Livia remembered something she’d read at university about how it would be possible to dress up a Cro Magnon man in a suit, and he would be indistinguishable from a modern person. Why she had thought medieval people might look a bit different she didn’t know, but William, in his charcoal-gray suit with a subdued black sling for his arm, was any young woman’s dream date. David was only twenty-five, but he seemed to attract a slightly older set.
William was also an example of a lesson Livia had learned the hard way, growing up as she had in a household in which non-native English people were resented: that just because someone needed help didn’t make them either helpless or not worth helping. Thinking back to her interactions with Anna two weeks ago, Livia was relieved to recall that she had treated Anna with respect, but as with people who didn’t speak English, it was difficult sometimes to remember that Anna’s ignorance of current technology and events didn’t mean she didn’t know other things.
With a sidelong glance at Michael, Livia guessed that, given his background, he’d learned that lesson too, at a far earlier age. She’d read his file. While Michael was concerned that Chad’s organization hadn’t properly vetted everyone who was currently in this warehouse, Five had done its job with him.
Owain launched into a series of questions about David’s family. He particularly wanted to hear the story of how David and Lili had met and married. These were easy questions for David to answer, and both David on his couch and Amelia beside Livia appeared to be feeling more confident.
Then Owain said, “So, if I understand correctly, you were last here during the bombing of Caernarfon Castle.”
“Yes.”
Owain motioned towards a large screen set up behind him. “We’ll get to that later, since we’re getting ahead of ourselves. Let me just say, for our audience, that you claim to be the King of England in an alternate universe. Do I have that right?”
David canted his head. “It isn’t something I claim to be. I am the King of England in an alternate universe.”
Amelia had been firm on this point, and Livia nearly laughed at the look of consternation that crossed Owain’s face. Then he mustered a smile, and his expression turned calculating.
“Uh oh,” Livia said.
“Why?” Michael said. “I thought that was what he was supposed to say?”
“He was,” Chad said. “He needed to say just what he said, but it’s going to be trouble.”
Amelia, who was standing with her hands clasped before her lips, looking pensive, nodded.
Michael shifted from one foot to the other and folded his arms across his chest. Livia didn’t know if he intended to look intimidating, but he was glaring at Owain, and folding his arms had the effect of bulging the muscles in his biceps, threatening to split his new suit.
While Owain was turned away and didn’t notice—and might have been happy if he had noticed—David’s couch was positioned so he faced them. Livia nudged Michael, who glanced at her. She mouthed the word relax and tipped her head in David’s direction. Fortunately, David at that moment had been looking at Amelia, who smiled at him. Belatedly, Michael gave David a thumbs-up sign.
Then Owain showed the clip of David’s arrival at Beaumaris. “You seem to appear out of nowhere.”
“Yes.”
Owain waited a beat, and Livia had to stifle a laugh that David wasn’t endeavoring to be more helpful.
To the surprise of none of them, Owain’s next question was deliberately antagonistic: “I’m sure our viewers are wanting to know if you and this alternate world pose a threat to those of us in this world. How do you respond to that?”
“I would hope it doesn’t. I have worked with scientists over the years in both the private and public sector in hopes of finding the truth. We have no evidence that it is doing damage.”
“But none that it isn’t.”
“It isn’t. You can’t prove a negative,” Chad said, under his breath. “You’re an idiot.”
But Livia knew the question was one—or soon would be one—that more people would be asking. Amanda Crichton, MI-5’s head of Internal Affairs, had put forth the very same idea in the middle of the high-level meeting at Thames House on Friday. The problem was that it wasn’t just David time traveling. It was his whole family. Even David’s son Arthur had done it. Likely Anna’s two boys and Meg’s twins could as well. Now that the CIA had shared its information—or most of it—with Five, and the Time Travel Initiative was being reconstructed, the dossier on David and his family took up an entire server.
That Amanda had been fired before the end of the meeting didn’t change the fact that she’d asked the question. With three generations of British people having been teethed on Dr. Who, a fact pointed out by a fellow director, Grant Dempsey, it wouldn’t be long before it would be unusual not to worry about the damage David’s world shifting was doing to the fabric of reality.
But, to everyone’s relief, the moment of contention passed and ultimately concluded with Owain conceding that David was actually the King of England. Everyone in the wings thought that was a significant victory until Owain said, “Have you killed people?”
Livia felt the sudden fire rise in Michael at the question. He started forward, but he managed only a single step before Livia caught his arm, as did Chad and Amelia, and together the three of them hauled him back.
Chad gripped Michael’s arm. “It’s okay. Let David handle it.”
Livia could see Michael struggling to contain his emotions. She had never been a soldier herself, but MI-5 was full of ex-soldiers, she’d been in the field, and she’d spent time on a military base. The question Owain had asked was one of the greatest barriers to reacclimating to civilian life. Michael, like David, had killed for his country. It was in his bones and always would be, and, from Michael’s dossier, it had taken him two years of therapy, which hadn’t been his cup of tea at all, to realize it didn’t define who he was. She was pretty sure she was never going to tell him Five had acquired his medical records, and she had read them.
