by DG SIDNA
I try to reason with him. "Look, I—"
His scream shakes me to my core. "Quiet!" He pulls harder. "Shut up! You don't get to speak to me! You think just because you're born with a silver spoon in your mouth, you're better than us? Think you can get by in life on those pretty looks alone, yeah?"
"No—"
"How about we take that spoon out of your mouth, luv."
He slams my face into the edge of the sink. I crumble to the ground. My lip and nose are busted and I watch as several front teeth scatter across the tile floor. Blood and drool flow freely down my chin, onto my clothes, and pool on the tiles.
For a moment I’m blinded by the pain.
I just want to stay on the hard floor and die.
He takes my forearm and yanks me back up with such violence that it dislocates my shoulder. He then pins me against the wall with the full weight of his body as his crooked knob presses against my thigh. His hot, rancid breath condenses on my cheeks. The stench of his body burns my nostrils. The look in his eyes, that unblinking, feral hate, that glint of what he believes this to be, a great and righteous victory for his frail and pathetic ego; it will haunt me for all my days to come.
I try to push him off, it's instinctive. In the struggle, futile as it is, my hand gets caught on a chain around his neck. As I pull away, the chain snaps and some object falls, a tiny keepsake maybe. I don't see it, only hear it ding on the floor—it's something small and metallic. But it's angered him greatly. He slams me against the wall with such force that I bang my head and everything goes white for a moment. A hot wetness runs down the back of my neck.
Only then do I understand that no savior is coming through the door, no rescue is imminent, no reprieve from the darkness of human nature is to be granted. Perhaps the only thing I can be thankful for is that he's now so provoked, so enraged, that he stops going for my pants. Instead, his hands are around my neck, crushing the life out of me.
My end has come. My defenses are useless. I drop my arms. In doing so, my hand falls against my jacket pocket. There's something there. I slide my hand in.
I turn the pocket upwards.
And I pull the trigger on Old Bessie.
The shot is no louder than a toy cap gun, but the force it wields is godly. It may have the look of an antiquated pistol, but it's something else. The energy blast blows the back of this man's head apart. Chunks of brain material and bits of skull are flung across the walls and mirrors.
His corpse falls to the floor.
I slide down the wall not long after, into a fetal position.
I cry.
For a long time, I cry.
Alone and broken, I cry.
Then I pass out.
And I hope to never awaken again.
EIGHT
There's a bright light all around me, angelic and comforting. With it comes a sweet hum, from somewhere far off and distant. Or perhaps not, perhaps the hum is emanating from within me, from somewhere deep down in my soul, someplace I've never before known. It's pleasant. Beautiful. The sort of ambient melody created by the rustling of leaves in autumn or by ocean waves receding over a pebble beach. All my pain has been stripped away.
I want to remain here in the light, float away with it, drift off into the promise of its oblivion. But there's a hand holding my own, keeping me grounded. The hand is aged like soft, worn leather. The hand squeezes gently and I open my eyes.
"The sleeper has awakened," Careena says with a small smile.
"Oy. Please tell me you're not my angel."
"No, deary, you're alive and well."
I touch my teeth. Despite having seen them shattered, cast out across a cold tile floor, they're all here. Part of me hopes my assault was only a bad dream. But I know it's not.
Careena notices my actions. "Modern medicine. You're as good as new."
I appreciate her support but that's not true, and it never will be. Some small piece of me has been taken, stolen—and something horrible has been put in its place.
I try to fight the fragments, the shards of memory from the washroom, the image of that man's face, the stench of his breath; I try to bottle these memories up and place them in some dark corner of my mind until I can deal with them on my own terms. But it's a fight I'm destined to lose.
Overwhelmed by the memories, I break down and cry. Clinging on to Careena's hand like a life preserver, I cry.
The old woman leans forward and holds me against a comforting shoulder. "Oh, freckles, you're alright now. You did what you had to do."
How long I cry I don't know. I'm embarrassed to feel so vulnerable, particularly among strangers. I've always considered myself a fighter, a star athlete on the crew team, a disciplined jujitsu student in my free time, a young woman with serious academic chops and the hard fought drive to succeed. But no amount of pride can withstand the flood of emotions overpowering me now.
Careena says nothing. She only holds me for as long as I need. It's a gesture I appreciate. After a time, I collect myself and wipe the tears from my bloodshot eyes.
"I'm sorry," I tell the old woman.
"Freckles, there's nothing to be sorry for. I should be apologizing to you, for putting you through all this."
"Just tell me the worst is over."
"The worst is over."
I manage a polite smile.
Looking around, the colors and architecture of the room that we're in are different from before. This room is more spartan, more serious than the one where they were observing Careena. We're in a sickbay, but it's not the Stellar Pearl.
My voice is hoarse. "Where are we?"
"Safe," she says. "We're aboard the Ark Royal, a Tegan battlecruiser. No one will fork with us here. We're escorting the Stellar Pearl the remainder of the way to Tegana. I didn't trust those Mahshadi snake charmers to treat you, so I had you transferred over here."
I realize we're not alone. There's another figure standing beside Careena.
