And she had to control them. Now that she was here, she needed to figure out what she was going to do. She had to stop them from going back and discovering it wasn't Delilah Sampson who'd opened that door. But if she did stop them Rick'd just replace her with someone else. It seemed like an unsolvable riddle but it couldn't be. She couldn't let it be. Not to mention that she'd be solving that riddle while having the guilt she'd spent more than twenty years studiously avoiding rubbed in her face every hour of every day. How long could she take that?
She'd arrived late. Hated being late. Being late's a sign of lack of control. It always left her irritated at the people waiting for her. Irrational but when you're in charge you can get away with things like that. But there'd been no fighter cover for her flight because they'd all been scrambled to some emergency at the Mexican border. Some mass of illegal immigrants trying to get over the wall back to Mexico to escape the working conditions. Some day the government'd learn they couldn't force citizenship on people who don't want it. She'd sat on the runway fuming along with everyone else but no one was going to suggest facing the drones without fighter cover. Fortunately the past two hours of droning over legal documents had ground the irritation and the dread of her problem right out of her and replaced them with the dead weight of boredom. Agnes sighed silently, running her finger down the paper lying on the conference table in front of her. She'd once heard a woman who stayed home with her children asked whether she missed the stimulation of adult discussion. Agnes'd been working over twenty years and most work conversations were like this one, as stimulating as a limp vibrator with a dead battery.
She lifted her head and scanned the eyes staring back at her. Couldn't complain about the surroundings. They sat around a mahogany conference table, with twenty leather executive chairs, each with a pencil and paper for anything too sensitive to be trusted to a screen, which these days was about everything except the lunch menu. Where did they get so much paper? Stupid question. They probably go back in time and buy it at an office supply store. Or why buy? Why not just grab it and run back to the future? The table and chairs were dwarfed by four walls rising at least twelve feet above the floor. The glass walls, hopefully thick glass walls, looked out on black water that must flow down from that giant aquarium in the atrium. Like sitting in a glass submarine. Occasionally a strange fish turned to look at them with blank eyes before losing interest and disappearing into the murkiness, leaving Agnes wishing she could follow. The water even flowed into the door after it slid closed. How in the world did they do that?
This is a level three conference room. Someone'd mentioned in the elevator that the level of security got higher as the number got lower, which made as much sense as anything else she'd heard. Anyway, in addition to being surrounded by water, level three evidently meant no screens allowed and a retinal scan at the door. She turned back toward the recorder resting on the table before the lawyer sitting anxiously at her elbow had to nudge her as a reminder. She took a deep breath, and reminded herself that she had to draw the line at planting a dope slap on the back of his head.
The faces around the table were stunned. Still reeling from the one-two punch of their beloved Dr. Ted's unceremonious departure and an outsider being dropped on them. From the political world no less. They'd been a private club and no doubt more than one of them saw himself or herself as Dr. Ted's chosen successor. She took a deep breath, as if she were about to blow out the candles on a birthday cake.
"I understand what I've read and agree to all conditions listed in the employment agreement..."
"...and those listed in..."
She rapped the lawyer on the sleeve and was rewarded with a look of outraged shock tinged with fear. I didn't forget. Give me a second for Chrissake.
" ...and those listed in the non-disclosure agreement," she concluded. She opened her eye wide and maneuvered it close to the little box the lawyer held out in front of her until its light turned green. The assembled executives broke out into spontaneous applause and she beamed back at them. Ass kissers. She didn't need to turn to see whether Pruitt was clapping.
"Thank you...?"
"Benjamin," the lawyer prompted, still looking affronted by the tap on his arm. He was lucky he hadn't gotten one on his forehead. "Benjamin Meeks."
"Benjamin," Agnes confirmed. Meeks. Now there's a name that fits. She stared at him until he got the message and leapt to his feet. He glanced at Chambers who lifted an eyebrow a sixteenth of an inch. "No. Yes. Of course," he stammered. He shoved the retinal scanner and recorder under his arm, snatched up the papers arrayed in front of Agnes and scurried back to whatever hole in the legal department he'd crawled out of. No doubt within the hour he'd be back at the coffee machine, looking both ways and telling the other legal eagles what a jerk the new boss was. Nothing like lawyers for getting the word out.
Agnes placed both hands on the table and looked around the assembled room. "Would you mind moving to the other side of the room Pruitt," she said without turning. "It's difficult to include you when I can't see you."
She felt their collective intake of breath with satisfaction. The new kid'd just kicked dirt on the schoolyard bully's shoes. But she knew Pruitt wouldn't rise to the bait. He walked around the table and stood looking down at her with a look on his face as if he'd just won a skirmish. She tried to convince herself it was an improvement. Poole cleared his throat.
