Restoration

by Deborah Chester

  Trojan sighed. After a moment’s hesitation, he gripped Noel’s shoulder. “You’ll be certified fit one of these days. It hasn’t been long enough.”

  Noel whipped his head around and glared at his friend. “And how many weeks will it take? How many months? How many years? They don’t trust me. They’ll never trust me again.”

  “They will,” said Trojan with conviction. “You’re too damned impatient. You always want things to happen immediately. The hag is too cautious for you, but it’s her job to be careful.”

  Noel frowned. Part of him knew that Trojan was right. But the rest of him had to believe his own instincts. “You’re traveling soon, aren’t you? The briefing that made you late tonight—”

  Trojan dropped his gaze away. “I travel tomorrow.”

  It came back, the resentment, sour and burning in Noel’s throat until he could barely contain it. His hands shook, no matter how hard he gripped the railing. But beyond that, a new worry reared its head.

  “You can’t,” said Noel unsteadily, keeping his gaze away from Trojan so as not to betray too much. “It’s not safe.”

  “Noel, don’t get started on that again. You’ve been obsessed with tracking down these Anarchists. You’ve worked way too hard to find them. But now that’s done. You succeeded. You got the creeps who killed Tchielskov.”

  Noel swallowed hard, letting himself be diverted for a moment. “Most of them.”

  “One got away. He’s gone. You won’t find him again.”

  “I know.”

  “You have to accept that.”

  Noel nodded. “I do.”

  “You did your best.”

  “Yeah, with your help.”

  Trojan hesitated. “I had to even the odds, my friend.”

  Noel looked him dead in the eyes then. “For a moment there I thought you were on their side.”

  A trace of anger smoldered in Trojan’s blue gaze for a moment, then vanished. “Never.”

  “Yeah,” said Noel. “Sorry.”

  “I wanted you to be able to live with yourself in the morning.”

  “They’re scum! They don’t deserve—”

  Trojan held up his hand. “No, but you deserve a clear conscience. There is justice, and then there is selling your soul for expediency. You know what I’m talking about. Do I have to explain it further?”

  “No,” whispered Noel, and felt the shame of what he’d nearly done. “Thanks.”

  “You’re welcome. Now, it’s late and I’m freezing. I want some coffee to warm me up. We’ll go to my place.”

  “Thanks, but I’d better head across the lake.”

  Trojan shook his head as though in exasperation, but his smile was kind. “That dump you call home is too far away. Shuttle traffic will be jamming up at this hour for the next work shift. You come home with me and stay tonight.”

  “I don’t need a nursemaid,” snapped Noel.

  “A drinking companion, maybe?” suggested Trojan slyly.

  Noel’s annoyance softened. Maybe, if he got Trojan good and drunk, his friend wouldn’t be certified to travel tomorrow. That would give Noel time to talk to the technicians about the distortion. He looked at his friend and finally grinned. “Yeah, now that’s the best idea you’ve had all night. Let’s go.”

  Chapter 2

  Chicago Work Complex 7 was an edifice of bronzed steel and glass sprawling over multiple acres of prime west-side real estate. It held the offices of sixty-two international corporations, a promenade of retail shops and restaurants, three hotels, several theaters, fourteen banks, the Museum of Political/Social History, the Library of Antiquities, and the Time Institute.

  An international science symposium on mutations of aquatic single-celled life-forms was being conducted at one of the hotels. Marine biologists, salt tanned and chattering, filled the escalators and slidewalks, hurried past office workers dreamily spaced out on their Life-design head chips, and jammed the lifts.

  “Come on, fella!” one called to Noel, holding open the door and waving to him. “There’s room to squeeze you in!”

  Noel, his head aching from a brandy hangover, his mouth sour from the aftertaste of painkillers, and his arm sore no matter which way he held it, smiled a no-thanks. Normally he would have sprung for the lift. Today, however, he preferred to glide slowly along among the cattle, quiet and complacent, their smiles serene, their eyes slightly blanked out as they enjoyed the fantasies playing inside their heads. But he was late. He’d gotten drunk last night instead of Trojan, and his friend had already left for work when Noel woke up this morning.