"How are you feeling, Isabel?" Story Beckett asks.
"Terrified," I tell the young officer. "But I'm glad you're back."
"I won't leave you again. I promise."
I turn back to Careena. "I was worried that man was going to kill you. How did you get away?"
"Hah! You hear that, Beckett? She's known me only a day and already thinks everyone in this galaxy is out to off me. I'll have you know, freckles, he wasn't after me."
"Who was he?"
"They call him the Red Man," she says. "A pirate of sorts. He's rather infamous in some of the frontier mandates, but this is the first time he's ever been in Ghent. All I know about him is what I've read in the news over the years. He's a sellsword. Into theatrics apparently."
I clutch her forearm. "You have to go back. Please. You have to stop what happened."
"I wish that I could, deary. I would break every law in the book to do that for you, I really would."
I nod. Perhaps that's all I wanted to hear her say. After all, I remember what she told me, about the limits on her powers. There had to be some distance between the present and the date she intends to jump, a distance of more than four hundred years. To jump back only a day or two is apparently a wish that physics has chosen to deny me.
She mumbles. "Theoretically, I suppose you could do it."
Story interjects. "Smith, let's not get into any more trouble than we already are."
"Yeah, you might be right."
"What do you mean?" I ask.
Careena waves a hand. "It's just a pet theory of some of our more eccentric physicists."
"I want to hear."
She raises an eyebrow to Story, who disapproves of this conversation, both in theory and in practice. But the old woman continues anyway. "You'll remember that I told you the stuff in the past has a bond with the stuff in the present. And the closer stuff is to itself in time, the stronger that bond, until eventually it's so strong that we can't do anything with it. Which is why we can't go back to the attack. But you see, the thing is, that bond only f
orms when you're here, tethered to the dimensional membrane, which is a fancy way of saying when you're in the normal three-dimensional space that we all know and love."
"So?"
She leans in close, as if someone might overhear. "So when Hecate brought you here to the present, she did so by untethering you from the membrane. You were placed in the same higher dimensional space that I'm placed while I'm jumping. The only difference is, you were left there for a thousand years. You weren't brought back down and reattached to the membrane until you arrived on the Stellar Pearl. That makes you a rather unique individual in this universe. As you weren't here in normal space for all that time, there are no real bonds to speak of holding you back, so you're sort of free to go wherever you want."
"What Smith is trying to say," Story clarifies. "Is that she reads way too much science fiction. This theory has never been tested. And there are many reasons to believe it would never work."
"Bah," the old woman says.
"Fine," I say. "But I still want to know, what did those pirates want? If they weren't after you, then why did they attack us?"
"It's not important."
My gaze is fierce. "It's important to me, Careena."
The time agent relents. "I suppose it is. They were after a cargo container. Something very valuable. Very dangerous"
"What?"
"Not now. You should rest."
"I don't want to rest."
Careena lets out a long breath. "Very well. Your clothes are there on the counter. They've been washed. I took Old Bessie, but why don't you keep Hecate for now. She's out of juice, but wearing her might give you a little strength. I know it does me. Get dressed and join me in the officer's lounge. Beckett can show you the way when you're ready. I'll explain everything there."
I nod in affirmation.
Careena turns to Story. "You'll show her down?"
"Of course."
"And how long do we have?" the old woman asks the officer.
"To Tegana? We've just entered the system, so three hours, give or take."
Careena dwells on that for a moment. "A real forking riot this is going to be. She's probably going to give you a promotion, Beckett."
"You know that's not why I did this," comes the response.
"Aye, I know. The fickle demands of time were bound to find me eventually."
With that, the old woman leaves.
"What was all that about?" I ask Story.
"Agent Smith has not been home in many years."
"Why not?"
"Something of a disagreement with our portreeve, who is, shall we say, also rather stubborn. But I should not gossip. Get dressed and I'll show you the way."
Half an hour later I find myself in the officer's lounge of the TDF Ark Royal. It's similar in some ways to Rear-Ten aboard the Stellar Pearl; this lounge is also nestled at the rear of the ship. But the design is much more functional and the windows are only rows of narrow slits. The truth is, I prefer these new windows. The smaller openings are a better barrier between myself and whatever dark forces lurk out there in the beyond.
Standing in the entranceway, I realize I'm hugging my chest. I used to be full of naive confidence. Now I feel like an injured flower, a frightened mouse. I don't like it. But I can't seem to fight it.
Careena is at the bar, alone, her own face masked in troubled thoughts. Her stool faces the windows, those portals into the emptiness, that abyss that stares back, that sees all for who they truly are. Many fear that prospect, to see themselves in the reflection of a mirror that strips away all the pretty little lies that we tell about ourselves. But a few long for it, long to be finally known, truly known, by someone, anyone, even if that someone is only the void. Is this what Careena seeks?
I join the old woman.
At first we say nothing.
It's enough not to be alone.
"Want a drink, deary?" Careena eventually asks.
"What are you having?"
"Cognac. From France."
"The real France?"
"What other France is there?"
"Sounds expensive."
