"What new evidence? With all the attacks back then why this one?"
"Those questions," Eileen said. "I leave to my betters. My concern is how much prep work this trip's going to take. Coordinating with travel and outfitting. We have to get clothes for that era."
"Clothes. Remember what men wore? Why is it their clothes have evolved to be more comfortable and ours have done the opposite? Are women vain?"
"No. Men are. A middle-aged man can look in a mirror and think he looks good without help. No woman's that stupid. Anyway, besides clothes there's a million other things. Abe needs to put in the information chips. We need time appropriate brands for cosmetics, money..."
"Where're we going to find money?" We. Amazing how fast the subconscious accepted defeat. She was already planning the mission she wouldn't be on. "Do you think outfitting stored any away?"
"They must have. I can't believe Pruitt and Ted wouldn't think of that. They must've made plans for going that far back at some point. After all..." she hesitated with a glance at Monica.
Monica rolled her eyes.
"Sole Source isn't the secret management thinks it is."
"Nothing is. I'm not supposed to know about it either. So they'll need money. I suppose working credit cards. How will they do that? Travel needs to figure out where we can set them down safely and then how to get them from there to the site. The mapping back then is absolutely primitive."
"Where are they going?"
"Buffalo. And they're staying overnight."
"Overnight? We've never done that before." Overnight. In two thousand twelve. Could this get any worse?
"We'll have to identify a hotel where they won't need reservations. Travel's working on that now. We're probably going to have to put them down pretty far from the city to be on the safe side. Travel and outfitting are working that out. At least it's June so there won't be snow to contend with. If they have to drive..."
"Drive? We've never sent a vehicle back. How will that work? Has either of them been trained to drive?" Yes. It could get worse.
"...I wouldn't like them having to do it in snow."
Monica nodded. Twenty-four years. She'd do anything. Anything. But one look at Eileen told her there wasn't anything she could do. She'd done it all already and now she was going to pay the price. The only thing left was to take it like a pro and try to maintain some dignity. "I'll head to outfitting."
"Get Kenny to help you," Eileen said. She opened a screen on her wrist and flitted a finger tip across it. "I heard he did a good job on your outfit last time." She looked up. "And Monica..."
"No Eileen," Monica said, raising a hand. "It's OK. I brought this on myself. Myself, you and everyone else. I'll do whatever I can."
"I knew I could count on you. There'll be other trips."
She smiled warmly and Monica headed off toward the escalator.
"Twenty-four years," she sighed to herself as she walked. Bras. They wore bras then. Did outfitting have those? She tried to blame Sarah but somehow couldn't make herself do it. But this still stunk. She'd get used to the idea. But the more she thought about it the worse it got.
"Monica." She flicked a screen onto her wrist at the hiss.
"Where are you?" she hissed back. Why'd she do that? What's the big secret?
"File room."
"File room?" But Sarah was already gone. Monica looked around. She had to get to outfitting. Didn't have time for this. Sarah didn't have time for this. She hesitated for a second, then turned and walked in the other direction. The door to the file room swished open before she could lay her eye and thumb on the scanners. Monica walked in and the door swished closed behind her. The long rows of shelves loomed over her. The place was eerily quiet.
"Sarah?" What was it with hissing all of a sudden? "Sarah?" she said more loudly.
"Back here," came from around one of the shelves. "And keep your voice down. The surveillance system will pick it up."
Monica turned the corner toward Sarah's voice. The file room was huge. It took up a full half of the launch level. It was filled with all the paper that the electronic age was supposed to make disappear. Everything that Ted had been afraid might fall into the hands of hackers made its way to paper and was stored on twelve-foot high shelves that rested on rollers so they could be electronically pushed along tracks only leaving one open corridor between shelves. The rest were side-by-side to conserve space. Files too sensitive for electronic records protected by a retinal scan. If she ever saw Ted again she'd have to ask him about that. She got to the corner where the shelves were open. Sarah stood in between the shelves like a prisoner between two huge sentries.