  “Come on! We’ll make room.”

  “Yeah! Come on.”

  With a wince Noel stepped onto the lift. As soon as the doors closed scant inches from his nose, he found himself boxed in with a jostling, good-natured crowd of chatterers and back slappers.

  “I tell you, Froether’s lecture is the one to catch.”

  “Froether! He’s a complete bore. Nothing new since—”

  “What about the wonder child? Kefinsky’s prodigy? Her paper’s at thirteen-hundred hours.”

  “Yeah? I hear she’s got legs like—”

  “Fifth floor, please,” said Noel quietly. His head gonged from the noise.

  “Fifth?” said the woman beside him. Sturdy of build, she had a pleasant, weathered face and sea-colored eyes. “That’s the Time Institute, isn’t it?”

  He didn’t want to talk, but nodding tended to make his head fall off. Noel squinted at her, since the soft lights inside the lift hurt his eyes, and said, “That’s right.”

  Intelligent interest filled her expression. “You’re a traveler?”

  Anger filled him, and he fought the urge to snap at her. After all, she was just making conversation. “Historian,” he said, and forced out half a smile.

  “I’ve spent my life on the sea,” she said. “I’ve always wondered what it would be like to see tall ships under sail.”

  In Noel’s ears came the distant roar of cannon fire. For an instant he once again felt a wooden deck yawing beneath his bare feet. The wind singing through the spars, and the sweet-salty scent of the sea ripe in his nostrils. Canvas unfurling with great snaps, shaking free and white in the sunshine, billowing into a cloud as it caught the wind, and the unexpected surge forward as the ship leaped through the waves.

  She touched his sleeve, bringing him back from his memories. “You’ve been there, traveled there, haven’t you? I see it in your eyes. You know what it’s like.”

  Noel dropped his gaze from hers. He knew, all right. Just before the technicians at the Institute had managed to finally rescue him from the time loop where he’d been trapped, he’d been on board a pirate vessel in the Caribbean. But travelers weren’t allowed to talk about their assignments for security purposes.

  Once again he forced a smile for her. “You should come by the library and see a recording.”

  “In a sensory booth?” She snorted. “It’s not the same.”

  “It’s very close.”

  Politeness dropped across her face. “Perhaps. I’m very busy at this symposium.”

  “The chance of a lifetime,” said Noel, knowing he’d handled the conversation all wrong. One of the primary purposes of the Institute was to keep alive people’s interest in history. “If you’ll step off with me, I’ll get you a pass.”

  She shook her head. “Thanks, perhaps later. I have a paper to deliver.”

  “Nils Borgsten is our seafaring expert. If he’s in, perhaps you’d like to meet him and take an informal tour of the museum behind the scenes.”

  Her gaze snapped up, keen again. “Dolphins?” she asked in a whisper, quivering with suppressed excitement. The lift doors opened and she stepped off ahead of Noel.

  “Clara, we’ll be late,” said one of the scientists.

  She waved absently at her companions. “I’ll catch the next lift.”

  As soon as the doors closed, she gripped Noel’s arm. “Dolphins?” she whispere
d, her voice almost squeaking in excitement. “Twentieth-century, non-extinct dolphins? Could this Borgsten provide me with data on them?”

  “I’m sure—”

  “I mean, I’ve combed through all the research documented at that time. It’s threadbare. There’s nothing left to do any kind of fresh study on. But something new. Some small fact that hasn’t been pawed to death…I could finish my dissertation and—”

  “How about nineteenth-century dolphins?” asked Noel with a smile. “Or—”

  Her grip tightened on his sleeve. “Could you?”

  Still smiling, Noel gently disengaged himself from her grip and walked over to the security desk. He explained the situation and asked for Borgsten to be paged.

  “He’ll be here in a few minutes,” said Noel, returning to the woman. “If he can’t answer your questions, he can find someone else for you to ask.”