"Took over seventy bloody years to get here, you bet it is!" The time agent turns to the bartender. "Soldier boy, get freckles here a drink. Something strong. And make it something Tegan. There's no reason to waste the Earth stuff on an Earth girl. Let her have a taste of the frontier."
The drink arrives. Neither of us talks much at first. Company doesn't always need to be shared in words.
After a while, Careena asks, "So where's Beckett?"
"Called away," I tell her. "They caught a traitor in your ministry."
Careena takes a sip. "Nice to know they told you before they told me."
"To be honest, I get the impression that they don't trust you very much. Maybe that made sense on the Stellar Pearl. But I thought we were with your people now?"
"We are. But a lot has happened over the years. Anyway, my troubles aren't why you came down here. I promised I'd tell you about the attack. What do you want to know?"
"Everything."
She takes another sip. "Well, I don't know everything. I don't even know much. As you've just astutely pointed out, I'm not privy to all the going-ons at the moment. But that Red Man you saw, he's a mercenary. He doesn't work on his own. Which means someone hired him to hit the Stellar Pearl. And don't ask me who, because I don't know."
"What did they want?"
"That cargo container. The one we were supposedly checking on when we arrived."
"You mean they planned that whole attack for a bunch of earthworms?"
"It wasn't worms, you tart. That was a cover story. In the container were RGMs, rare galactic minerals. They power the tachyon distortion technology used in time travel. As you can imagine, they're dangerous, particularly if they end up on the black market. There's a universal embargo against their mining, trade, and transport. Which is why they were being transported in secret."
"The Mahshadi are smugglers?"
"Hah! Those goody-two-shoes? No. Absolutely not. I hate to admit it, but it was our government doing the smuggling. You see, as you may have noticed, we happen to have an entire ministry dedicated to time travel, so we sort of need the RGMs as much as the bad guys do. Thing is, the embargo applies to us too. In fact, we're singled out by name. Call it payback for not sharing our toys. Outside inspectors are allowed to search our ships whenever they like. As such, we've found it best to sneak them in aboard other people's ships. But please don't go telling your buddy Gernsback that."
"You knew they were there?"
"No," she says. "Not my department. It was just a coincidence we were on the same ship. Truthfully, there are only so many ships running between worlds each month, so it's not even that surprising. What's worrisome is that those shipments are super top secret."
"Like your location in the field."
She raises her glass to me. "Bingo."
"It must be the traitor that Story mentioned."
"Sounds about right to me."
"So what happened to the Red Man?"
"He got away, sorry to say. And worse than that, this was no ordinary shipment of RGMs. It was the largest we've ever had, unprecedented really. In any given year, there's rarely enough RGMs discovered to make more than one or two jumpvests. A lack of raw material has always been our greatest ally."
"And this shipment? How much was there?"
Careena slides a napkin over to me. She'd already done dozens of calculations on it before I arrived. "By my quick math, enough for around a hundred vests. That's a small army of jumpers. Gernsback tried her best to stop the heist, but as you know, they had hostages. She also didn't know how valuable the cargo was. Anyway, I can't blame her. Her hands were tied. For what it's worth, the only shot fired during the entire attack was yours."
An anger rises up inside me. "I'd have shot them all if I could."
"I know."
"They don't deserve to get away."
"They won't."
There's a long silence. The old woman attempts to change the topic. "We'll be to Tegana soon. You'll be able to go home. You can put all this behind you."
"Can I?" I ask. "After everything I've seen, Careena? Everything I've gone through? I'm not sure I'll recognize home anymore. And if I do, will it still recognize me?"
She takes a sip of cognac. "You're wiser than your years, freckles. I honestly can't answer you."
"Story told me you've been avoiding your own home."
The response comes quickly. "Beckett should keep to her own damned business, yeah."
"But it's true?"
"Aye, it's true." She looks up toward the window and into the stars. Some thoughts can't be vanquished by cognac. "I'm a very proud, revengeful, and ambitious woman, deary, with more offenses at my back than I have thoughts to put them in or imagination to give them shape. I won't be made to regret the things that I've done. But I can't run from them either. As much as I wish I could."
She elaborates no further and I do not push her.
Sometime later, after another round taken in silence, Story returns.
"Captain Beckett, so good of you to join us," Careena says, with a touch of liquor in her voice. "I'd offer you a drink if you weren't a projection. Or such a bore."
"I apologize. There has been a lot of activity here, as you can imagine."
"So I've heard," Careena says. "So, who was the traitor? And before you tell me, just know that I plan to shoot the forker in the face."
"Captain Arulo."
The old woman seems surprised. "That's unsettling. You sure about that?"
"Without a doubt."
I ask, "Who is this person?"
Story answers. "A temporal lead, like myself. We assist the agents in the field."
"Speaking of agents," Careena says. "Where are those fools? Why didn't anyone come rescue the damsel in distress when I was in Brooklyn?"
Story's face is serious. "Smith, they're all dead."
"What?"
"Two were killed in the field. Same assassin as you, minutes apart. You were his third target. The other four were killed here in the ministry. A bomb went off at an early morning meeting. Several leads and staff were killed as well. It's been chaos here since then, to be honest."