by Simon Hawke
"Oh. I see. Where are you calling from?"
"I'm calling from a public phone booth. I won't say where. Now I've got another story to file. I'm going to fax it to you in about an hour, from another location, but meanwhile, I need you to back the police off for me."
"How the hell am I supposed to do that?"
"Get onto the lawyers. Look, the girl hasn't broken any laws so far as I know. And she's not crazy. She was never formally committed. She doesn't want to be there. You can't just stick someone in a sanitarium against their will. They have to go be committed by their doctor or a family member. It's a complicated process. They were just holding her there for observation until they could find out who she was. Only they're not going to find out who she is."
"What are you talking about?"
"Jack, just listen to me, all right? I'll be faxing you all the details. That bastard little orderly just lied to save his own skin. How else could I have gotten a copy of her file if he didn't get it for me? I'll fax you a copy of the file, too."
"All right, Colin, what's going on? What are you on to?"
"I'm going to need your help, Jack. This is too big for me to handle all by myself. But it's my bloody story. And if you screw me out of the credit for this one, so help me, I'll break your bloody neck."
"Okay, okay! Jesus, I never heard you talk like this. I'll call the lawyers. But I need something more to go on."
"I'll be faxing you a list of people, Jack. People that have been cropping up in odd corners of the world, all telling the same fantastic story. Megan knows many of them. They're all from her hometown. None of these people have a paper trail, Jack. Officially, they simply don't exist. It's as if they suddenly appeared from out of nowhere."
"Jack, you're not seriously telling me you believe this nonsense about-"
"Somebody's discovered time travel, Jack," Colin interrupted him. "I know it sounds incredible, but it's the only explanation that makes any kind of sense. There's a machine ... I'm going to get an artist's rendering of it based on Megan's description, and I'll be faxing that to you as well. Get some of our people to follow up on some of these other cases. You'll find they're all telling the same story. None of them know anything about modern technology. They won't know about anything that's happened within the last several hundred years, at least. They're all from a medieval time, Jack. Someone named Warrick has transported them here for some reason."
"Colin, have you absolutely lost your fucking mind?"
"Don't take my word for it, Jack. Check it out. I'm telling you, this is the biggest story of the century. Possibly of all time, no pun intended. Somebody's built themselves a tune machine and gone back into the past, and now they're sending people here, God only knows why. I just need to find out who's behind it. If you print what I send you, it might shake things up a bit and someone might come crawling out of the woodwork."
"This is the nuttiest thing I've ever heard."
"Jack... have you read your own paper lately?"
"Yeah, all right, but you're telling me this stuff is actually on the level, fahchrissake!"
"Just run with it, Jack. You won't regret it, I promise you. I'll bring you a bloody Pulitzer for this, I swear to God."
"I ought to have my head examined. Or maybe you ought to have your head examined. But what the hell, it's boosting circulation."
"There's my boy," said Colin with a grin. "I'll be in touch."
He hung up the phone.
"So what happens now?" asked Megan, sitting on the bed across from him in the motel room.
"We keep moving," Colin said. "Somebody's got to know something about all this. If we make enough noise, maybe they'll try to get in touch."
"It's ever so nice of you to help me, Colin."
"I'm trying to help both of us, my dear. I just hope somebody crops up to give us another lead. At the moment, I'm fresh out."
"You look tired, luv. Why don't you take your shirt off and let me rub your back?"
Colin raised his eyebrows.
Megan got up off the bed. She smiled and a moment later her dress slipped to the floor.
"God, I love this job," said Colin, stretching out on the bed.
Five
All right, I've avoided it long enough, I suppose. I've dealt with Harlan and all his machinations in Brigand's Roost; I've covered what's happening with Brewster, and I've done some work on the subplot with Hightower, but even though I was going to open this chapter with Pamela, Brewster's brilliant bride-to-be (assuming he ever survives this story), the fact is I'm never going to get through this book if I keep ignoring Warrick.