  “Thank you. I—”

  “Excuse me,” said Noel. “I’m late for a meeting.”

  Leaving her glowing with gratitude and excitement, Noel cleared himself through the stringent security checks and headed down the corridor into the depths of the Institute. At the last check-in point, he entered his name into the computer and found several messages waiting for him. The order to report to Dr. Rugle’s office had priority.

  Noel frowned. He wanted to talk to the hag, all right, but not until he’d had a chance to see Bruthe down in the labs. He tried calling the technician, but the line was blocked.

  “No communications permitted to Time Control Access Area,” intoned the computer.

  Noel’s frown deepened, and he felt a spurt of alarm. That meant the time stream was open. They were sending people out. But they couldn’t! Not until that distortion he’d encountered was checked out.

  With an oath, he grabbed his security badge and headed down the corridor at a run.

  Laboratory 14 was bolted shut, with NO ACCESS flashing above the door. Noel hammered on it with his fists, cursing himself for having overslept, cursing Trojan for slipping medication in his cup, cursing himself for not having gotten here sooner.

  “Kedran!” said a sharp voice. “Have you gone mad?”

  Noel turned, breathless and shaken, to find fellow historian Rupeet staring at him in astonishment and censure. “Has Trojan traveled yet?” Noel demanded.

  “How on earth should I know that?”

  Noel gripped his arm. “Are you traveling today?”

  “I’m scheduled to go at fourteen hundred hours this afternoon—”

  “Then you were at last night’s briefing.”

  “Yes, of course I was. Unlike some people, I never miss a prep—”

  “Shut up,” said Noel, in no mood for Rupeet’s snide needling. “If you were at the briefing, then you should know Trojan’s schedule.”

  Rupeet lifted his slim dark brows and pulled free of Noel’s grip. “I’m surprised he didn’t tell you. You’re as thick as thieves, the pair of you, always violating the rules as though this entire operation were some kind of game.”

  Noel gritted his teeth. “Look, never mind the lecture. Just tell me if he’s traveled yet.”

  “If you haven’t been informed, and I see no reason why you should have access to travel schedules, then it’s hardly my place to tell you anything,” said Rupeet.

  “Damn you! There was a distortion last night. The time stream has an instability that needs to be investigated before any of you go out there—”

  “Nonsense,” snapped Rupeet. “There’s been nothing of the kind or it would have been announced. The technicians have aborted none of the missions, and they are exceedingly careful about that sort of thing. Are you certain your holographic implants aren’t playing tricks on you, Kedran?”

  “I don’t have any head chips,” growled Noel. “You know that.”

  “I know nothing of the kind. All I see is someone either mad or on something. You’re a disgrace to this—”

  “Oh, shut up,” said Noel, and hurried away.

  He should have known he’d get no answers from Rupeet. The man was an idiot, obsessive about unimportant details, an unimaginative perfectionist who ratted on other people’s mistakes and was oblivious to the finer points of experiencing life in the past. His recordings were mundane, boring, petty examinations of minor events. Rupeet could spend hours recording an herbalist grinding potions while outside the garden walls the entire castle might be under siege, and he would never stop to go after the larger event because it would mean upsetting the meticulous organization of his assignment. Why Rugle put up with him, Noel had no idea. Trojan had once attempted to explain to him that Rupeet was dependable and steady, and Rugle could be sure that he’d always come back with what he’d been sent to learn. But Noel had no patience with that. When he’d traveled to the past he’d left himself open to anything taking place around him. Sometimes it didn’t pan out, but he’d returned many times with gems of information that no one else would have dared try for. Noel knew that risks were often necessary, and he’d never hesitated to take them.

  Until the Anarchists had sabotaged his Light Operated Computer and trapped him in time. Now that he was back, his wings had been clipped. He was shut out, excluded from the mission briefings, denied travel, kept busy with debriefings of his experiences and cataloging his recordings. He was going crazy shuffling through the library racks, crazy with inactivity, crazy with wondering if he’d ever be certified to visit the past again.

