The Time Travel Directorate

by Kim, Penny

  6

  Kanon looked at the wooden cross blankly. The monk gave her a push.

  “Take the water from here. Lift up, pour out.”

  The monk pantomimed his statements, holding the teacups for Kanon. He then took a seat to begin his morning meditation.

  “Ok,” Kanon said aloud. “Here goes nothing.”

  Wrapping her knees over the arms of the cross, she slowly eased herself down. Due to her short stature, the tips of her fingers barely reached the water vessels below. Grunting with effort, she took the teacups and filled them with water. Struggling, she sat up, shakily depositing the water into the hanging jars.

  After several minutes of activity, she was exhausted. Pausing, Kanon held herself upright, knees shaking. Desperate to escape from the burning sensation in her limbs, she searched for a comforting memory of Versailles—like the time they played peasant. They swept a little makeshift cottage and ran the puppies through the fields as if they were goats.

  The games were silly, and their entertainments quite vapid. However, the Duchess was giving in her attentions. Not a day went by that was not filled with hearty laughter. Now her friend was dead—erased from history by a man who found happiness only through the fulfillment of his most masochistic desires.

  Kanon continued her torturous exercise—searching for another memory to distract her. Dipping the teacups into the water jugs, she thought, as she usually did, of the guillotine. She could hear the fall of the blade, and the subsequent crash of splintering wood as she was thrown from the scaffolding. Thinking of her escape was like a drug. It comforted her during the long days of torment.

  Sitting up, stomach muscles screaming, Kanon dumped the water into the now half-full vessels. Exhaling, she released herself to the ground, replaying in her mind how surprised Julius looked when she spoke English. Smiling to herself, she dipped the teacups into the water, her muscles straining as she sat up. Reaching the top of the cross, she paused for a moment of relief.

  “Again,” called the voice behind her.

  Sighing, Kanon released her hold, shakily extending her torso to the ground. Taking such a break had been a mistake. It was much harder to start again.

  Kanon wondered if this was some kind of purgatory. Every day was the same. She rose at sunrise, retrieving water from a mountain stream. After that, she collected the monk for their morning walk. In practice, these were more like forced marches, up and down variable terrain with nothing more than cloth shoes to protect her feet. These walks used to be painful, but Kanon had since developed thick callouses.

  The monk was not prone to discussion. Therefore, Kanon was left to her own thoughts, dedicating much time to analyzing the Julius Arnold case. The more she pondered it, the more suspect the whole situation appeared. What if she had not accidently happened upon Julius Arnold, what if he had come to find her? As Director Hay’s daughter, Julius was obviously keen to send a message, starting with lopping off her head.

  If she had made this connection, perhaps Chief Smiley had as well—maybe this was why he sent her to training instead of bringing her home. Her father was a great man, but he was altogether too trusting when it came to his employees. Chief Smiley never had Kanon’s best interests at heart. It seemed he only wanted her out of the way to preserve his relationship with Director Hay. It was very like Smiley to be threatened by Kanon, something she found amusing.

  With only her thoughts as comfort, the training droned on. Kanon began to lose track of time entirely. Was she there for several weeks, or months? The monk was not an ideal companion. He would only sit, unmoving, still in his meditation. They did not talk, and he never imparted wisdom, other than hasten her on when she slackened. Kanon found herself slipping away, dissolving into her hardened routine. The strong physique that developed revealed a person Kanon hardly recognized.

  As her time there progressed, it was clear why this training was so effective for inspectors. Not only were they able to deal with the physical demands of their work, but it was the mental capacity that served them so well. With the threat of PTS looming, the ability to disconnect from the stresses of travel was necessary.

  Kanon wondered why she was never sent to this training before. Did her father think she couldn’t handle it? He awarded her a high-profile post, because that’s what she wanted. It was now abundantly clear that this approach was all wrong. Kanon had to crawl before she walked.

