“The very ones I was thinking about. Especially the Naval Treaty and the Greek Interpreter.” Skye nodded, knowing.
* * *
This response took Holmes mildly aback, and he sat back to ponder. When she had admitted to being interested in the stories of his adventures earlier, he had not realized she had meant to such a degree as her statement evinced. This may prove beneficial, he decided. Someone already familiar with his ways would save him the awkwardness of breaking in a liaison—given her intelligence and position, he was loath to call her a mere assistant. It already seemed she was more than willing to side with him against the general in matters pertaining to his liberty. He pulled out his pocket watch and checked it.
“Shall we go, Skye? It is nearly one in the afternoon, according to your time zone, and you said the debriefing was at one.”
“Yeah, let me chug this,” she said, gulping the last of her coffee. “Okay, let’s go. General, I’ll make sure I drop him by his temporary quarters when we’re done,” she said, pointedly emphasizing the word temporary, to Holmes’ amusement. “That way, you can show him around the O Club later, and I’m sorry I can’t join you. We can talk about…other matters…tomorrow, maybe.”
“Done,” a mollified Morris agreed.
* * *
After lunch, General Morris went back to his office, where he requested his secretary bring him the file on Dr. Skye Chadwick. He’d known her for years, of course, but there were a few details that needed refreshing in his memory. In short order he’d recalled them from her personnel dossier, and leaned back in his desk chair, staring into space.
This isn’t good, he worried. I’ve got to keep an eye on this situation. We don’t need one of the most brilliant minds on the planet going ballistic.
He sighed sadly. “This is going to be even more complicated than I’d thought.”
* * *
When they entered the conference room, a stranger in a dark suit sat in the back of the room, notepad and pen in hand. Skye and Caitlin nodded acknowledgement to him.
“Who is he?” Holmes murmured to Skye. “I do not recall seeing him…‘downstairs.’ He has something of the detective about him, but…”
“Defense Security Service investigator,” Caitlin answered for Skye. “He’s here to investigate how you got here. He was waiting in my office when I left you guys, and I took him downstairs and showed him the video and logs already, Skye. He and I just finished ‘em.”
“Oh,” Skye said, subdued. “Okay. Well, let’s get started.”
The debriefing was informal and, to Holmes’ pleased surprise, short. It seemed Skye and Caitlin had long since developed a highly efficient system for conducting the meetings, and they stepped through it now. Skye began with a formal apology for her behavior to her entire team, but indicated she had unexpectedly found herself in an untenable position: She had been unable to stand back and watch without feeling duty-bound to take action. It transpired that essentially the entire team had experienced similar responses, and apparently, none of them had remained unmoved in the face of the life-and-death struggle taking place mere feet from them. In fact, several of the project’s team members expressed tremendous relief Skye had done what she did. In the rear of the room, the DSS agent scribbled notes furiously.
After that, it was merely a matter of walking through the performance of each individual station, each component. Preliminary assessments had been made, although the bulk of the data had not been fully analyzed; but the initial conclusion was that the tesseract had functioned precisely as it was supposed to. It was, as a bleakly rueful Skye put it, “operator error” that had caused the problem, and not any issue with the device itself. When the technical matters had been attended, Caitlin turned to Holmes.
“Mr. Holmes, if you don’t mind, I’d like to ask you some questions.”
“Skye—Dr. Chadwick—indicated you would. I am happy to assist.” Holmes nodded.
“Did you…feel anything, sense anything unusual, at the instant you transitioned from your continuum to this? Any palpable sensation, any dizziness? Pain? Anything at all?”
Holmes took time to consider, then arrange his words, knowing that Skye, in particular, was paying close attention.
“There was a sense of…of disorientation…for the briefest instant. All my limbs felt abnormally heavy. My reactions seemed slowed. And there was a feeling as if I were pushing through a thin wall of…perhaps gelatine is a good simile.”
“He nailed it. Going in, and coming out, that’s a good description of what it felt like for me, too. I especially noted the heavy sensation.” Skye beamed, nodding. “Closed-loop strings, functioning temporarily like gravitons. We did it, guys. We moved from string to string.”
