’re going to get yourself killed.”

Caspian’s fingers stilled. “Probably.”

Rumo was quiet for a long moment. Then he stepped into the room, closing the door behind him. “You ever think about what happens if you’re wrong?”

Caspian didn’t answer. He’d already run the numbers. The probability of being wrong was high. The probability of being right was higher.

And the cost of being right was something he wasn’t sure he could pay.

Rumo sat on the edge of the desk, the wood creaking under his weight. “You ever think about running?”

Caspian looked up. “Where?”

“Anywhere.” Rumo’s gaze was steady. “You’re seventeen. You could disappear. The Bureau would look for you, but they’d give up eventually. You could have a life.”

Caspian’s fingers curled around the folded card. “I’ve seen my life. It ends in Sarajevo.”

Rumo didn’t flinch. “That’s one version.”

Caspian didn’t answer. He’d seen the other versions too. The ones where his mother was still alive. The ones where the Bureau didn’t want him dead. The ones where the Compact’s logic didn’t make a kind of terrible sense.

Those versions were gone now. Closed off, like a door slamming shut.

Rumo stood. “You’re not the only one who’s lost something.”

Caspian didn’t look at him. “I know.”

Rumo hesitated. Then he turned toward the door. “Get some sleep. You look like hell.”

Caspian didn’t answer. He waited until the door closed behind Rumo, the lock clicking into place. Then he pulled out a fresh sheet of paper and began writing.

Project Forty: Degradation Log
Gap duration: 43 minutes. No mission active. No countdown. No destination.
Symptoms: Disorientation, peripheral detail loss, memory gap. No pain. No physical trauma.
Probability of recurrence: High.

He set the pen down. The list of committee names was still there, the six names staring up at him like an accusation. Four known. Two unknown. Ansel’s name wasn’t on the list. Rumo’s name wasn’t on the list.

That was almost worse.

His terminal chimed. A new message, this one from the mission queue.

Destination: Geneva, 1919. Objective: Retrieve Compact communication ledger from neutral archive. Authorization code: 011519-SHAD-317. Duration: 48 hours.

The same committee identifier. The same kill order.

He closed the message. Then he pulled out the folded card from Ypres and set it on the desk next to the list of names.

The committee was real. The kill order was real. The cost was real.

And he was still alive.

For now.

The next morning, Caspian woke to the sound of his terminal chiming. He sat up slowly, his ribs aching. The gap was still there, a hollow space in his mind where forty-three minutes should have been. He could feel it, pressing against the edges of his thoughts like a bruise.

The message was from Ansel.

Director’s office. 0900. Mandatory.

He checked the time. 0847.

He stood, his legs unsteady. The Bureau’s halls were quieter in the morning, the overhead lights bright and sterile. Ansel’s office was on the fourth floor, past the security checkpoints and the locked doors. He didn’t see anyone until he reached the outer office.

Rumo was already there, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed. He looked like he hadn’t slept.

Caspian stopped. “What are you doing here?”

Rumo didn’t move. “Same as you.”

Caspian exhaled. “Ansel didn’t call you.”

“No.” Rumo’s gaze was steady. “But I’m here anyway.”

Caspian didn’t answer. Rumo already knew.

Ansel’s assistant glanced up from her terminal. “She’s ready for you.”

Caspian pushed the door open.

Ansel was sitting behind her desk, her expression unreadable. She didn’t look up when they entered. “Sit.”

Caspian sat. Rumo remained standing, his arms crossed.

Ansel set a file on the desk. “Your medical report.”

Caspian didn’t touch it. “I’m aware of the findings.”

Ansel’s gaze flicked to Rumo, then back to Caspian. “You’re being placed on a reduced jump schedule. No missions for seventy-two hours.”

Caspian’s jaw tightened. “I don’t need a babysitter.”

Ansel’s expression didn’t change. “This isn’t a negotiation.”

