by Lyn South
“Understand?” Becca Trevor asks. Her smile returns and it looks forced and creepy.
When Fagin looks up from the page, irritation is replaced with utter deference to the new girl. “Lieutenant Trevor is our official liaison with the Benefactors,” she says, quietly, to me. “Starting now, all mission orders come through her.” She gives Trevor a curt nod. “Happy to have you on the team, lieutenant.”
My mouth falls open, and when Fagin gives me a dark look, I cover it with a fake yawn.
“Thank you, Fagin. I’m sure we’ll get on famously,” Becca Trevor says in an overly chummy tone. Her use of my mentor’s nickname, rather than an appropriately formal form of address, makes me want to chuck her out the garbage chute even before we launch. “Don’t bother getting up, I’ll introduce myself to Commander Garcia.”
She disappears into the cockpit and chatters away to Nico about late mission assignments, packing woes, and her roommate’s lack of boundaries.
“Benefactor liaison, huh?” I whisper. “Babysitter and stool pigeon are more like it.”
“Babysitter, stool pigeon, and co-pilot, actually.”
“She’s... she’s what?”
Before Fagin can answer, Nico shoots out of the cockpit, an alarmed look crinkling the faint worry lines in his forehead. “Fagin. A few words, please?”
“Which words would you like, Commander Garcia? Mandatory co-pilot? Or perhaps tough luck, kid, suck it up?”
“I know everyone with GTC pilot credentials, but I’ve never heard of her,” Nico says. “I don’t even know if she can tell the difference between the toilet compartment and an escape pod, let alone if she knows how to fly. Am I just supposed to take her word for it? This is bullshit. She could get us all killed if she doesn’t know what she’s doing.”
“Her CV is somewhere here.” I point at the layer of printouts lying on the table between Fagin and me. “Apparently, her file tells us everything we need to know.”
“Sweet Jesus, have you heard her voice?” He says in a loud whisper, a panicked look widens his eyes.
“Have a problem with your new co-pilot? Take it up with the Benefactors and mission control when we get home,” Fagin says. “I have no leverage here.” She sneaks an upward glance at the camera above my head before leveling her gaze on Nico. Then on me. “I’m sure you both understand.”
Of course. The Benefactors are watching.
“I’m sure you’ll find a way to keep us safe, Commander.” Fagin’s words are a genuine, heartfelt vote of confidence in Nico’s command abilities. “In fact, now more than ever, we’re counting on it.”
Nico sucks air between his teeth, then says in a low voice, “You’re not giving me much to work with, Fagin.”
“I know.”
T-Jump’s voice booms over the intercom; the volume is much louder than before, causing the three of us to jump. “Garcia, acknowledge. Ready to finish pre-flight?”
“Sorry!” Becca Trevor calls out from the cockpit. “I was trying to find some music, but I think I did something wrong. How do you turn it down?”
Nico curses softly. He looks ready to spit fire. “Don’t touch anything. Don’t breathe on anything. And, for God’s sake, stop talking until we’re airborne.”
He settles into his seat to complete the pre-flight checklists. His new co-pilot has taken to singing softly to herself.
“Cabin crew, prepare for lift-off,” Nico says, his voice broadcasting at a more comfortable volume. “T-Jump, initiating take-off sequence, phase one.”
“Copy that,” comes the reply.
I lift my window shade because watching the launch never gets old. The light inside the hangar is dull and gray, creating dappled shadows against the concrete walls as the ship glides toward the launch queue.
“Open hangar doors,” T-Jump commands, and the doors groan open, pre-dawn light streaming into the structure through the ever-widening gap. We hover for a few minutes as Nico and the command crew work through the final launch sequences. When T-Jump is satisfied the launch window is fully open—with no impediments or show-stoppers—she gives the command, “Commence launch sequence. Proceed to time vortex portal and hold there.”
“Launch sequence, phase two. Acknowledged,” Nico says, and we accelerate through the open hangar doors. The pre-dawn sky is an ombre of dusky purple, orange and yellow.
Within minutes, we’ve streaked across green pastures filled with livestock, tall prairie grasses, a patchwork of farmland and, finally, the dark black-blue waters of Lake Powell.
Past the Northern shore of the lake, the shuttle slows. We hover in place, waiting for clearance to time jump. The ship is smooth and balanced and there’s no bone-shaking shudder that rattles my teeth—a nerve-wracking experience common on the dilapidated buckets of bolts mercenaries often use.
From my crew seat, I see a sliver of the open cavern ahead of us. The entrance is enormous, making it feel as it always does at the start of a time jump: like the mountain is about to swallow us whole and spit us out in another time.
That’s an accurate, if inelegant, layman’s description of how this method of time travel works. From what I’ve been told, it’s different on other planets. Interstellar time jumps use temporarily stabilized wormholes, which is dangerous because no one knows when one of those things might collapse. This cavern, and others on Earth like it, is built to harness and focus dark matter and energy coursing through the mineral and gemstone deposits embedded in the cavern walls. When a time jump sequence initiates, a fissure in the fabric of time and space opens and allows us to slip through the cracks between our world and other times, other places.
Dark matter is some serious shit.
“Awaiting clearance for phase two launch, T-Jump,” Nico says.
“How does it look from your end, Nico?” T-Jump replies.
“Instruments show all green. No showstoppers. Looks like we’re ready to rock, so to speak.”
A snort comes over the speakers. “Rock on, brother. Not into the rocks, if you please. I don’t want to write that report.”
“Copy that, T-Jump,” Nico says, laughing.
“We’re clear on this end. It’s all yours, Nico. We’ll keep the lights on for you guys. Come home safe, crew.”