  Lost in her thoughts, Kanon felt a dribble of water. Sitting up, she realized the basins were overflowing. Hopping down from the cross, she stretched her aching limbs. Noting the setting sun, she removed the jugs, dumping the water into the basins below—ready to start again the next day.

  Not waiting for the monk, she began her evening chores. She didn’t want to delay this process. The area came alive at night, and she wanted to be safely ensconced in the shack before nightfall.

  Kanon knew she was dreaming, recognizing the familiar set up of a recurring nightmare. She was in her boudoir in Versailles, preparing for the masquerade ball. Moving to her wardrobe, she began pulling out dress after dress, finding each one pitted with holes or horribly stained. She heard pounding on the door.

  “Cécile, hurry!” the Duchess urged.

  Kanon frantically searched for something to wear, while the Duchess banged on the door. Just as the pounding reached a fever pitch, Kanon awoke—instinctively holding her arms up so the maid can begin dressing her for the day.

  Realizing where she was, Kanon collapsed onto her cot. She was not in Versailles. She was in training camp, and there were no maids here.

  After her morning chores, she returned to her exercise. Just before she began, a small voice stopped her.

  “Today, we move on,” the monk said.

  Kanon turned, as the monk removed several sticks of incense from his robes. Lighting them, he placed them firmly in the ground. Pulling her above them, he slapped her knees to bend, positioning her in a chair pose. On top of her shoulders, he placed the teacups, filled with water.

  “Hold,” he commanded.

  Kanon took deep breaths, trying to wrap her mind around the change in routine. As her chair position faltered, the tip of the incense burned the back of her legs. Wincing, she inched up, holding the strenuous pose. The monk, oblivious to her discomfort, had closed his eyes in meditation. Kanon closed hers as well, trying to find her center.

  Her knees knocked together, the sweat from her body poured down her back, threatening to put out the very incense she hovered above. She searched for a memory that would comfort her—something that would take her mind far away.

  She thought of her introduction to the Directorate. From the start, it was clear she didn’t fit in with the other inspectors. Those alpha male types who were quick to prove a point and less interested in the facts to back it up. Kanon accepted her assignment in pre-revolutionary France with relief. The comforts of court life at Versailles suited her—the assignment, the opportunity of a lifetime.

  But after the bloom faded, Kanon realized the work of an inspector was shockingly mundane. Because punishments to time travel violations were so severe, the majority of travels to restricted areas were honest mistakes. Until she ran into Julius, her only case had been a confused Florida couple. Having been alerted to the interlopers by Central Computer, Kanon was able to arrive at their exact location.

  To see their bemused faces when she approached them from her fine carriage, dressed in the opulence of the French court, felt good. And as she sent them on their way, she wished she could do more for the Directorate. After almost five years in the field, she had gotten her wish and much more. And now it was all over, her memories were the only remnants of her time at Versailles.

  Straining in her pose, Kanon wondered if Vin felt the same. After such a successful first mission, did he feel a crushing emptiness once it was all over? Frowning, Kanon felt her legs fall slightly, the heat of incense less intense as it burned to the ground.

  Finally, the monk rose, removing
the incense and gesturing to the shack.

  Kanon collapsed on the ground, holding her aching legs in a satisfying stretch. How long had she held the pose? It seemed like ages. Judging from the location of the sun, and the monk’s eagerness to retreat to the shack, she assumed it was lunchtime.

  Entering the structure, her nose confirmed her suspicions. After partaking in a simple meal of rice and vegetables, she felt energized. Slowly, bit by bit, she was getting better.

  After lunch, Kanon was ready for another round of incense related torture when the monk again surprised her, guiding her to a circle of basins, each filled to the brim with water.

  “Leap from one to the other,” the monk directed.

  He deftly climbed atop one vessel, the height just clearing Kanon’s waist. Appearing as if he was dancing on air, he leapt from one to the other, pushing off the narrow lip of each vessel. He finished the circle of basins with a dramatic pose of one hand thrust upward in the air, the other neatly tucked behind his waist.