He was hardly the first former military person to struggle since returning home, and she recalled an offhand comment David had made that very morning about how every single one of his confidants and friends in Earth Two had one form of PTSD or another. How could they not? had been Livia’s response.
But, as Livia’s own counselor had told her after the dreadful fiasco that had been her previous assignment in the Balkans, one didn’t have to let trauma define oneself. That was the essence of what David was objecting to now about Owain’s question, canting his head and pausing long enough to let everyone know he didn’t approve.
“The answer, of course, is yes, though I wonder at your decision to ask me that. The fact that I’ve fought in battle puts me apart, doesn’t it? I’m outside polite company. It’s one of the reasons soldiers don’t talk about their experiences in war except with each other.”
David’s answer had Michael subsiding completely, though his arms were again folded rigidly across his chest. David glanced in their direction again, for approval and support, Livia thought. All five of them responded with an encouraging nod, which prompted a wisp of a grin from David.
Then he looked at his audience. A few people had gasped at Owain’s question, moving firmly to David’s point of view if they hadn’t been there already. All of a sudden, David stood abruptly and walked to the edge of the stage.
The movement had Amelia gasping slightly, and Chad said dryly. “You’re the one who told him to improvise.”
“I know. I know.”
Now it was Livia’s turn to shush them so she could listen to David talk about his vision for the universe. When he had the entire audience in the palm of his hand, including Owain Williams, David gestured towards the wings, and William stepped forward in response to what to him must have been a command. As David had done, he walked across the stage calmly, raising a hand to the audience and smiling. Livia had been among the people earlier with whom William had practiced sh
aking hands in what David called a ‘manly’ fashion—firmly without squeezing or a contest of wills, gripping with the full hand, rather than limply with just fingers.
Livia had been happy to defy William’s expectations about what handshaking was. In his world, men did it. Women were bowed to—or likely ignored, since he was a member of the nobility.
William shook hands with Owain and then with David, though with him it was the medieval way, gripping each other’s forearms. And then for the next ten minutes, David and William posed before the audience, still shaking hands and grinning, allowing people to take picture after picture of them. It went on too long, but nobody appeared tired of either the pictures or the applause. David’s eyes strayed towards the wings, and Livia could see the desperation there, but she couldn’t help him. Instead, she smiled and applauded with the rest.
Chad, however, when Livia turned to him to ask what was supposed to happen next, was focused on the rafters, and his lips were pursed. Livia looked too, but the lights were so blinding, she couldn’t see anything beyond them. Chad made a gesture with one hand, which Livia interpreted as a signal—but to Michael or to her or to someone in the audience, she couldn’t say. And before she could ask what was bothering him, a gunman on the catwalk above them opened fire with an automatic weapon. The bullets chewed up the area in front of the stage and the steps up to it.
And between one second and the next, David and William vanished.
Chapter Four
3 April 2022
Michael
The sound of the gunfire was deafening, but it was something for which Michael had trained, and his instincts took over. For all Dennis’s stodginess, he had emphasized to the entire security team the importance of keeping one’s eyes on one’s principal. And, in truth, if Michael had looked away, he would have missed it.
It being David’s disappearance. David and William weren’t lying bloody on the stage or fallen off the front, bleeding out. They had gone to Earth Two, if that was even possible.
Michael’s job now was to protect the people closest to him, namely Amelia, Livia, and Chad. He couldn’t have cared less about Owain Williams, who wasn’t in sight anyway, having dived away when the shooting started. With no thought for decorum or the women’s completely impractical high heels, Michael threw one arm around each of them, spun around, and ran with them towards the steps that led down from the stage.
Amelia kept saying, “My God! My God!”
Livia’s response was a more prosaic, “Damn these shoes.” But when they reached the steps, she said, “We’re good. You go.”
“Right.” Michael turned back for Chad, but he was behind them, William’s new translator friend Alex in tow, and they caught up before Livia and Amelia were down the steps. A moment later, Livia had pulled them all into the darkness of the warehouse, and they were heading as quickly as possible for the door. Michael was pleased, though not surprised, to see it was Livia who’d stepped up to protect the people around her.
Michael tapped his earpiece to unmute it and cut through the momentary chaos that still reigned among the security staff. “David and William are gone. Chad, Livia, Alex, and Amelia are headed for the exit.”
“Got ‘em.” Reg came out of the darkness to intercept them halfway across the floor to the door, and he put up a hand to Michael.
It was only now, after he sent them off, that Michael felt a pang of fear that this could have been what the gunmen wanted: to flush Chad into the open where he was less protected than usual.
Michael didn’t dismiss the thought, but he had to trust that the rest of his team knew what they were doing. He couldn’t be everywhere at once, and with the others moved out of the direct line of fire, Michael felt his job was to go back into it.
With David gone, he wasn’t a bodyguard anymore. But he was still a medic.
He touched his earpiece. “Headed back for any wounded.”
“Acknowledged.” Reg began checking in with the other security personnel by name, which Michael tuned out.
