by RR Haywood
‘Got it,’ Miri says, scrolling through the list of previous destinations on the tablet and shaking her head at how they have all been saved. Cellar. It cements in her mind the need to see this through. She sets the timer on the C4 to ten seconds, before pressing the saved destination on the tablet and confirming it to open. The blue light comes on. Beautiful and mesmerising. Tango Two turns her head to stare properly without the worry of bullets flying everywhere. The room is quieter now. The screaming has stopped. She twists to see that the girl is comforting the target. Smoothing his head while holding him close. She spots Roland Cavendish floundering, as though unsure of what to do or say.
‘Push her through,’ Safa says, clocking the agent looking about the room.
‘She stays,’ Miri says.
‘She’s the fucking enemy,’ Safa snaps.
‘Look through, confirm it,’ Miri says, glancing at Safa.
‘I’ll drag that bitch through and confirm it,’ Safa says, moving towards Tango Two.
‘Stand down, Miss Patel,’ Miri says, halting Safa in her tracks as Tango Two holds very still. ‘Confirm the location.’ Miri points at the blue light. ‘I do not know what it looks like . . .’
Safa glares at Tango Two as she walks to the blue light and quickly leans through, holds position for a second, then comes back. ‘Yep, that’s it.’
‘Hold here,’ Miri says. She takes the tablet and C4 with her through the portal into the basement. An instant transition of time and place. She was expecting to hear the noises, then remembers the basement is soundproofed. A glance round. A need to understand the place where the inventor works. A desire to investigate and seek knowledge, while knowing she has but seconds. She spots the desk. Something catches her eye. Sheets of paper strewn over the tabletop. It’s 2061 here. They use tablets for everything, not paper. She moves over to grab the sheets, and hears noises coming through the door Safa and Ben left open at the top of the stairs when they took Bertram out. No time to wait. She has to go now. She sets the timer, places the C4 down on the desk and rushes back through the portal, thumbing the screen and shutting it down the second she gets through.
‘What’s that?’ Ben asks, looking at the sheets of paper clutched in Miri’s hands.
‘On his desk. All I had time to grab.’ She goes to move off, but stops. She has to know. Nothing can be left to chance. There could be another time machine in the basement. She has to be sure the C4 detonated. She looks at the two poles holding the music speaker-like objects and waits another few seconds, which fill with the sound of Ria, Bertie and Roland all sobbing.
‘Need to know,’ she mutters and moves the poles to face away from everyone. Once set, she stands back and presses the saved destination. The blue light comes on. Heat and flames roar through and up to lick the ceiling. Tango Two stares, entranced, as Safa lifts an arm to cover her face. Miri switches it off. Satisfied the explosion has worked. Only then does she glance at the sheets of paper and spot the hand-drawn schematics of another device identical in design to the first, but with a red glowing field instead of blue. She holds it up towards Ben. ‘That’s why we went now . . .’
‘Fuck,’ Ben says.
‘SOUND WON’T GO THROUGH,’ Bertram roars, his vision returning enough for him to snatch a glance at his papers held by Miri.
None of them ask him what he means, they work to stay focussed and alert in the room now made hot and charged by the flames that came through the portal.
One job done, but there is more to do. So much more. Miri slowly lifts her head to look at the next task and takes in Roland, Bertie and Ria. She looks down to the female agent. She planned for Bertie and Roland, but not the other two. Never mind. Missions are always fluid.
‘I have authority?’ she says, staring at one person.
‘What?’ Safa says as she realises the last question was directed at her.
‘I have authority?’ Miri asks again.
Safa takes her in through fresh eyes. At what the older woman just did. At what she went through and the relentless vicious determination to get Bertram out the house. ‘Fuck yes,’ Safa snorts. ‘You have authority . . .’
‘Miri?’ Ben asks in alarm at seeing the woman sway unsteadily. ‘Maybe you should sit down.’
‘No time. Sit later. Doctor? Sedatives, now.’
‘I’m coming, I’m coming,’ Doctor Watson mumbles, rushing into the room with a large bag.
‘Roland, son, girl and the prisoner,’ Miri snaps, trying to clear her mind to think ahead.