  He hopped off and wagged his finger at Kanon—his face in a broad grin. Swallowing heavily, she pulled herself onto one jug. Gripping the edge with her shoes, she tried to steady herself. Attempting to emulate his lightness, she jumped to the next vessel. Landing with both feet on the rim, she flailed her arms in an attempt to keep her balance. Losing the battle, there was nowhere else to fall but into the water jug. She landed with a splash, hitting her side on the way down.

  Sputtering to the surface, Kanon gasped for air. The monk did not look pleased. Now soaking wet, Kanon pulled herself up onto the edge of the vessel, finding her balance. Leaping into the air, she landed delicately on the adjacent water vessel, and on the next—completing the circle as the monk did before her.

  The monk nodded firmly, clapping his hands together.

  “Continue.”

  Excited with this seal of approval, Kanon began the circle again, her heart thumping with anxiety.

  Is this what Vin endured for two years? Kanon was not sure she would make it, and Vin didn’t strike her as someone who would accept defeat easily.

  7

  “I can’t do this,” Vin shouted, throwing Jurisprudence of Time Travel on the floor of his dorm room. He stood up and kicked the heavy book across the room for good measure.

  Training was not going well. Travel law was complex, to say the least, with overlapping regulations and various legal interpretations. On day one, his instructor told the class that, despite the fact that reading panes offered standard applications for travel crime, they were still required to educate themselves via a classroom course. This was due, of course, to a lawsuit at some time in the distant past that required an anachronistic procedure the rest of the world functioned without.

  Despite his frustrations, Vin knew there was a more logical reason for the Directorate’s emphasis on the old school way of doing things. There were no reading panes in 18th century France. The reading pane on the web was deliberately small. The Directorate did not want inspectors to rely on them.

  Their very existence was a closely guarded secret inspectors protected with their lives. If they inadvertently revealed the technology to someone in the past, it would surely impact Standard D, not to mention cost them their job, along with the added benefit of a lengthy prison stay. And that was if the inspector was lucky enough to make it back alive. Some of the more ugly attacks on inspectors occurred with the discovery of their webs—which, in regulated time periods, often denoted witchcraft. It was an obvious challenge to time travel regulation. Inspectors had modern technology at their disposal, which they could not use.

  Staring at the book from across the room, Vin reluctantly stood to retrieve it—slamming it on his desk. Flipping it open, he tried to concentrate.

  From Vin’s estimation, their campus was an abandoned 50’s era classroom—located somewhere in the Northeast. Bordered on all sides by dense forest, there was little to no distractions available to the inspectors. Meaning he had to study.

  Pouring over the legal texts, Vin wondered which was worse—studying or the training exercises with the monk. Training camp was a shared experience that bonded all inspectors. They all affectionately referred to the monk as “the teacher.” Rumor had it, the monk was from a Shaolin temple—recruited by the Directorate to train their inspectors in the martial arts. It was this training that effectively prepared inspectors for jumping in and out of time.

  The biggest challenge to time travel was not the physical demands of the past, which were many—the challenge was mental. Perseverance, hard work, and patience were the tools of an inspector. It was a lesson Vin learned the hard way during his first mission. After learning French and indoctrinating himself with pre-revolutionaries, Vin felt the mental toll of having to build up an identity. It was the overwhelming isolation that got to you the most. Vin felt like he was on an island, one populated by people he could not connect with in any meaningful way.

  The only thing that preserved his sanity was routine. Every morning he practiced the ancient techniques the monk had taught him. Preparing himself mentally, he was better able to absorb the culture and language around him—crafting the persona that would ultimately save Kanon Hay. And he had done it right under the nose of Julius Arnold.

  Vin smiled at this thought. He stood up from the desk, ready for a break he did not deserve. He settled down on his bed—preparing to take a nap before night class. Instead, his thoughts drifted to his latest adventure.

