Exchange of posts on
“Ops” GRIMNIR channel
DAY 1970 (20 DECEMBER, YEAR 5)
Post from Tristan Lyons, 05:30:
Anyone there? This is a burner phone I picked up in Boston, you’re just going to have to take my word for it that it’s me. Seeing one bar, apparently a cell tower in Penzance.
Reply from Mortimer Shore, 05:31:
Pirates of Penzance reading you. Welcome to the English Channel, bro!
From Tristan Lyons, 05:33:
They call it La Manche where we’re going, but thanks. Everything fine here in the ATTO. I think I read the entire works of Dickens and did 80,000 push-ups.
From Mortimer Shore, 05:35:
Heh I think I drank 80,000 pints in the local.
From Tristan Lyons, 05:37:
What is sitrep? Got numbers for me?
From Mortimer Shore, 05:40:
All good. BTW, I’m going to lose you in a short while but later in the morning you will come in range of the island of Jersey, which is where we registered our shipping company. Esme is hanging out there. And Julie’s en route Le Havre. Rebecca’s in London en route Gatwick (last I heard). Frank and Erszebet are at the house back home. Erszebet’s in charge of feeding the cats LOL.
From Tristan Lyons, 05:45:
Hang on, we have a shipping company?
From Mortimer Shore, 05:47:
From Tristan Lyons, 05:51:
Figured. That’s why I asked Rebecca to put you on it.
From Mortimer Shore, 05:55:
So, before you get out of range, here’s the number: EHTU 314 1597.
From Tristan Lyons, 05:57:
You used pi? Really?
From Mortimer Shore, 05:58:
Just an accident:) The 7 is the check digit, if that’s not right the computers in Le Havre will reject it.
EHTU is East House Trust—all part of the shipping company thing—had to do it so it wouldn’t cause trouble going through customs in Le Havre.
From Tristan Lyons, 06:00:
So if I paint this on the back of the ATTO, everything is going to just happen automagically?
From Mortimer Shore, 06:02:
According to our modern standards of magic, yeah:)
See you in Le Havre.
Post by Rebecca East-Oda on
“Ops” GRIMNIR channel
THREE HOURS LATER, 09:21
Note: Spotty Internet so have written this in real-time commentary but will now upload all at once.
Have reached Portsmouth, which none of us was expecting. In the guise of dotty but vigorous spinster tourist (which isn’t too far off, in some sense), enjoyed a gusty walk from the railway station to the harbor, where I am now comfortably ensconced at a table in a waterfront pub. Will explain what I’m doing here.
Tristan, I expect you’ll be back in cyberspace by the time I upload this, and so you might be wondering what I’m doing on this side of the Atlantic at all.
Briefly, the answer is that I came over to London because we had to manage a number of legal and financial transactions related to setting up the new shipping company under the umbrella of the East House Trust. Frank and I are co-trustees and so a lot of documents needed to be signed. Our scanner was on the blink and apparently fax machines are no longer au courant. It was simpler for me to just be in this country. So I got on a plane.
Frank could not join me because he is still working on the ODEC in our basement—some parts unexpectedly came in.
I was planning to fly home today. I’d have liked that. But we’ve received some new information about ATTO #2 and I’ve changed my plans accordingly.
This is a long story, but via Chira Lajani, we received a “leak” from DODO two days ago suggesting that hasty arrangements were being made (presumably by Gráinne even if Blevins or Frink signed off on them) to get ATTO #2 moved into a cargo plane—a 747F capable of swallowing a whole shipping container.
It turns out that there are persons called “plane spotters” who have nothing better to do with their time than to keep track of the comings and goings of airplanes. They are all on the Internet, naturally. Thanks to them, Mortimer was able to identify a 747F that made a flight yesterday from Hanscom to Gatwick.
I took the train from London to Gatwick and arrived in time to watch from the roof of a nearby hotel as ATTO #2 was unloaded in plain view and placed on a tractor-trailer. I recognized it as an ATTO from the side door, which makes it different from other shipping containers. We don’t know why DODO wants an ATTO over here, but here it is.