"Once again, I'm sure we'd all like to extend our welcome to Dir...ah, Agnes," he said to a chorus of murmured agreement carrying the sincerity of a prostitute saying it was the best she'd ever had. Poole's clearly a speech giver. Should be mayor of a small town somewhere handing out keys to the city. Agnes knew within seconds that if she wasn't careful she'd chew him up and spit him out without noticing. She smiled warmly back at him. He smiled back, encouraged. "I hate to jump right into business but I'm afraid a lot of things have backed-up since, ah..."
"Since the coup," Pruitt finished for him, the corners of his lips curling into what passed for a smile among some species of reptiles.
"Business is what we're here for," Agnes said over Chamber's sad tsking at Pruitt's comment, her smile still locked in place. "So..."
"Warren?" Poole said.
"Ahem. Thank you Ronald. You'll find your agendas in front of you," Warren intoned. "Item one is the new head of Operations. Artie?"
"Ah," Wyatt said, his brow knotting to make sure everyone knew he was confronting a problem. "That's a bit of an issue."
"The point?" Agnes said. She had to force down a smile at the red that rose from Wyatt's white turtleneck up his neck and covered face like the mercury of a thermometer. Human Resources had been the first refuge of competent women as they'd fought their way out of the secretarial pool fifty years ago. But once they'd left for greener pastures it'd become the dumping ground for the talentless of both sexes. People are our most important asset. Let's give them to this loser.
"We only have one real candidate," he said. "There were two..." His voice drifted off and he glanced around the room as if looking for a friend.
"Did you misplace one?" Agnes asked pleasantly. Be careful. Kicking the incompetent can become addictive.
"He's withdrawn his name from consideration," Artie snapped, then caught himself. Took a deep breath. "And policy states that we have to consider at least two candidates. There was another potential candidate, although it would've meant a two-level jump..."
"And...?"
"There was an incident..."
"A disaster," Pruitt corrected. He was wandering back toward his spot behind her but she didn't bother to yank his chain about it. Kicking Pruitt wouldn't be like kicking Artie Wyatt III. You'd need to look down when you were finished to make sure your foot was still attached to your ankle.
Agnes waited. Looked around the table. I can sit here all day. Wyatt finally cleared his throat and gave her the gist. At the end she didn't have to pretend she hadn't already heard it. She couldn't help laughin
g even as the germ of an idea formed in her head. Guts. A disregard for the rules. Desire to right a wrong. What could she do with someone like that?
"It sounds as if they deserve a medal. At least the one with the baseball bat does. What's her name?"
"Sarah," Artie said. "We've taken her off time travel of course."
"Have you met Sarah?" Pruitt asked.
"No. Why?"
"It might seem admirable," Pruitt went on without answering. He walked back into her vision and spoke with a contemptuous curl of his lip that he probably practiced in front of a mirror. "To someone who doesn't understand the logic of time travel. But the potential damage is..."
"Spare me the lecture Pruitt." This time she felt the shudder in the room. Poole laid a palm on the table as if the ground had shifted. Even Pruitt stiffened. Or maybe she'd imagined it. That'd be a human reaction and, after all, how much stiffer could he get? She turned back to Wyatt. "I'd like to see their personnel files Artie. If it's not too much trouble. Then maybe meet them." Or at least the one with the baseball bat. What was that thought? It'd flitted past before she could focus on it but you couldn't miss the ray of hope it trailed in its wake.
"Of course," he said. "May I ask..."
"Presumably there are standards for chrononauts? Regular psychological exams?" She smiled. "Let's just say I'm curious about how something like this could've happened."
"Of course," Artie repeated with the smile of someone who'd just bitten into bad sushi in front of his hot date.
"It happened," Pruitt said. "Because someone," he shot a contemptuous glance at Poole, "...arranged for it to happen."
"Are you...what are you..." Poole sputtered reddening.
"So I take it," Agnes cut in, "...that one of them was the potential candidate."
"Yes," Artie answered as Poole lowered himself back into his chair, still red and glaring at Pruitt, who stared past him as if he hadn't noticed he was sitting there. "Monica. She was the leader on the mission. Several of us consider, considered, her an excellent candidate."
She stared at him and he stared back. "Well?"
"Well," he coughed into his hand. "We'll need to make a decision."
"A decision? It doesn't sound as if we have a decision to make. If I understand your role Artie, it's to provide at least two candidates for us to decide on. You've just said that you only have one. What, exactly, are you asking us to decide?"
"I...Dr. Ted...," he stammered. Out of the corner of her eye Agnes imagined she saw Pruitt smile.
"Let's get something straight," Agnes said pleasantly, letting her eyes rest on each of them as she spoke. "Ted isn't here anymore. Agnes is here. What you did or didn't do with Ted is in the past. Is there anyone around the table who doesn't understand that?"