‘What?’ the doctor asks weakly.
‘What?’ Roland asks just as weakly at hearing his name.
‘Sedate them.’
The doctor mumbles a reply and drops to a knee with a grimace as he unfastens the latches on the bag to let it fall open. With shaking hands, he gets a syringe out and works to fit a new needle protected by a bright-orange plastic cap that he bites off and spits aside. He pushes the needle through the rubber seal on a vial, turns it upside down and pulls back to fill the syringe with the clear liquid.
‘What is that?’ Ben asks.
‘What are you doing?’ Roland asks at the same time, alarmed at the sight.
‘Sedative,’ the doctor says. ‘It will help calm you down.’
‘I want Roland and prisoner out. Not calm,’ Miri says.
‘What?’ Roland says. ‘What the hell?’
‘You did it to us, remember?’ Safa says.
‘Hang on,’ Ben says. ‘Miri, what’s going on?’
‘I do not know their medical history. Administering a sedative beyond the prescribed dose could be harmful.’ The doctor joins the babble of voices rising again.
‘Do it now,’ Miri says, ignoring his question.
‘And I say again . . .’
‘Now, Doctor,’ Miri says with an edge to her voice. ‘Or I will.’
‘I want it noted that I am against giving medications beyond the prescribed limit.’
‘Why are you knocking him out?’ Ben asks, holding a hand out to stop the doctor.
Miri’s whole face changes, morphing into pure anger as she strides towards the shocked doctor and snatches the syringe from his hand. ‘We do not have time for this. How did they find the staging area? Who led them there? How did that information get out? Why did that person help us? Is Roland passing information right now? Muscle or vein?’ she barks, dropping next to Roland.
‘Get your hands off me,’ Roland cries out at Miri reaching for his arm.
‘Muscle!’ the doctor blurts, seeing the needle going towards Roland’s arm.
‘Harry, roll him over,’ Miri orders.
‘GET OFF ME,’ Roland yells.
‘Now, Sergeant Madden,’ Miri orders. Harry responds to the tone. Dropping to grab Roland, flailing and screaming. He rolls him easily. Pinning him face down.
Miri doesn’t hesitate. She drives the point of the needle into Roland’s backside and pushes the plunger down halfway. Roland cries out, trying to buck and get free.
‘How much did you give him?’ Doctor Watson asks in shock at the half-empty syringe.
‘Hold her,’ Miri says, moving towards Tango Two.
‘Miri, let the doctor do it,’ Ben says quickly as Tango Two twists her head to follow the action. She looks back to Roland. Already his voice is losing volume. Whatever they gave him is working fast. She knows she is next.
‘I’m not a threat,’ she says quickly. ‘I don’t know that man. I don’t know any of you.’
‘Stay still, please,’ Doctor Watson says, moving towards the woman.
‘No, please . . . please,’ Tango Two says. ‘I’m no threat . . . I want to . . .’
‘It’s just a sedative,’ Doctor Watson says, trying to sound soothing and professional but coming across clipped and terse.
‘Do it now, Doctor,’ Miri orders.
‘No, please,’ Tango Two says, gritting her teeth as the needle pushes through her trousers into her backside. She feels the jab and the hotness of
the liquid going in, and knows it’s too late to say or do anything. She breathes calmly, easing her heart rate. Miri watches her, seeing that lack of panic and the control exerted.
Tango Two goes quietly, closing her eyes to relax and let the drugs take her down. The voices around her grow softer, fainter, further away. It’s warm here. Safe. She feels nice. Sleepy. Her eyes close, heavy and drugged, as she sinks down into darkness.
Ten
An austere, sterile room. Concrete walls. Concrete floor and ceiling. A single metal-framed bed. A metal shutter on the wall indicates the placement of a window.
Tango Two stirs, rising through the layers of sleep to open heavy eyes that snap shut from the glaring light overhead. She winces, lifting a hand to shield her eyes that slowly open to peer out. She feels dizzy and slow-witted, as if hung over.