Hailed a taxi and asked the driver to attempt to follow the rig. It left the airport southbound, as if headed for Brighton, but we lost track of it. Had the driver deposit me in Brighton and paid him a frightful amount of money, but there was little to see there—it’s a resort town, with not much in the way of port facilities.
On a hunch I took the train here to Portsmouth today. By hunch I mean common sense: there was a brochure about Portsmouth in the Brighton train station, complete with detailed map of its large port, with freight and passenger connections across the Channel (including a direct connection to . . . Le Havre. Maybe just a coincidence that DODO wants their ATTO directly across the Channel from where the Fuggers’ ATTO is bound, but maybe not.).
My perch here in this pub gives me a direct view through a chain-link fence, topped with copious snarls of razor wire, into a huge parking lot adjoining the ferry terminal. Several score tractor-trailer rigs and shipping containers are scattered about the place.
One of them is ATTO #2. It has been dismounted from its trailer and is quietly sitting in a corner of the parking lot. I’m keeping my eye on it.
Update, forty minutes later:
I am still in the pub. Management have apparently decided I am a harmless trainspotter type. Which I suppose I am.
Here is where my story stops being about an old lady spy and adopts witchy overtones.
A few minutes ago I began to pick up a strong sense of GLAAMR from the ATTO. I can both feel it and see it (Erszebet gets credit for being a good teacher). Clearly, the thing has been turned on. Meaning there is a witch in there. Gráinne herself? Possible, but maybe she would want to stay near Blevins to pull his strings.
A white van has pulled up to the side of the ATTO, just next to its door. From it, men are unloading some kind of cargo and tossing it in through the ATTO’s side door. I gather it doesn’t weigh much—perhaps clothing, stuffed into garbage bags. I presume these people are from DODO/Gráinne since DODO/Gráinne caused this new ATTO to be here.
Hmm. Perhaps it is another coincidence, but the passenger ferry to Le Havre departs in one hour.
Update, twenty minutes later:
Oh dear, hang on a moment: Magnus just showed up in an Uber! How very confusing. I thought he and Gráinne were utterly at odds with each other re: Walmart shenanigans.
Supposition: in light of the Fuggers’ stealing ATTO #1, they (Gráinne and Magnus) realized they would have to make common cause to retrieve it. Still, I wonder what each of them intends to do with it once they have it back. Are they going to share it? Neither of them plays nice in the sandbox with others.
Update, a few minutes later (10:31):
Strong GLAAMR from the ATTO, and men are coming out of it now, one by one, every few minutes. Dressed in civilian clothing. But they are Vikings. I think it’s the same crew that sacked the Walmart.
Update, fifteen minutes later:
White van just took Magnus and eight of his Vikings over to the passenger terminal. They are getting on the ferry to Le Havre. I’m going to get on the ferry too, and try not to let Magnus see me. Going to click “send” on this now. Hopeful
ly I will be able to update you all soon. If I do not, assume it is because the Walmart Vikings have gotten to me, in which case somebody please remind Frank to water the garden.
(If you had told me five years ago, when Mel and Tristan first knocked on our door, that I would find myself writing that sentence I’d have laughed you down the street.)
Scribbled addendum in pencil at the bottom of Melisande
Stokes’s Diachronicle, in her handwriting
After requesting a safety deposit box here at the private offices of the Fugger Bank on Threadneedle Street, and giving the agent my name, I was informed I already owned a box. Amazed, I asked it to be brought to me, and saw that it contained a sealed envelope. Addressed to me. In Mortimer’s gangly penmanship (albeit somewhat ink-blotted).
I have memorized its contents and will leave it here in the box, attached to my Diachronicle, for thoroughness.
I depart the bank in far higher spirits than I arrived.