"I was wondering if you would ever work up the courage to confront me once again," Warrick said, sitting back in his chair and glancing up toward the ceiling with a smug little smile.
Look, don't tell me about courage, all right? You try making a decent living as a writer. I wrote a book connected to a popular television series about a starship and its crew, and it's been months since I delivered it, but I still haven't been paid. Meanwhile, the bills keep piling up. You think magic is tough? Try dealing with publishers.
"So, it would appear as if the omnipotent narrator is not as powerful as he seems," said Warrick.
Powerful? Don't make me laugh. I can't even control the characters in my own novel. Well, one character, at least. Still, I created you, so I suppose I'm going to have to deal with you, one way or another.
"You created me?" said Warrick, raising his eyebrows. "What monumental arrogance! You dare ascribe to yourself the powers and virtues of a deity?"
Hey, not me. I'm just a simple storyteller. Whereas you, my friend, are nothing but a royal fictional pain in the ass.
"Well, deity or not, I could easily say the same of you. I have many important matters to occupy my attention, yet since you have chosen to descend from your ethereal plane to plague my existence, I have been able to think of little else. You have caused me to banish my familiar, and while Teddy left much to be desired, I was still rather attached to him. I had him since I was a child."
I know, numbnuts. I wrote that.
"And as for this ... time machine," Warrick continued, getting up and walking over to the device, "I have deduced that you were the guiding force behind its creation, and do not bother to deny it. You may not have constructed it, but you provided the inspiration. You see, I know a great deal more than you may think."
You do, huh? All right, just what exactly do you think you know?
"The sorcerer who had constructed this device," said Warrick, walking around it slowly, "the one through whom you work... thanks to a freebooter by the name of Black Jack, I know his name now. 'Tis Brewster Doc. I know he is an alchemist who resides in the Kingdom of Dam, in a town called Brigand's Roost. I also know he has acquired his knowledge of the sorcerous arts without sanction from the guild, and that he has the secret of the philosopher's stone. He has been making nickallirium, in violation of the law, and he has taught the secret to mere peasants, an even grosser violation. He apparently seeks to dominate the trade of all the twenty-seven kingdoms. Shall I go on?"
By all means. I could use some interesting dialogue at this stage of the story.
"I have not been idle, as you can see. I have my spies."
Of course, you have your spies. You think this is news to me? I covered that in Chapter Four.
"Do you wish me to continue, or not?"
All right, go ahead. But let's not get into a long and detailed summary, okay? The reader already knows all this stuff.
"Very well, then, I shall be brief and come right to the point. I want the secret of this time machine. And I want this outlaw sorcerer."
I already know that. So?
"So, since we seem to be working at cross purposes, perhaps there is some way to settle this conflict between us. After all, I am not an unreasonable man. There must be something that you want."
How about casting a particularly nasty spell at a certain editor who's been holding up my check?
"That might be arranged," Warrick said. "Anything else?"
You could stop interrupting the flow of my narrative, or would that be asking too much?
"Aye, if you expect me to bend to your will," Warrick replied. "Rest assured that in the long run, I shall prevail, despite your narrative arts. For if you were truly as powerful as you pretend, then you would not hesitate to smite me down. And yet, you cannot, else you would have already done so."
Don't tempt me. About the only thing that's stopping me is the fact that it would be very awkward to bring in a new villain at this point in the story. But if you push me hard enough, I just might do it anyway. After all, readers who have stayed with me this long know by now that anything could happen. And it might be an interesting challenge, come to think of it.
"You are merely bluffing."
Really? Are you so sure about that?
"There are limits to your powers. You can but influence events in this world in small degrees. You cannot alter them. For all your boasts, you have not the ability to do away with me and replace me with someone else."
Oh, yeah? Watch this, wise guy ...
Suddenly there was a loud popping noise and three figures materialized out of thin air in the center of Warrick's sanctorum. They were two men and a woman, dressed identically in black fatigues with military insignia. On their collars were little golden pins, stylized symbols for infinity bisected with the number one.