"If you want to meet secretly this isn't the place. The door keeps a record."
"You didn't use the retinal scanner did you?" Sarah snapped. "Honestly Monica sometimes I think you think I'm stupid."
"Not stupid," she said, the blood rising to her face. "Untrustworthy, dishonest, ungrateful..."
"What are you talking about?"
"I hear you're back on Team One," Monica said, trying to keep the junior high school taunting out of her voice but not noticeably succeeding. "Congratulations."
"Oh," Sarah said dismissively. "That."
"That? Sarah how could you?"
"Oh Monica." Sarah put her arms around her, but after a few seconds Monica pushed her away and glared at her through the wet film on her eyes, her arms crossed across her chest. Everyone. Everyone she cared about. Every. One.
"How could you?" she asked again. For God's sake stop. Act like an adult.
"Monica," Sarah said. She put a hand on her arm and Monica pulled away, but Sarah grabbed her arm. "Monica," she snapped. "Get a grip. You don't understand. This doesn't have anything to do with you."
"Nothing to do with me?" she said, sniffling and snorting and telling herself she was going to have to start carrying an air hankie. "What are you talking about? This is everything I've ever worked for."
"You don't want to go on this mission Monica. Trust me."
"Sarah?" Something in Sarah's voice elbowed the anger and bitterness aside as she focused on the set in Sarah's jaw. She wiped a sleeve across her face and thanked God she wasn't looking in a mirror. "Sarah? What are you up to?"
"They've closed down the guest floor. My retinal scan won't work. That's where they're hiding him. In one of the apartments. Has to be."
"Hiding him? Hiding who? What on earth are you talking about?"
"That prisoner. One of the attackers. They brought him here for a reason didn't they? Well why are we suddenly leaving without talking to him?"
"Prisoner? I don't know anything about..."
"Think about it..."
"I'm trying..."
"They, someone, decides to go to the deep past. For the specific reason of getting evidence on who let those attackers in. They bring one of the attackers here. Very hush hush. Only the highest level of management in on it."
"Then how do you know about it?"
Sarah rolled her eyes but didn't slow down. "There can only be one reason. Right? They brought him here to tell us where to go. But then why aren't we talking to him? And why're they sending me? Me?"
Monica raised her chin. Take the high road. Be aloof. "Because you're on Team One," she taunted.
"Right after they defrock me or whatever they call it. And then all of a sudden," Sarah raised a finger and pointed it at Monica. "Agnes leaves town and the mission's moved up and nobody cares about talking to the prisoner? Pruitt's giving Veronica instructions one-on-on." Sarah folded her arms and strode away from Monica, whirled around and paced back.
"What's he telling her?"
"How would I..."
"I'm going to stop it Monica. But I've got to talk to that prisoner. And I've got to figure out what Pruitt's telling the ice queen. I'm sure they've got some plan to keep me away."
"Stop it?" Monica said. The shelves turned slightly liquid and swayed over her. "S
top it? Stop what?" But she knew. She wished she didn't, but she knew. "You can't do that Sarah. Do you have any idea what you're playing..."
"What's the point Monica?" Monica took a step back as Sarah moved so close their faces were almost touching. "Huh? What's the point? Why go back in time and just," she turned and waved her arms around, pacing in the narrow space and staring up at the ceiling, "...let it all happen again?" She turned back, her face begging for an answer. "Why? When we can stop it? Make it better?"
"You can't play God Sarah."
"Well somebody has to. God sure isn't bothering with it." She shook her head. "I don't expect you to understand. There are things about this I haven't told you."
"Then tell me."
"No time now. I'll tell you later." She reached over and took Monica's arm in her hand. "Just trust me Monica. It's for the best."
"Sarah..."
But she'd stalked around the corner and disappeared.
"Sarah," Monica called. She's losing it. Someone's got to stop her. Then why are you just standing here?