Handwritten note on Fugger Bank stationery
Came back to 1848 to leave this for you to read in 1851—trippy, huh? We’re trying to Home you. If you’re reading this before July 28, 1851, cross the Channel ASAP to Collinet—aka Norman Language campsite. Near Le Havre, inland, on river Dives, if you don’t remember. The B&B in our era is Chez Envouteur and the family women were openly witchy (descendants of Thyra and Imblen, talk about clan loyalty w00t!) until magic stopped so if you ask for the witch’s house the locals may know where to send you. Fingers crossed witch of 1851 is cooperative—have her Send you to her own backyard in our time where (if you get this) there will be an ATTO waiting to receive you.
Keep your head down and stay low when you arrive.
Gotta go, writing this wearing nothing but Mr. Fugger’s greatcoat and he’s really not amused lol —Mortimer
Exchange of posts on
“Ops” GRIMNIR channel
1.5 HOURS LATER
Post from Esme Overkleeft, 12:17:
You there?
Reply from Tristan Lyons, 12:19:
Yeah. Just got bars.
From Esme Overkleeft, 12:20:
Welcome back to the world! I’m on Jersey.
From Tristan Lyons, 12:23:
Glad there’s a world to get back to. Didn’t know what I’d find on the other end of the ocean.
From Esme Overkleeft, 12:27:
It’s been a little hairy while you were gone . . . lots to report. But no major Shears as far as we can tell. In spite of Magnus’s best efforts.
From Tristan Lyons, 12:28:
Yeah . . . I’m reading the message from Rebecca . . . wow.
From Esme Overkleeft, 12:36:
The ferry with Magnus and the other Vikings (and Rebecca) is going to reach Le Havre shortly before you—you might even be able to see it out the ATTO door as you’re approaching Le Havre. Taking into account the time zone change, your ETA is around 5:30—a little after sunset. Then, unloading should happen as per usual.
From Tristan Lyons, 12:40:
Let’s talk a little more about “per usual.” Port operations isn’t my strong suit.
From Esme Overkleeft, 12:45:
Actual unloading of the ship probably won’t start until tomorrow morning. Your container will come off almost immediately because of where it is. The crane will set it down on the wharf. That’s when you disable the radio tracking device. A straddle carrier will pick it up and take it to a temporary storage location farther from the ship. There’ll be some customs formalities—we’ll take care of that, but if you have any contraband you should throw it overboard now. A forklift puts it on a tractor-trailer. The driver of the tractor-trailer works for us. He’ll drive it away and take it where we told him to.
From Tristan Lyons, 12:48:
And where is that? I’ve been a little out of the loop.
From Esme Overkleeft, 12:50:
Nice little town in Normandy. I think you have been there . . . many times as it were:)
From Tristan Lyons, 12:53:
:) What are the Fuggers going to think when their ATTO makes a wrong turn?
From Esme Overkleeft, 12:56:
We don’t know their plans of course, but presumably they were going to take it someplace safe. And Magnus and his crew mean to intercept it along the way although we’re not sure about the Magnus/Gráinne relationship at the moment. Neither Magnus nor the Fuggers know about us . . . hopefully. So when we get it to the farmhouse, we’ll have at least a few minutes’ breathing room to turn it on and open a window for Mel to come home.
From Tristan Lyons, 13:05:
Okay, here’s where this time travel shit gets really mind-bending . . .
The Fuggers and Magnus might not know about us TODAY but they’ll sure as hell know about us TOMORROW when they notice that their ATTO has gone missing. And they have at least one ATTO of their own, dockside in Portsmouth. So what’s to prevent them from, I don’t know . . .
From Esme Overkleeft, 13:15:
Don’t torture yourself. The most they can do is Send a naked Viking into our ATTO when we turn it on to receive Mel. She already has instructions to hit the deck and stay safe as soon as she arrives.
From Tristan Lyons, 13:20:
Have re-read your last transmission several times, and don’t understand. How is “hitting the deck” going to keep her safe from a naked Viking?
From Esme Overkleeft, 13:22:
That’s your job.
From Tristan Lyons, 13:24:
????
From Esme Overkleeft, 13:26:
Keeping her safe. Got any weapons in there?
From Tristan Lyons, 13:28:
Tossed them overboard, as you just instructed.