"What the hell?" said Finn Delaney, glancing around. "Where are we? This isn't Pendleton Base!"
Andre Cross tossed her blond hair out of her eyes and unholstered her sidearm with a quick, smooth, practiced motion.
"Take it easy," Lucas Priest said, holding his hand out. "Something's gone wrong. I think we've clocked into the wrong series."
"Hey, Delaney, take a look at this," said Andre, pointing to Brewster's machine.
"What is it?" the burly time commando asked. "Some kind of helicopter?"
"No, I think it's a crude temporal translocation device," said Andre, approaching it with curiosity.
"That?" Delaney said. "It looks like something H. G. Wells cobbled together from spit and baling wire."
Andre sensed a movement behind her and spun around, leveling her weapon. "What was that? Come out of there, you!"
Slowly, Warrick peeked out from behind his desk.
"Careful, Andre," Lucas cautioned her. "He looks like a local. We don't want to cause any temporal contamination in this period."
"Seems to me like somebody's already done that," Delaney said, glancing at the time machine.
"Who are you people?" Warrick demanded.
"Colonel Lucas Priest, First Division, United States Army Temporal Corps," said Lucas, stepping forward. "And who might you be?"
"I am Warrick the White, of the House of Morgannan, Grand Director of the Sorcerers and Adepts Guild and Royal Wizard to the Kingdom of Pitt. What is the meaning of this intrusion?"
"Get him," Delaney said, looking him up and down. "For a guy who dresses in a bedsheet, he's got more names than a Mexican softball team."
"Careful, Lucas," Andre said. "I don't like the looks of this character." She raised her plasma blaster. "Keep your distance, mister." She fired a warning shot that struck Warrick's desk and vaporized it in a blinding flash of light.
"All right!" cried Warrick with alarm. "All right, Narrator, you have made your point!"
There was a loud popping noise and the Time Commandos disappeared.
Now ... you were saying?
Warrick looked shaken. He swallowed hard. " 'Twould seem that I have underestimated you. Your powers are more extensive than I had believed possible. Who were those ... those beings? Demons from the ethereal planes?"
Hardly. They were characters from another series I wrote a few years back. Though demons might be interesting, actually ...
"No, no, never mind," said Warrick quickly. "There shall be no need for any other demonstrations. What is it you wish?"
Your promise ... no, your solemn oath to stop interfering with the narrative.
Warrick scowled. "Very well. You have my solemn oath that I shall not interfere with your narrative arts."
Just go on about your business and let me get on with mine.
"As you wish," said Warrick in a surly tone.
Good. Now that we've got that settled, you can see about getting yourself a new desk while I get on to the next scene.
Pamela Fairburn was tired. More than tired, she was bone weary. Every muscle in her body seemed to hurt and there was a pain in her lower back that wouldn't go away.
"Good Lord, Pamela, what are you doing to yourself?" her chiropractor asked on her third visit. "You're storing up an amazing amount of tension. You must be under enormous stress."
"I've had an awful lot of work to do, Lynn," she said, grimacing as the chiropractor manipulated her.
"You'd better take some time off, and soon. I've never seen you like this before. You need a vacation, girl."
"I can't afford it," Pamela replied. "I'm working on a very important project."
"What's more important than your health?"
"Some things are," said Pamela, getting off the table. "Thanks, Lynn. That feels much better. I appreciate it."
"I'm going to give you a prescription for some muscle relaxants," the chiropractor said. "But take it easy with them. They're very strong."
"Thanks, Lynn. You're a lifesaver."
"Pamela ... Look, it's really none of my business, but maybe you should just get on with things, you know? Stop driving yourself so hard. Go out on a date or something."
"A date?" said Pamela. "What do you mean, a date? I happen to be engaged, or have you forgotten?"
"How could I forget? You invited me to three of your weddings. Unfortunately, the groom failed to show up each time."
"What are you saying?"
"Pamela... he's been gone for over a year now. Don't you think it's about time you accepted reality? Marvin ran off on you. And he isn't coming back."