12
Verma didn't care about missing the launch. It was a stupid name anyway, launch. Nothing got launched. The chrononauts just stood there, you had a countdown, ten, nine, eight, blah, blah, blah. Then what? No explosion. No rocket shooting into the air on a ball of fire. They stood there, shimmered a little bit, then suddenly they shifted a couple of inches. That's it. They did kind of disappear and reappear, but it happened so fast you'd miss it if you blinked. Then there they were. Getting applauded. Big heroes. For what? Standing around and shifting a few inches? Verma didn't care about missing the launch. Stupid name.
Especially for this. He paused in the middle of the hall and listened. Nobody. Everybody off watching the launch. "Launch," he muttered, staring down the empty hall. Stupid name. But everyone had to see it. Dr. Ted had to make it a big deal. "Like NASA in the early days Verma." His muttered voice snuck up on him in the silence and his eyes darted around the empty hall as if it'd been someone else he'd heard talking. Need to be careful. Don't need the surveillance system flagging something like that and putting it into the daily report as an anomaly. He'd told that mechanical nightmare Dutch to turn this part of the system off to cover him, but how far he should he trust Dutch? Sure, Dutch'd told him where to find the tape. And he'd told him that Agnes had a player stored here. But still, a creep's a creep's a creep and how could you trust a half human, half machine who always seemed to be laughing at you? And which half was human anyway? Verma shuddered at the thought.
It was actually lucky that the launch, stupid name, had been moved up. No explanation but they never explained. Scientists. Chrononauts. Big people. But moving it up kept everyone busy and gave him the chance he needed. He stepped over to the file room door and shoved the thick envelope up farther under his arm as he took one last look around. Sweat pulled his shirt tight around him like a clammy hand in spite of the air conditioning. This tape was his ticket. He was sure of it. But after the reaming that asshole Mr. Hartron'd given him when Verma'd told him that valuable information about his new director, well better to see what's on it first, that's all. Then maybe he'd give it to Mr. Hartron and maybe he wouldn't. Maybe he'd see who thought it was worth the most. Why give something valuable away for free? A small smile slipped onto his face.
New director. What a bitch. Dr. Ted, he'd been good to Verma. Verma pushed down the vague feeling of guilt that crept over him when he thought about Dr. Ted. Nothing to feel guilty about. With Dr. Ted it was all about scientists and logic and chrononauts. To him Verma was just a security guard. But Mr. Hartron, that asshole, Mr. Hartron understood that security was the mission. What difference did it make if you had all those fancy geniuses running around doing whatever if you couldn't protect it all? All of that stuff, all those people looking down their noses at Verma, Monica who looked like she'd eaten dog shit when Verma'd asked her out, who'd she think she was anyway? Well all those people, they were just the support. Security, Verma, was the real reason they were all there. It's even in Dr. Ted's best interest. Helping him in spite of himself. Mr. Hartron, that asshole, understood all that. And he'd remember how valuable Verma is when he saw what's on that tape. If he saw what's on the tape. If Verma showed it to him.
But first he had to play it. Every minute he'd been hiding it he worried that somehow Root of all evil'd figure out he had it. But where the hell could you play a tape like that? Who had those machines anymore? If that creep Dutch hadn't pulled the screen up with that old bag's inventory of stored belongings he'd never've seen it. Who'd've thought it? She had one. Sitting in a box in the file room waiting to be put into her office when they got around to moving those musical things Dr. Ted used to play with. What was it with these people anyway? Little hammers and things to make music. Old video recorders. All that old crap was so inferior to screens. You can watch anything. Listen to anything. Sound's better. Picture's better. Three-D even. And you can get anything you want on the Internet. Who wants to hit little tiles with a hammer or shove big, square tapes into a machine? Eggheads. Go figure.
Verma laid his eye and thumb against the scanners and the door swished open. No reason he shouldn't be in the file room is there? Just checking files. Security files, that's what files. Verma's explanation'd run through his mind in a continuous stream since he'd pulled the envelope out from behind the pile of contraband paper he'd confiscated over the years and started down the empty hall. But no one was going to ask. And if they did, so what? He was looking at files. Security files. That's what files.