She sits up too quickly and a wave of nausea sends her sinking back down with a groan. She breathes it through, forcing her mind to work. Cavendish Manor. The gunships. Mother ordered me to be killed. I shot Echo. I shot other agents. The portal. I went through it. They injected me. I was sedated.
Injuries?
She tenses muscles and checks for sensation and feeling. Arms okay. Legs okay. Head okay. Sore and fatigued, but everything seems to be working.
Senses?
She clicks her fingers to hear the sound while sniffing at the trace of antiseptic hanging in the air.
She opens her eyes again, just a crack at first and then slowly wider while her pupils adjust to the light.
She can see, hear, smell and move.
Sitting up, slower this time, she looks round the concrete room. Like a cell, but not a cell. She has sheets. Sheets can be used as a weapon or for self-harm or to aid escape. She leans over to see if the bed is bolted to the floor. It isn’t. Cells normally have the beds bolted down so they can’t be used to barricade the door.
Why did Mother order them to kill me?
She hears a drip and freezes to listen. Another one. She looks down to see blood on the sheet covering her body and only then gains the sensation of hot liquid in her nose. Her hands come away smeared in blood. Nosebleed. She starts feeling her head again, grunting, tutting and wincing at the feel of her swollen eyes, cheeks and the sore points all over her skull. That was some scrap in the house. Flashes of memory come back. Safa Patel fighting five of them on her own. The big bearded guy called Harry lifting Alpha off his feet.
She pinches the fleshy bit underneath the gristle on the bridge of her nose and looks round again. A metal shutter on the window and a solid metal door are the only other features.
With her hand raised to her face, she spots her bare arm and only then looks down at herself and the plain black vest top she is wearing. She pushes the sheet away to find her legs covered in soft cotton, grey tracksuit bottoms. A pull cord on the waist of the jogging bottoms. That can be used as a weapon. A ligature for suicide or to use to strangle someone from behind. Someone changed her. She sniffs again and lifts the top to look at the cuts and bruises on her body that smell of antiseptic. She was cleaned too. They’ve given medical aid, changed her into clean clothes that have a pull cord and placed her in a room with a bed that isn’t bolted down.
The dizziness comes again when she tries to stand. She braces, closing her eyes and seeing if it will pass or get worse. It eases off. At the door, she listens, expecting to hear something. Nothing. She pushes the handle down and blinks in surprise when it opens. The next room is bigger. Three ugly blue chairs at the end underneath the exposed window set under a rolled-up metal shutter. Daylight outside. A quick glance at the blue sky before she turns to scan everything else.
Two more doors stand open opposite her. She walks out gingerly, peering through both to see metal-frame beds, clean and unused. Two more doors. One looks like it leads out. She checks the other one and finds the bathroom. It looks brand new. Stainless steel fittings and with three plastic cups, three toothbrushes and three towels placed neatly on the side.
Thirsty. Hydrate.
She fills a cup from the tap on the sink and takes a testing sip before guzzling it down in one go. The water is cool and refreshing and a tiny step towards being revitalised.
Why did Mother want to kill me? What did I do?
Toilet. Toilet paper. Shower. Towel. She picks up one of the toothbrushes. It’s solid plastic and not one of the flimsy things they use in detention centres. This could be a weapon too. She grips the end with the bristles and holds it up ready to stab out. Pressure on her bladder. She puts the toothbrush down, moves over to the toilet and discovers she is not wearing her own knickers. That’s disgusting. These are plain black and similar to hers but not hers. Something about not wearing her own underwear repulses her. She sits down and urinates while looking round. No noises. Nothing. It’s so quiet.
She flushes and moves to the sink to rinse her hands, freezing at the sight of herself in the mirror fixed to the wall. Her whole face is battered, bruised and swollen. She reaches back to pull out the hairband and runs her fingers through her shoulder-length brown hair to untangle the knots. She fixes her hair back into a ponytail, grimacing at the sight of herself, but knowing it looks worse than it is. She is walking unaided, which is incredible after a fight like that.
Face rinsed. Hands washed. Teeth brushed. Feeling clean and ready gives a psychological boost and in turn helps set the mental preparation for what is to come. She stops, looks down at her chest and grabs her boobs, realising she isn’t wearing a bra.