Though the gunfire had stopped, Michael couldn’t assume it wouldn’t start again. A heavy wooden desk had been placed near the back wall, close to the stage but not visible from the seats. Because of the curtain, Michael could see the rest of the warehouse just fine, however, so he ran towards the desk, slid across the top, scattering a few papers which had been left on it, and dropped off the other side. Using the bulky drawers as a shelter, he peered around the desk to take stock of the situation. He was tasting bile at what he would see, but he had no choice but to look at the carnage that had been created by the gunfire.
Except, nobody was dead. As far as Michael could see with his limited view, nobody was even bleeding, not even Owain Williams, who’d been fortunate enough to have moved away from David and William ten seconds before the shooting started and was now cowering behind his own desk on the stage, having done something similar to Michael to reach it.
Earlier that day, the host had pointed out with a superior sniff that he had his own security team, though at the moment Michael didn’t see any representatives from it. He would have thought Owain would have been grateful to be surrounded by the security team for one of the most powerful men in the world, but, as Mali, one of Chad’s other security officers, had said under her breath when she’d heard about it, to each his own.
The two men looked at each other, both breathing hard and hiding behind their respective desks thirty feet apart, and then Michael made a stay there motion with his hand.
Owain nodded vigorously, smart enough to know he was better off remaining where he was than trying to make a break for Michael’s desk, in case the shooter wasn’t done.
In truth, the shooting had probably lasted a few seconds beyond the moment David disappeared—just long enough for the gunman to realize his target was gone. The entire course of events had taken at most five seconds from start to finish, though those seconds had been some of the longest of Michael’s life, barring a few instances in Afghanistan. Michael’s ears still rang, more now because of the absence of gunfire. That, and from the screams of the civilians in the warehouse, the most agile of whom were racing for the exit in a shrieking scrum. They joined the already established crush at the door, made up of the non-audience members who’d been in the warehouse for the event, from catering staff to journalists. It was hard to believe a few moments ago the warehouse had been glowing with happiness, well-being, and love.
Michael glanced up to the scaffolding above the stage. The bright lights still shone, and he held up one hand to block the glare, trying to make out human shapes behind them. As before, the brightness prevented him from seeing anybody or anything.
To have bullets flying during war was to be expected. This was different. The only battles that should occur on a stage like this were between Owain and David, and even those had turned out, in retrospect, to be relatively amicable.
Michael put one hand above the desk, testing to see if the shooter was still in evidence, and wasn’t really surprised when no response came. If the shooter was smart, he was long gone by now or, at the very least, hiding among the people heading for the door. Michael looked again to where Owain Williams was crouched but saw he had disappeared through a trapdoor beneath his desk. Michael gave an internal grunt. He, personally, would have liked to have known the door was there before this moment.
Having informed Reg through the earpiece that Owain was safe under the stage, Michael crouched low and made for the edge of the curtain which hid the wings from the audience, hoping the gunman really couldn’t see through the one-way fabric. At the very least, once the interview had started, all the lights in the wings had been extinguished, so Michael remained shrouded in darkness.
From the conversation in his ear, Michael knew Chad, Livia, and the other members of his staff were safe, watched over by Joe and a few others, except for Terence, the agent who’d been charged with guarding the car park entrance. He’d missed his call in, and nobody had seen him.
With no more shots being fired, the audience in the stands—those who hadn’t already fled—started raising their heads from where they’d taken cover. Those in the back rows had thrown themselves to the floor, hiding behind the seats in front of them. Most of the people in the front row, whatever their age or size, had either flung themselves off to one side or climbed over their seats to join the other audience members cowering in the row behind them.
People began moving out of the stands, many stumbling or hobbling on stiff knees. Earlier that evening, as the crowd had been arriving, more than one person had had to be helped up the steps to a seat, but fear was a powerful motivator—as was empathy—and those with ambulatory difficulties were being aided by their neighbors. Michael moved off the stage to help an elderly man to his feet.
Reg spoke to his team, urging everyone to spread out throughout the warehouse. Michael replied with, “Where are we putting the wounded?”
“There aren’t any,” Reg said.
Michael hesitated, stunned to hear it. “None?”
“No.”
Michael thought about that for a second as a half-dozen former audience members took off at a run for the warehouse door, following the red carpet that had been laid out before the show started to guide the people through the warehouse. Michael remembered one of Amelia’s underlings saying over and over again, “Please stay on the red carpet. Ladies and gentlemen, the red carpet is your guide. Please stay on the red carpet.”
“Has anyone gone after the shooter?” Or shooters, come to think on it. He remembered hearing two different discharge sounds: one from a rifle and one from a pistol.
“No.” Reg switched Michael to a private channel exclusively for the two of them. “We have our hands full just dealing with the audience.”
Michael looked up towards the catwalk again. “You’re saying nobody has gone up there yet?”
“We’re security,” Reg said, patience in his voice, “not police. And though we’re all qualified on firearms, most of us have never fired a weapon anywhere but at the range—or if we have, it’s been a long time.”
Refuge in Time Page 3