“Interesting,” Caitlin also nodded, as the medical officer for the program took notes on their observations. “Peter? Are you going to want them to undergo physicals?”
“Yes, please,” Dr. Wellingford, the project medic, confirmed. “This afternoon, as soon as possible.”
“Sure. Holmes and I will swing by right after we adjourn—if that’s okay with you, Holmes?”
“Fine,” Holmes agreed.
“Dr. Hughes, Dr. Chadwick?” one of the technicians raised a hand.
“Yes, Bob?” Caitlin gave him the floor.
“There’s a rumor that, after this morning, the project’s gonna be shut down. Is that true?” Bob Harris, of the Processing team, asked. Caitlin and Skye exchanged glances, and Caitlin gave Skye the floor.
“I can’t say for sure, Bob. I do know, given the private conclusions I reached in my office after the event, I am now seriously disturbed by the possibilities of this technology. Not merely in its potential to be deliberately misused, but in its potential to wreak havoc through well-meaning.”
She paused and looked at each member of the team seated at the table, even Holmes, even the DSS agent. The Victorian detective noted the seriousness in her eyes, the way their blue seemed to intensify, almost sparking passionately, before she spoke again.
“And I for one would rather see it shut down than risk damage to the continuum—any continuum. It may be that we, as a species, aren’t yet ready to embark on an undertaking of this magnitude. I do know a joint decision was made between Dr. Hughes, General Morris, and myself to suspend experimentation soon, while we analyze the event, the implications, the protocols, and the ethics; but I want to take a few preliminary observation-type runs first. I want to make absolutely certain of two things: One, we didn’t inadvertently alter the other timeline, and two, the tesseract is working properly. After that, we’ll go on operational hiatus and analyze our results. Then we’ll make a final decision.”
“If I may.” The DSS agent raised his hand.
Skye waved her hand, giving him the floor, and she and Caitlin sat.
“I’m Thomas Welker, DSS examiner. This has been a relatively easy case to investigate,” the DSS agent remarked. “Everything has been meticulously recorded and organized; my compliments to the team. I’ve reviewed the videos of the incident with the aid of Dr. Hughes, as well as the pertinent electronic logbooks. And I verified the protocols pending approval were followed to the letter, up until the point where emotional response became too great to restrain. I’ve also verified through those videos that virtually all members of the team were under extreme emotional stress during the incident, not merely Dr. Chadwick. Your facial expressions, one and all, were very clear.”
Nods went around the room.
“It is true the protocols were not approved; as a result of this event I intend to recommend the approval procedure be modified. However, the project cannot be held formally accountable to them, since they had not been signed off; and you followed them as best you could anyway. I have also spoken briefly with General Morris, who indicated he believes the protocols to be insufficient in any event, and based on what I saw, I am in full agreement.
“I fully concur with your proposed plan of action, Doctor. It is prec
isely the one I intended to recommend to my superiors. DSS’s final disposition of the incident awaits your scientific analysis. I should like to requisition copies of the videos and the logbooks, burned to CD, to be appended to my report.”
“I’ll get them,” Caitlin nodded. “Come to my office after the meeting and we’ll fill out the security paperwork. You’ll have them by late this afternoon.”
“Thank you, Dr. Hughes.”
A buzz filled the room, mixed currents running hither and thither. Caitlin raised her voice to be heard over the chatter. “Any further questions? No? Meeting adjourned.”
Slowly the members of Project: Tesseract rose and filed out.
* * *
Bob Harris wandered out of the building, down the street, and through the nearest gate. Then he pulled out his cell phone and punched a speed dial.
“Computer. Complication. Yeah, big one. Yeah, I think we do. No, that oughta be ok. Copy that.”
He closed the cell and headed back to his office.
* * *
Skye took Holmes by the project medical facility, where Peter Wellingford, the Tesseract medic, gave them thorough once-overs, including MRIs and DNA swabs. When it was all over, he gave his verdict.