  Julius had no idea the guard he had recruited to expedite Liberty, Equality, Fraternity would end up being the right arm of the Directorate—the very institution Julius was looking to subvert.

  Feeling his eyes droop, Vin wondered why his mission hadn’t been to eliminate Julius Arnold. Why go through all that trouble just to save Kanon Hay? He could certainly have accomplished both, if only he had been given the order.

  Looking up at his watch, Vin snapped awake. He was going to be late. Sitting up, he grabbed the textbook and his coat before exiting into the misty fog of the evening.

  He made it across campus in record time, walking into the lecture hall just as his instructor began addressing the class. As everyone flipped their books open, Vin stared at his blankly, unnerved by how engaged everyone appeared. Looking to his left, he spotted a nerdy looking guy with a pristine legal pad. Thinking he was the closest to normal Vin could hope for, he nudged him in the arm.

  “Are you making heads or tails of this?” Vin asked his classmate.

  The man offered a crooked smile in response. His thick, black glasses matched his neatly styled chestnut hair. Vin studied him for a bit, declaring the man either profoundly arrogant or a total nerd.

  “I have no idea why we have to sit through this, there is an reading pane application for all this material,” he said smugly.

  Maybe he’s a bit of both, Vin thought.

  “I thought this was how the Directorate did things,” Vin responded, trying not to disturb the nervous-looking instructor who was shooting glances in their direction. “We rely on ourselves, not technology.”

  “I never had to reference legal documents in the field. This training is for the Directorate’s annual audit,” the man responded with a smile, revealing brilliant white teeth.

  “That’s awfully cynical,” Vin replied, pretending to take some notes.

  “So, you’re new then?” The man held out his hand. “Inspector Quill.”

  “A familiar name. I’m Vin Damato,” Vin responded, shaking his hand firmly.

  “Ah, so you are the famous Inspector Damato,” Quill responded, his warmth disappearing.

  “Yes,” Vin said, remembering why his name was so familiar. “You were assigned to the Julius Arnold case?”

  Quill flinched, adjusting his glasses.

  “I initially spotted him in my area of responsibility—the Colonial era. After that, he jumped into Middle Ages—early 12th Century. I was working on building up my persona when I was pulled in for training. Then the budg
et crisis hit, so they pulled me off the case.”

  “Do you have to stay here?” Vin asked, wondering about the blanket travel restriction.

  “Training is conducted in unrestricted time areas. I stay the course until I deploy back to headquarters. Then I go home like everyone else,” Quill said, an edge to his voice.

  “I’m an analyst myself, just here to make things official,” Vin said, hoping this revelation would make his new friend relax.

  “Ah, and analysts are not restricted from traveling. I wondered what they would come up with. What a nice Catch-22 Chief Smiley found for you. You can’t let an international criminal like Julius Arnold run amok just because the government ran out of money.”

  “You sound like Director Hay,” Vin responded, watching as their instructor broke the chalk. “In any case, I’d like to pick your brain about the case.” Vin meant it as a question, but it didn’t come across as one.

  Maybe back when he really was an analyst he would have been horrified at this perceived faux pas, but after operating as an inspector, he couldn’t help but treat Quill as an equal.

  For a moment, Quill didn’t respond. Vin watched as he swallowed with effort, before turning back to him.

  “Why not?” Quill responded succinctly. “At the very least, it’s all I can do to stay involved.”

  “I’ll buy your dinner,” Vin shot back with a smile.

  “Only the finest cafeteria food, what a generous man you are,” Quill responded.

  After an excruciating hour in the classroom, they reconvened in the mess hall. Vin picked at his turkey sandwich while Quill neatly devoured a pizza, talking in-between bites.

  “Julius first overstayed in Salem,” Quill began.

  Vin took a bite of his sandwich, quickly wishing that he hadn’t. The turkey was dry and tasteless.

  “What happened?” Vin asked, removing the stale bread and picking at the turkey.

  “Didn’t Chief Smiley tell you?” Quill responded, a sardonic grin on his face.