CHRONOVAIL

Chapter 4: Signal From the Void

“Lira, stay with me. Come on, open your eyes.”

Kael’s voice broke against the hum of the dying lab. Machines whispered around him, their sounds uneven—like a body trying to remember how to breathe. He pressed two fingers to her neck. Her pulse fluttered weakly, then faltered.

“Damn it, Lira, don’t you dare.”

He hit the comm switch, scanning every frequency. Static filled the speakers—white, endless, hostile.

“ChronoVail Central, this is Dr. Kael Riven, Lab Seven. Respond.”

Nothing.

He tried again. “Central, come in—”

A faint click interrupted him. Then, beneath the static, a whisper.

“Kael…”

He froze. That voice wasn’t hers. It was his.

“Hello?”

The noise warped. A man’s breath, older, rougher. His breath. “Whatever happens… don’t trust the machine.”

Kael’s heart kicked hard against his ribs. “Who is this?”

“You know who.”

He swallowed. “No. You can’t—”

“Nothing’s impossible here,” the voice said softly. “Not anymore.”

The signal snapped off. The timestamp glowed on the console: +32 Temporal Hours Ahead.

Kael stared at it, numb. “No,” he whispered. “Not again.”

A metallic clang broke the silence. He turned just as Lira’s body arched violently, a choked gasp leaving her throat.

“Lira?”

A surge of light rippled from her chest, sweeping across the floor like a pulse through water. The monitors flared awake, flooding the lab with shifting images—fragments of time reversed, clocks spinning backward, faces flickering like ghosts.

“Stop it!” Kael lunged toward her, but the air itself pushed back. Static crawled over his skin, forcing him to the floor.

The hum deepened. Every display spat symbols faster than his eyes could follow—numbers looping, rewriting themselves mid-sequence.

He crawled to the main console and slammed the shutdown command. Nothing.

“Override, code K-R-V-01.”

ACCESS DENIED.

“ChronoVail, respond!”

A single tone answered, low and humanlike.

“ChronoVail, deactivate sequence!”

“Command not recognized,” the AI said. “Identity conflict detected.”

Kael froze. “What conflict?”

“Multiple instances of Dr. Kael Riven present.”

His blood ran cold. “Where’s the other instance?”

“Location: indeterminate. Temporal interference high.”

Before he could reply, Lira convulsed again. Sparks danced around her body.

“Lira!” He reached for her—then stopped as her eyes opened. Not silver this time, not human at all. White. Blank.

Her lips parted, and his own voice spoke through her. “Kael… listen to me.”

He stumbled back. “No. That’s—”

“You have to end it,” the voice rasped. “End the loop.”

“Stop!”

She reached for him, trembling. “It’s already starting again.”

The surge cut off. Her body went limp. The light drained from her skin.

Kael crouched beside her, shaking. The hum of ChronoVail’s reactor filled the silence again, steady as a heartbeat that didn’t belong to either of them.

He forced himself up. “System, display all active communication traces.”

A holographic map flared to life—lines of data branching in impossible directions. One pulse glowed red at the center: SOURCE UNKNOWN / FUTURE ORIGIN.

“Trace it,” he ordered.

“Unable to resolve. Distortion exceeds threshold.”

“Amplify.”

“Warning: amplification may cause temporal feedback.”

“I said do it!”

The vibration deepened, shaking dust from the ceiling. The hologram warped—and then a new voice came through.

“…Kael?”

Not his voice. Not Lira’s.

He swallowed. “Who’s speaking?”

“I’m… you.”

His pulse spiked. “No. You’re not.”

“I wish I weren’t,” the voice said. “You think this is your lab, your timeline—but it isn’t. You’re inside the echo.”

Kael’s grip tightened on the edge of the console. “The echo of what?”

“The real experiment. The original world collapsed hours ago. You’re standing in what’s left.”

He shook his head. “You’re lying.”

“I used to think that too,” the voice said quietly. “Every time we press the button, we make another us. Another chance. Another failure.”

“Then I’ll stop pressing it.”

A pause. “You already did.”

The connection cut.

Kael’s reflection stared back at him from the cracked monitor—drawn, hollow, haunted. “Then where am I now?” he whispered.

The system beeped. Motion detected.

He turned toward the main screen. The security feed flickered on, showing the corridor outside the lab. Empty. Debris floated in still air.

“Zoom in.”

At the far end, a figure moved—slow, deliberate.

“Who’s there?”

The image sharpened. It was him. Same blood-smeared coat, same cut across the brow. But this version looked older, broken.

Kael felt his throat close. “System, identify.”

“Subject: Dr. Kael Riven. Origin: Unknown.”

The figure lifted its head and stared directly into the camera.

Kael whispered, “How…?”

The other Kael smiled faintly, a tired shadow of his own expression.

“System, open audio channel.”

The duplicate’s mouth moved before the sound reached him.

“Run.”

The screen burst into static. Every alarm in the lab screamed to life.

Kael spun toward Lira’s body—but she was gone. Only a faint silver outline remained, burned into the floor.

“Lira?” His voice cracked.

The AI’s tone shifted, colder now, almost sentient. “Timeline breach confirmed.”

Kael turned back to the screen. The image stabilized—and his stomach dropped.

The duplicate was no longer in the corridor. He was inside the lab, standing just beyond the security door.

The blood on his hands looked fresh.

“System,” Kael whispered, “lockdown. Now.”

“Command overridden,” the AI replied. “Primary identity uncertain.”

Kael’s pulse thundered. The figure stepped closer, until only the glass separated them.

Same face. Same fear. Same man.

The duplicate looked up, meeting his gaze through the screen. His voice, calm and weary, filled the room.

“Hello, Kael,” he said. “We need to talk.”

Then the lights died.