Caspian didn’t answer. The math was getting harder. Every jump cost him something—memory, time, a version of his mother he’d never meet again. Every discovery put someone else in the crosshairs. Rumo. Ida. Even Ansel, if she was telling the truth.

Ansel leaned forward. “You’re a valuable asset, Caspian. But you’re not irreplaceable.”

Caspian’s fingers twitched against his thigh. “I know.”

Ansel exhaled. “Then act like it.”

Caspian didn’t answer. He’d already run the numbers. The probability of being wrong was high. The probability of being right was higher.

And the cost of being right was something he wasn’t sure he could pay.

Ansel stood. “You’re dismissed.”

Caspian didn’t move. “What about the mission queue?”

Ansel’s gaze was steady. “It’s been adjusted.”

Caspian’s fingers curled into his palm. “Adjusted how?”

Ansel didn’t answer. She didn’t have to. The mission to Geneva was still there. The authorization code was still the same.

The kill order was still real.

Caspian stood. Rumo followed him out, the door closing behind them with a soft click.

The halls were quieter now, the overhead lights casting long shadows. Caspian didn’t speak until they reached the stairwell.

“She knows,” he said.

Rumo didn’t look at him. “About what?”

“About the committee. About the kill order.” Caspian’s fingers twitched against his thigh. “She’s not on the list, but she knows.”

Rumo exhaled. “Or she’s running the committee through cutouts.”

Caspian didn’t answer. He’d already considered that possibility. The math was getting harder. Every variable was a risk. Every unknown was a threat.

Rumo stopped at the bottom of the stairs. “You ever think about what happens if you’re wrong?”

Caspian looked at him. “I’m not.”

Rumo’s expression didn’t change. “You don’t know that.”

Caspian didn’t answer. He’d seen the other versions. The ones where his mother was still alive. The ones where the Bureau didn’t want him dead. The ones where the Compact’s logic didn’t make a kind of terrible sense.

Those versions were gone now. Closed off, like a door slamming shut.

Rumo exhaled. “You’re not the only one who’s lost something.”

Caspian didn’t look at him. “I know.”

Rumo hesitated. Then he turned toward the hall. “Get some sleep. You look like hell.”

Caspian didn’t answer. He waited until Rumo was gone, the sound of his boots fading into the quiet. Then he returned to his quarters, the folded card from Ypres still heavy in his pocket.

The committee was real. The kill order was real. The cost was real.

And he was still alive.

For now.

That afternoon, Caspian sat at his desk, the terminal humming softly in the dim light. The list of committee names was still there, the six names staring up at him like an accusation. Four known. Two unknown. Ansel’s name wasn’t on the list. Rumo’s name wasn’t on the list.

That was almost worse.

His terminal chimed. A new message, this one from the archival division.

Retrieval log anomaly confirmed. File #47-B accessed by unauthorized personnel. Review pending.

Caspian stared at the screen. Someone had flagged his retrieval. Someone who knew what he was looking for.

He deleted the message. Then he pulled out a fresh sheet of paper and began writing.

Project Forty: Timeline Variants
Variant 1: Nela Vael survives. Timeline closed by Sarajevo deviation.
Variant 2: Bureau does not authorize kill order. Timeline closed by committee intervention.
Variant 3: Compact logic is correct. Timeline closed by 1923 consolidation event.

He set the pen down. The list was short. Too short. Every jump closed a door, every discovery narrowed the field. The math was getting harder. The cost was getting higher.

His terminal chimed again. A new message, this one from the mission queue.

Destination: Geneva, 1919. Objective: Retrieve Compact communication ledger from neutral archive. Authorization code: 011519-SHAD-317. Duration: 48 hours.

The same committee identifier. The same kill order.

He closed the message. Then he pulled out the folded card from Ypres and set it on the desk next to the list of names.

The mission was in sixteen hours. The authorization code was the same. The kill order was real.

He didn’t sleep.