“Given I don’t have a baseline for Mr. Holmes, I can’t say with absolute certainty, but it looks like the two of you are none the worse for wear. Mr. Holmes has some bruising from the fight, but nothing serious. He’s in excellent shape, too; surprising, given some of his…erm, previous habits. And, uh, no signs of…contraband, if you know what I mean, Skye. So ‘all systems are go.’ His lungs and heart in particular are clear and strong.”
Holmes’ eyebrow rose.
“Because you smoke,” Skye explained.
“Right,” Dr. Wellingford confirmed. “The farming and processing practices musta been different in the late 19th century.”
“Probably,” Skye agreed. Holmes looked puzzled. Skye noticed. “We now know smoking can cause cancer. But some years back there was a scandal in the tobacco companies about how they treated their product. So the tobacco you used to smoke might not be so bad for you. But a lot of the modern commercial stuff seems to be, medically speaking, nasty.”
* * *
“Ah,” Holmes remarked, filing the information away mentally for later consideration. I wonder how much has been LOST by one hundred years of “progress”…
“And…the other stuff,” Skye added.
“‘Other stuff?’” Holmes parroted.
“The cocaine and morphine,” Wellingford said bluntly. “No trace in your system.”
“I see. And that is as it should be,” Holmes nodded. “Watson aided me in the cessation of that habit about three or four years ago.”
“Oh good,” Skye murmured, seeming pleased. “It’s illegal now, Holmes.”
Holmes took that in silently. Given my own experiences, hardly surprising, I suppose, he concluded.
“In general,” Wellingford decided, “this is a disappointing result for a historic medical examination—no one’s ever examined a human from a different spacetime before—but you’re a perfect specimen of a typical, healthy, intelligent homo sapiens male, Mr. Holmes. Absolutely no deviation from the average preferred norms I can find, and that goes right down to the genetic level. You’re the same as anyone else here.”
Holmes blinked, not sure whether to be complimented or insulted.
“Your vitals match your norms fine, Dr. Chadwick. I’m releasing you both,” Wellingford capped his prognosis.
“Good. Thanks much, Peter,” Skye nodded at the physician. Holmes shook the doctor’s hand, and he and Skye left the medical facility, en route to his quarters.
* * *
Inside, they found several outfits had been left for Holmes. All were variations on a theme, however: Air Force blue—military wear, complete with name tags, both British and American insignias, and the silver oak leaves denoting the faux rank of RAF wing commander.
“Oh, good grief,” Skye grumbled, rolling her eyes. “I won’t even ask where they got their hands on the Royal Air Force stuff. I guess it’ll do for now, and might even be good for you to wear around the base and to the Officer’s Club tonight. But let me get sizes, and I’ll pick you up some civilian clothes while I’m shopping for you tonight.” She paused thoughtfully. “Wait. Try something on first, and let’s make sure it fits you right, before I do that.”
A bemused Holmes shrugged, lifted off the top garment—a military flight jumpsuit—and left Skye standing in the den of the quarters, disappearing into the bedroom.
* * *
From behind the closed bedroom door, Skye heard the odd, “Hm,” and, “Interesting,” followed shortly by an annoyed, “What the hell?”
“What is it?” Skye wondered, picking up the notepad beside the billet phone.
A frowning Holmes emerged from the bedroom, his rangy frame clad in the snug jumpsuit, having managed to figure out the unfamiliar zipper on his own. Skye blinked and tried to restrain her eyes’ sudden tendency to roam, for the garment was a perfect fit for Holmes’ build, emphasizing his relatively broad shoulders and the lean body tapering down to a narrow waist. But he fussed with the pockets in irritation, unsure why the buttonless flaps refused to open.
“Oh. Velcro,” Skye commented when she grasped what he was trying to do. “It’s designed like a burr. Look.”
She grabbed the nearest pocket flap—it happened to be his breast pocket—and gave it a sharp, quick yank. Holmes winced at the sound like cloth ripping, then stared down at the now-open pocket. His eyebrows rose in comprehension.