The door swished closed behind him. Why was it so damn hot? Verma's shirt clung to his back. His footsteps echoed, hung in the air behind him, followed him down the corridor and into the file room like there was someone trailing him. He projected a screen, punched in the coordinates of Agnes's belongings. The shelves towered over his head, whirring into motion slowly around him like huge mechanical soldiers marching. He waited until they'd stopped, then stepped over to the opening between two sets of shelves and looked down the long, narrow aisle.
He placed the envelope carefully on the floor and followed the coordinates on his screen all the way down to the end of the aisle. He tugged his jump suit at the knees and knelt down, reached in, slid the boxes he wanted out into the aisle. He carried them one at a time to the end of the aisle where he'd left the envelope, the aisles between the shelves too narrow to work between them, knelt down and opened them.
Plenty of time. The launch, stupid name, they didn't launch anything, wasn't until six. How long could it take to figure out how to work some primitive machine and play the tape? They'd had things like that when he was a kid after all. But damn it was hot. He wiped a forearm across his brow as he gently lifted a screen of some kind from the box. A big, clunky thing on a stand, stirring vague memories from his childhood. He frowned at it. Wires and cables stuck out of the back like antennae on a big, dead bug. This was what you watched the pictures on, right? It was heavy. He shook his head. How the hell had they survived in those days? Wasn't all that long ago either. He opened the other box. This one was the machine that played the tape. He poked at it with a finger, found a little door in the front. Pushed it in. He picked up the envelope, opened it, looked at the tape. He pushed the long end of the tape tentatively against the little door. It went in part way then stopped.
He pulled out the tape. Frowned at the machine. Stared at it. Stared at the tape. Turned the tape over. There. The machine grabbed it. Slipped in perfectly. He watched. Waited. Nothing. No lights. No sound. He picked up the wires with one hand and looked at them. That's right. Verma reached back into his memory. Things had wires. What'd you do with them? He turned and shuffled around in the empty boxes. Paper. Instructions. On paper.
"Christ," he sighed. He flipped through the pages. Diagrams. Arrows. Words. He reached back into the box. Pulled out a wire with two prongs at the end. Stared at it. Remembered his father grunting on all fours under a table, cursing. "The
wall," he muttered. This thing with the prong went into the wall. There must be some other way to do it. There wasn't any way to put it into the wall now. He flashed a screen and pulled up Agnes's inventory. Scanned down the list.
"AC power source." That had to be it. He wiped the sweat from his eyes as he pushed himself to his feet and started down the aisle.
He was on his hands and knees, facing the wrong way down the narrow aisle, his shoulders almost touching the shelves on either side when he heard it. The quiet, almost silent whirring. Maybe he even felt rather than heard it, but he knew instantly what it was.
He shot to his feet, looked at the blank wall a foot in front of him, the shelves already touching his shoulders. He turned and started running, tried to run, but he couldn't get fully around to face the other way. His head faced the aisle that suddenly looked a mile long but his body was twisted, gripped by the walls of a passage that was starting to disappear like he was running through a crowd, hands grabbing at him. He could see less and less of the boxes. They disappeared when he'd made it about half way to safety, but Verma didn't see that.
Not to be?
12
Time Travel Protocol 6-7-2018-c-i* (Delegation of Mission Authority):
In the absence of the Chief Scientist, the Chief Logician cannot authorize a mission or change the team of a planned mission, but may, at his or her discretion, change the timing of the mission.
*(Highly Confidential: Paper Copies Only)
"What do you mean the mission's today? I set it for Friday." Agnes rubbed her eyes. Imagined that she could feel their redness burning the palms of her hands. This wasn't just lack of sleep. It was moral fatigue, taking over her soul. At what point would she just stop caring? She looked up. "And how did you know I was back?"
"I couldn't sleep," Dutch answered. He grinned and pointed a finger at her.
"Why," a small shudder rippled through her, "...do you do that?"
Dutch tilted his head slightly and knotted his eyebrows. "Do what?"
Soul Source: Back and There Again Page 20