  Almost as though he could hear Trojan’s deep voice rumbling over his shoulder came the thought: How will they ever think you’re stable if you run around the place like a wild man, claiming distortions that even the Time Computer didn’t register?

  Noel’s hurried stride slowed to a walk. He dragged in several deep breaths, evading the curious glances of some of his co-workers, and ducked into a lavatory to check his appearance. The mirror showed a slight, wiry figure in a technocrat’s knit trouser suit, shaven and unexceptional, except for a slight wildness about the eyes and the ravaged look of a bad night’s sleep.

  He splashed water on his face and combed his black hair, then headed for Dr. Rugle’s office. Perhaps she would listen, if he expressed himself in bureaucratic terminology and didn’t get upset.

  The minute he walked into her office, however, he knew nothing was going to work. The hag was seated at her large desk. It was stacked with files, her computer station flashing data, her headphones filtering additional information to her brain, a newscast crawling across one wall of her office, and the useless white noise of ocean waves coming in over the audio speakers in the ceiling. She wore a brown knit suit that made her skin look yellow, and only the fabulous string of pearls which Noel had brought to her from the pirate’s trove made her look the least bit human.

  “You’re late,” she said when he walked in.

  Noel thought of several hasty excuses and rejected them. “I overslept. Bad night.”

  She snorted and went on working at her computer terminal. It flashed amber light across her ugly face, making her look like a troll crouched over a forge.

  “Mr. Kedran,” she said sharply, looking up as though she’d caught that unflattering thought, “you purposely ambushed those individuals last night and killed them. The police have been here, making inquiries, which I have had to thwart.”

  “I, uh—”

  “I advise you to remain on these premises for the next several days. Morven will assign you quarters here. It was necessary to say that you were on assignment, and therefore unavailable for questioning. See that you keep yourself restricted until further notice.”

  “Yes, Dr. Rugle.”

  “Tchielskov was a traitor, Mr. Kedran,” she continued in that flat, relentless voice. “A traitor to the Institute and all it stands for, a traitor to society, and a traitor to your friendship with him.”

  “Those bastards coerced him—”

  “No one can be coerced unless he is weak enough to allow it.” Her gaze held Noel’s with
out wavering. “Tchielskov could have sabotaged any of eight LOCs that day. He chose yours. I think it’s time you forced yourself to deal with that.”

  Noel grimaced and turned away, jamming his hands deep into his pockets. He didn’t need this, didn’t need what she was churning up inside him, didn’t need confusion now when there were more important things at stake. But at the same time, he decided then and there to clam up about the time distortion. It hadn’t registered on the equipment, which meant it couldn’t have happened, which meant he must have had a seizure or something, which meant if he went on talking about it they would put him in a rubber room and never let him out.

  “He, uh, he must have picked my LOC at random,” said Noel unwillingly.

  “The tapes show differently. You’ve seen them, I know, because I asked the psychiatrist to show them to you at your last session.”

  Angered, Noel swung around to stare at her.

  She met his glare coolly. “I think you’ve been coddled long enough, Mr. Kedran. Tchielskov was your mentor when you were in training. He taught you a great deal. He saw in you what others did not, and he polished a diamond from the rough with considerable patience and hard work. You became one of our best travelers.”

  She paused there and almost smiled. “Does that surprise you when I say that?”

  His glare shifted to the stacks of data disks on her desk. “I guess it does. Praise isn’t lavish around here.”

  Her blunt-fingered hand strayed upward to touch the pearl necklace. Then she dropped her hand to her lap. “I don’t know why he sabotaged you, but it was a specific choice. Perhaps he thought you would be the best equipped to survive. Perhaps he had other, less admirable motives. The fact is, you were betrayed by him. Avenging him was a futile gesture. He is not worthy of the risk you took last night, or of the danger you placed Mr. Heitz in.”

  Noel frowned and turned his back to her, pacing to the far side of her office, then back again. If she was trying to mess him up inside, she was doing a damned good job of it. He’d already asked himself the same questions. Why had Tchielskov done it? Why? And there was never going to be an answer.