* * *
“Ah!” Taking the flap from her fingers, he pressed it down again, observing how it adhered. Then he grabbed the flap and pulled upward, a hard, smooth motion, and the ripping sound repeated, giving evidence he had the hang of it.
“Yes, a burr. What an interesting little invention.”
Skye moved behind him, and he felt her fingers at the back of his neck. Instinctive Victorian sensibilities engaging, he lunged away.
“Come back here, you,” she grabbed his shoulder. “Stand still. I have to read this label if I’m going to get you anything that fits right.”
Holmes stood, uncomfortable, while Skye’s fingers brushed his neck. Then she released him and moved to the small stack of clothes, flipping through them and scribbling down notations from the tags, before tearing off several pages of the notepad and stuffing them into her pocket.
* * *
“Okay, I got it,” she said, looking up at him. She took one look at his displeased face and stopped dead. “What’s wrong?”
“I…am not used to being handled so,” he said stiffly. “Especially by a woman.”
“Aw, foo. Holmes, I am so sorry. That sort of thing is normal these days. Nowadays, men go around without shirts, even in shorts—short trousers,” she amended herself so he would understand the reference, “and it doesn’t bother anyone. I never once thought.” Skye put her hand to her forehead in dismay.
Holmes sighed, and Skye saw the proud shoulders sag a bit. He turned and sat in the nearest chair, his thin aquiline face looking pinched and drawn, and it hit her how tired he was.
After all, this isn’t remotely easy for him, leaving behind everything he’s ever known, his family and friends and home, and dropping down into a completely strange culture, she grieved. Plus, his day should have ended right after our lunchtime. And it’s all my fault. I’ll drop General Morris a hint to keep it short tonight. He needs to get food in Holmes and get him back here so the poor man can collapse in bed.
* * *
“Hey, listen,” she murmured, coming to the side of the chair and crouching down beside it. Holmes opened his eyes, looked down into her earnest, concerned face, and felt some of his exhaustion lift. “Holmes, take it easy tonight,” she suggested to him, laying her hand as lightly and unobtrusively on his forearm as she could; she evidently wanted him to feel her sympathy and concern without be
ing disturbed by the physical contact. “Get some dinner with the general, but then come back here and rest. Aside from the fact that Colorado Springs is a good mile up and the air’s thinner than you’re used to, it’s been a dreadful day for you.”
“I shall manage, Skye.”
“I know you will. And I know you’re used to burning the candle at both ends on a case. But this isn’t a case; it’s a traumatic, complete life change. I know it’s hard on you, and you’ll manage better if you don’t wear yourself out. I’ve got a little idea what you’re going through right now, because I’ve been there—not as much as this, but I’ve been there. And I want you to know,” Skye added, feeling suddenly, uncharacteristically shy herself, “you’ve got a friend and ally if you want one. I’m not Watson, and I would never violate your trust or his memory by pretending to be. But you’re not alone unless you want to be.”
Holmes kept his face expressionless, but the grey eyes warmed despite himself.
“Thank you. I shall hold that in mind. And,” he added, seeing the urging in her gaze, “I will betake myself to my bed as soon as I manage to dine at this ‘O Club.’”
“Promise?”
“I give you my word.” Holmes raised an eyebrow.
“Okay. I’ll come by on my way to my office in the morning and drop off your stuff.”
“Thank you, Skye.”
“No problem.”
And she was off. Holmes rose and moved to the window of his small, dreary flat, watching her go.
* * *
General Morris swung by the temporary officers’ billets and ensured Holmes had all of the appropriate patches, pins, and other accessories on his flight jumpsuit, to ensure he could pass as an RAF wing commander. Then he escorted the disguised detective straight to the new Officers’ Club, mindful of Skye’s brief text message that Holmes was exhausted and needed an early night.
But Morris found that Holmes, while tired, was hardly ready for sleep yet. Once they were seated in the restaurant of the club and had ordered their meals, Holmes remarked to his companion, “I see you were busy with an important matter—other than my arrival—today.”
The Case of the Displaced Detective Page 5