How many years had she spent in rooms full of people who'd like her to disappear? Sent to fix their problems and having to start by explaining they had problems. She'd never had to do it while her life was in danger of collapsing around her but fortunately she could deal with people like this on autopilot. She turned to Wyatt and stared at him just long enough to let him start to melt at the edges. "Find us a second viable candidate Artie. Then bring the two of them to us. And then we'll decide which we want. Am I making myself clear enough for you or would you like me to slow down?"
Wyatt pulled himself together and nodded enthusiastically. "Got it." Great idea. Amazing he hadn't thought of it himself. He'll be calling her Chief by the end of the meeting.
"Next item Warren?"
"Next item on the agenda," Warren intoned as if he hadn't heard anything of the exchange, "...is classified I'm afraid. It can only be discussed with the steering committee."
And who's the steering committee? But before she could ask the question Castro-Ledbetter and Abraham got up docilely and stepped to the door followed by Artie, scurrying after them as if saved from the bully by the bell ending recess, and Verma, strutting and growling over his shoulder until the door swished closed behind him.
Pruitt'd drifted behind her again so that his voice seemed to radiate from the back of her head. "I don't know what they told you during your selection process," he began, as close as he'd come to whining about not being included in her selection, or more accurately making the selection of someone else himself. The board had warned her of course, as if she needed any warnings about Pruitt. She'd floated the idea of firing him to the board members she'd met, even though she knew self-preservation wouldn't let her do it. But they were still reeling from not having Ted around. Pruitt'd managed to scare them enough to overcome their collective dislike.
"We have," Poole cut in, "...a request from the MITCo board for a mission."
"Another request," Pruitt said drily. Poole reddened but Warren cut him off before he could say anything.
"Agnes hasn't been given the background." She waved him off.
"I'm a quick study Warren. Please go on Ronald."
"Agnes knows about the mission," Pruitt said to the air over the table. "She's here to approve it. Aren't you Agnes?"
"Ronald?"
"Ah, well," Poole slowly turned his head from Pruitt back to Agnes with the dawning light of someone listening to a joke and realizing it might be on him. "This mission would be the first of its kind."
"Not quite," Pruitt said.
"You see," Poole went on, ignoring Pruitt. Agnes put it on her mental list to find out what that was about. "It will require a team to travel back before time travel was achieved and before the protocols were approved."
Agnes looked around a room of staring faces. Did she get it? Her gaze settled back on Poole.
"I didn't think traveling to a time before time travel was perfected was possible."
"That's a misconception we haven't tried to correct for obvious reasons," Poole explained. "It's still a problem though because if a team gets into trouble they won't be able to come to the project for help. When the time travel protocols were approved, plans were put in place to deal with chrononauts from the future who showed up unexpectedly and needed assistance but that isn't possible in the deep past. You see, we have to open a closed timeline curve for the trip back and the return. The chrononauts have to be in position when the return closed timeline curve's opened or they could end up stuck back there. We'll designate two fallbacks but still, the risk is there. And then of course the farther back you travel in time, the more dangerous the mission to the chrononauts in general."
"More to the point," Pruitt said in the voice you might use to explain to a young child why she shouldn't drink from unmarked bottles under the kitchen sink. "The farther back in time the larger the deviations caused by the travel."
"Every mission has measurements taken of the present," Poole explained. "We also send a team into the future to make similar measurements. General statistics. Birth rates, death rates, unemployment rates, a sample of news articles, things like that. Those readings are converted to a single measure through an algorithm. A copy is kept in the present and another copy is inserted as a chip under the skin of the chrononaut. The chip dissolves on a time release in case there's a problem and the chrononaut doesn't come back."
"That's comforting." But no one seemed to notice the sarcasm in her voice.
"When she returns the two are compared. For reasons we don't fully understand..."
"For reasons we don't understand at all," Pruitt corrected.
"...there are always small deviations. Even when there's no recordable intervention in the past. They average under one-hundredth of one percent with a very low variability in the present, and generally stabilize to a low level in the future."
"Think of the deviations as ripples in a very still pond," Pruitt said. "No matter how softly something lands, no matter how tiny it is, there's always a ripple. Always something you can't anticipate. Someone sees the landing and runs home to tell someone else, and because he's in a hurry steps out in front of a car. As the missions go farther back these d
eviations are compounded. The person who stepped in front of the car doesn't have children he otherwise would've had. Those children don't have children. The deviations grow exponentially and their variations spread out. Fictional time travel is comical. People go back hundreds of years, fight battles, kill people and then come back to a world that's exactly the same." He shook his head in disgust at the collective writers of time travel fiction.
"Oh come on Pruitt," Poole said. "We haven't seen future deviations like that."
"No," he agreed. "...because we, wisely, confine ourselves to short distances in time and focus on not intervening. For the most part," he added and Agnes made another mental note.
Soul Source: Back and There Again Page 14