She goes into the middle room with the three chairs and prods one with her bare foot. Not bolted down either, and it feels light. She could throw it as a distraction. She looks round, assessing, evaluating. No visible lenses, but then they’ve become so small now they could be anywhere. She closes her eyes and draws a slow breath to try and gain any sense of being watched. They said in training never to ignore those senses. If it feels that way, then assume it is that way. She doesn’t get that voyeur feeling now, but then also considers the fact that she just woke up from being drugged.
Perimeter.
She goes to the window to further the assessment and evaluation. To know what the ground outside is. Where the nearest structures are. How high up is she? Where are the hiding points? See. Smell. Hear. Plan, think and always be prepared.
Why did Mother do that? Why? What happened? I was with the target male. I secured him. Why?
Ten minutes later, she still stands at the window. Staring. Just staring. Her heart, which had almost jumped out of her chest, now settles back down to a normal rhythm.
Dinosaurs.
She finally thinks to look around. She is on the ground floor of a concrete structure on the side of a hill that sweeps down to a huge valley currently filled with what appear to be dinosaurs.
Another ten minutes pass and she again tries to look around, unaware that her nose has started bleeding again.
Assess. Evaluate. Summarise.
Alpha said there was a time machine. He said Bertram Cavendish is thought to be the inventor. The snatch mission failed. They were opposed. The opposition was Safa Patel, Ben Ryder, a big man with a beard who was strangely familiar. Harry? They called him Harry.
Mother ordered everyone to kill me. She ordered the gunships to fire on us. Why?
Safa Patel.
Ben Ryder.
Dinosaurs.
Is the old woman in charge? The dynamics in the room they came into after Cavendish Manor suggested that Roland thought he was in charge. They were all arguing with each other. Yes! She remembers now. She remembers the old woman saying to Safa if she had authority. Like a question, but not a question. Is the team here undergoing change? A change in leadership always creates a power vacuum, which is a thing to exploit.
Okay. The time machine is real. She went through it and now she is in the distant past. Cretaceous? Jurassic? She knows history, but not enough to determine her precise location. Either way, those periods spanned tens of millions of years and were hundr
eds of millions of years before humans emerged as a species.
Footsteps. She turns from the window to face the main door. She listens for what comes next to determine the number and types of locks, but hears only the scraping of metal on metal. A bolt? The door swings inwards. She waits, passive and calm. Safa Patel walks in and stops on seeing Tango Two.
‘Seen the dinosaurs?’ she asks bluntly.
Tango Two stares at her. Seeing the same bruises, swellings and cuts on the other woman; but even with that slight disfigurement, she is clearly and recognisably Safa Patel.
‘You deaf, fuckstick?’
‘What?’ Tango Two blurts.
‘Dinosaurs? Seen them?’
‘Er, yes. Yes, I have . . .’
‘We’re in dinosaur times,’ Safa says. ‘Cretaceous.’
‘Oh.’
Safa shrugs. ‘I sounded smart then. I don’t know what Cretaceous is.’
‘Oh,’ Tango Two says.
‘You look like shit. Good. Serves you right for being the bad guys. Miri said I can’t ask you why you helped us. So fuck off and don’t tell me anything.’
‘Okay.’
‘Doc said nothing’s broken.’
‘I . . .’
‘You got my knickers on. Clean though. It’s gross wearing someone else’s pants.’
‘I see.’
‘Your boobs are bigger than mine, so no bra.’
‘Right.’
‘I changed you. You’re the bad guys, but I didn’t let any men see you naked.’
‘Thank you.’
‘Miri said Ben and Harry aren’t allowed to talk to you.’
‘What?’
‘She said you might honey-trap them. She meant shagging. Don’t try and honey-trap me either, or I’ll punch you in the face.’
‘What?’
‘Don’t try and run off, otherwise the dinosaurs will eat you.’
‘Right.’
‘Or I’ll shoot you and leave you for the dinosaurs to eat.’
‘Um.’
‘And the nosebleeds are something to do with the oxygen or something . . . Doc’s given you meds. You’ll be fine, so stop whining. Man up.’