"You don't understand, Lynn. It isn't like that."
"Isn't it? You can't go on carrying a torch for the guy, Pamela. Look at what you're doing to yourself. He isn't worth it."
"Yes, he is," said Pamela. "And don't ask me to explain, Lynn. I can't get into it. Thanks for the scrip."
"You're welcome. But at least think about what I've said. And stop pushing yourself so hard. Burying yourself in work is not the answer. You'll only give yourself a nervous breakdown. Get some rest, for God's sake."
"I will. And thanks again, Lynn."
On her way home, Pamela stopped off to get her prescription filled. As she came up to the cash register to pay for the pills, her glance fell on the racks of tabloids and she froze with astonishment. She grabbed the paper from the rack and stared at the photo and the headline.
"TIME MACHINE INVENTED" the headline proclaimed. The photograph on the front page was an artist's rendering of a device that looked almost exactly like Brewster's sketches in his notes. Pamela paid for the paper and hurried outside. She found a bench under a streetlamp and sat down to read the article. And as she read, she felt her stomach tightening into knots.
The author of the article was a reporter named Colin Hightower. The name meant nothing to her. She couldn't wait to get back to her apartment. She ran to the nearest pay phone, pulled her electronic organizer out of her purse, and punched up the home number for an editor she knew on The London Times.
"Howard? This is Pamela."
"Pamela! This is a pleasant surprise. Not setting another wedding date, are you?"
"Howard, I need your help. Does the name Colin Hightower mean anything to you? He's a reporter for -"
"Hightower!" The reaction was immediate. "Good Lord! What on earth can you possibly have to do with a character like him?"
"I need to get in touch with him. It's very important. But it has to be handled discreetly. Can you help?"
"Well, yes, I imagine I can, but
for heaven's sake, why? Are you aware of the man's reputation?"
"No, I don't know anything about him."
"Well, perhaps I'd best enlighten you before you decide to pursue this any further. The man is a walking blot on the profession of journalism. He is the worst sort of Fleet Street muckraker, and there's nothing he won't stoop to for the sake of a story, the more lurid and sensational, the better. He's an unethical and utterly unprincipled scoundrel who's been run out of every newspaper job in London. Even the tabloids won't have anything to do with him. Last I heard, he was working for some sleazy little rag based in the States, which sounds like the perfect place for him. What could you possibly want with a lowlife like him?"
"I really can't get into it right now," said Pamela, "but it's extremely important. I must speak with him as soon as possible."
"And you can't tell me why?"
Pamela took a deep breath and bit her lower lip. "Howard, I..." She hesitated. "I really shouldn't say anything, but I know that if I don't, you'll only start digging and I can't have you doing that. It's an extremely sensitive matter. I'll need your word that if I do tell you what this is all about, you won't breathe a word of it to anyone, under any circumstances."
"Well, now I'm dying of curiosity," said Howard. "All right, you have my word."
"I can't speak about this over the phone," she said. "Is there someplace we can meet?"
"How about down by the Thames, across from Parliament near the Archbishop of Canterbury's residence?"
"Perfect. I'll meet you by the souvenir stands in one hour."
"I'll be there."
She hung up the phone and started walking quickly back toward her apartment. It was growing chilly and it looked like rain. She wanted to get her raincoat and umbrella, as well as take some time to read the article again and figure out just what she was going to say to Howard St. John. She had no intention of telling him the truth. He'd probably think she'd slipped a cog or two. And if he believed her, it would be even worse. She couldn't risk exposing Marvin's discovery. Not only for his sake, but because she knew exactly what would happen to her if she did.
Technically, even though she didn't really work for them, she had become an employee of EnGulfCo International ever since she started trying to piece together the details of what Marvin had been working on from his notes. She'd had to sign a raft of legal forms-"purely as a formality"-which made her liable for prosecution if she revealed any details of Marvin's work. Even if she managed to survive the crushing lawsuit that would follow if she told St. John the truth, her career as a scientist would be finished.