From Esme Overkleeft, 13:30:
Hmm . . . how’s your hand-to-hand combat skills?
From Tristan Lyons, 13:32:
A little rusty, frankly. Fortunately I have Felix to practice on. Or vice versa.
ALTHOUGH THERE IS NO LONGER need of it, I suppose out of habit I shall write this in a tone akin to the Diachronicle, that is to say, in accordance with the literary inflections of my most recent (and enforced) DTAP.
I fell through fragrant darkness, and fell tumbling hard to ground on a painfully cold, metallic floor that shook and rumbled as if it were a truck being pulled down a country road somewhere, which meant—the ATTO! I had arrived! I was safe!
—No, I wasn’t!—there were three figures grappling violently above me in the eerie amber-green glow of the ATTO. Their efforts caused the rumbling. Two were clothed, and they were fighting with a third who was naked.
And who was winning.
“Stokes! Turn it off! TURN . . . IT . . . OFF . . .”
Tristan’s voice was familiar even though sounding a little strangled: as my eyes focused I saw that he was in a headlock, his neck crooked in one of the naked man’s massive arms. With his free hand, the man was swatting away Felix Dorn with an almost casual air. The stranger had tangled blond hair tumbling down over his shoulders, and a reddish beard. He was immense.
Being Sent is no picnic in the best of circumstances, and being in a working ODEC is always disorienting. I forcefully tamped down the part of me that wanted to celebrate my return to the modern world, trying to focus on the fact that my friends were losing a fight to a man-mountain . . . and trying to remember how the ATTO was laid out. I’d never had much to do with the ATTOs, as they were for psy-ops and I had always remained focused on diachronic work.
Still keeping Tristan’s neck in the crook of his arm, the Viking (I assumed he was a Viking) came toward me at a ponderous gait, kicking empty water bottles out of the way as he planted his feet. Tristan was flailing out, trying to grab anything that would serve as an anchor. Felix fell to his knees, staggered by an elbow to the face. The Viking’s gaze was fixed on something behind me. I turned and saw the control panel at the forward end of the ATTO.
I scrambled on hands and knees in that direction, hurled myself toward the panel, and mashe
d the big red button that served as the emergency “off” switch.
My own momentum then sent me sprawling back to the icy-cold floor, my head clearing now that the system was shut down. I drew myself up into a fetal position, spun around, and watched the progress of the fight.
Felix’s face was gushing blood, probably from a broken nose. He was getting unsteadily back to his feet, and seemed to have his eye on a fire extinguisher bracketed to the wall at the other end of the ATTO.
Tristan had managed to reach up and get one hand on the Viking’s face, and was now groping around trying to insert a finger in an eye or mouth, but the Viking kept jerking his head away. Tristan finally got purchase on a handful of Viking hair, but it was a feeble grip compared to what the other had on him.
I was struck by the Viking’s calm patience. This was not a berserker—indeed, he seemed more like a parent controlling a three-year-old throwing a temper tantrum.
The door of the ATTO was flung open from without, and slanting sunlight flooded in. Backlit and framed in the entrance was a female form; the ATTO light showed her to be a middle-aged woman, wearing a simple housedress with a heavy cardigan over it. She was brandishing a long, double-barreled shotgun. Her breath came out like clouds. I smelled apples baking.
There was a long moment while we all considered matters. The woman with the shotgun was clearly as surprised by the situation inside the trailer as we were by her sudden appearance. Certainly she had a lot to take in.
Felix stopped moving for the fire extinguisher and held up his bloody hands. Tristan couldn’t see what was happening. I watched the woman between the tree-trunk legs of the Viking, whose manhood hung down, somewhat obscuring my view. I do believe this organ contracted a smidge when the woman trained the shotgun at him. (In fairness, the cold winter air coming in the open door may have accounted for some of that.) Certainly the gun got his attention: this wasn’t the first time he’d seen a modern firearm. This confused me, for I knew all the DODO Anachrons by sight, and he was not one of them.
The Rise and Fall of D.O.D.O. Page 64