“Thanks, T-Jump. See you on the other side.”
“Commence launch phase two on my mark.”
“Acknowledged.”
“Launch in three, two, one. Mark.”
Through my window, I watch the cavern walls refract prisms of light in long streaks of kaleidoscopic color as we blast through the tunnel. There’s a deep hum building, like a wind turbine ratcheting up to a higher speed.
Flashes of light drift by my window in slow, lazy waves, like a ripple on pond water when a stone is tossed into it. The closer we get to the time jump in the vortex, the faster the ripples travel. There’s an enormous burst of light and color as we slip the bounds of the twenty-sixth century, then a darkness so deep, it’s hard to believe that moments ago, we were surfing a rainbow of brilliant light waves.
There’s a nauseous feeling bubbling in my belly, but biometric filters prevent the sometimes-fatal side effects that were once a dangerous byproduct of time travel.
“Betty,” Nico’s voice is calm and steady in the dark. “On re-entry, initiate exterior camouflage program.”
“Affirmative, honey,” Betty answers. “Re-entry in ten seconds.”
At the end of the countdown, we emerge from the vortex into a vibrant blue sky. “Camouflage initiated and fully intact,” Betty says.
Fagin and I move to the cockpit. Fagin speaks first. “Confirm date and location coordinates.”
Nico swipes two screens out of the way and pulls up a holographic image of our destination. “Date and location coordinates: 47.5532° N, 1.0105° E, which puts us right in the middle of France’s Loire Valley. The date is...” He air-taps a screen to his right. “First of August, Fifteen Hundred Thirty-Two.”
“The location of our
first base of operations should be in the computer,” Fagin says.
“Got ‘em right here.” Nico pulls the coordinates up and a three-dimensional image of a gray stone manor house, surrounded by lush gardens. “Pretty fancy joint.”
“Things will move fast after we land. We have a lot to do before contact with the locals.” She pats Nico on the shoulder. “First order of business is to set up security systems.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Nico replies. Then he smiles at me. “Welcome to France.”
Chapter 10
I’ve heard it said that wine colonized the world, and humans were merely the vehicle for its migration. Since the advent of the oldest known winery in Armenia, cultivated in 4,000 BC, wine production has done more to promote good international and interplanetary relations than all the adventurers, politicians and kings who ever lived. Without the humble grape, civilization would be, well... less civilized.
I may be exaggerating, but probably not much.
As I prowl the perimeter of the chateau’s salon, watching the Vicomte d’Auvergne and his wife cast snide, sideways glances at Fagin as they judge the quality of the drink, I wonder if there’s a problem that can’t be resolved over a collegial glass of exceptional wine. My predicament with this mission answers that question with a resounding “yes.”
I take a deep breath. I hoped once I was in Papa’s and Mama’s ancestral homeland, I would feel a new connection to them. Something that would give me strength, or at least ease my restlessness as this heinous mission begins. We’ve been in Paris for twenty-four hours. I’m still as jumpy as a puppet on a string.
That’s an apt job description for a time thief: The Benefactors’ bitch. Must perform for their demented pleasure.
The Vicomte is tall and regal with a patrician nose, useful when judging aromatic properties of fine wines. He wears a fussy ruffled shirt beneath a satin burgundy jerkin with matching short breeches. His beard and mustache are cropped close, and his arched eyebrows give him a devilish appearance.
His wife is resplendent in a green silk kirtle embroidered with tiny perfect yellow flowers. Her ivory shift is visible through the slashes in the embroidered sleeves, and the low-cut square neckline shows off an ample bosom. She is as vapid as she is beautiful, demonstrated by her inability to say anything original—preferring, instead, to parrot her husband.
She makes me want to scream.
The Vicomte raises a glass to his nose. His eyes close and a deep inhale follows. His expression suggests he’s lost in the aroma, and wondering if the drink will fulfill the bouquet’s promise when it hits his tongue.
He sips, swirls the drink around his mouth. There’s a contented sigh as he swallows and beams another satisfied smile. “Exquisite. I have never tasted its equal,” he says. “There is a hint of something I cannot quite place.” He pauses for a second sip, another swirl of wine in his mouth. “Is it...wood smoke?”
“Yes. Wood smoke,” his wife agrees.
“I love the new Translator upgrade.” Nico’s voice is soft as a feather in my ear, courtesy of a CommLink set at a comfortable volume. “The speed and accuracy of the translation are so amazing, I bet it could translate the Vicomte’s French thoughts to English before he opens his mouth.” A beat. “You’re discussing the wine, right?”
Fagin’s eyelashes flutter and she glances in my direction. I note the almost imperceptible widening of her eyes that indicates irritation. She makes a discreet motion of drawing the tip of her index finger across her throat. Fagin hates idle chatter on missions. It’s one of her rules: If you’re not directly involved in a conversation, shut your damn mouth so others aren’t distracted from theirs.
I cast a glance at the miniature surveillance camera installed in the ceiling, then turn to gaze out the windows overlooking the lush gardens. Nico can see everything from the command center in the ship. An abundance of rose bushes, and rows of waist-high boxwoods, extend to the oak-lined alee leading to the main road. At the far end of the lane, there’s a sharp right turn in the road that meanders south toward Paris.
“Fagin wants radio silence,” I say in a low voice.
The CommLinks we wear are the most sophisticated communication devices ever designed. The microphones pick up the slightest whisper, and Betty runs noise gates that distinguish between the user’s voice, at any decibel level, and other ambient noises in the room to cancel out distractions. Coupled with a number of creative techniques for discreet conversation in surveillance settings—simple things like turning away from bystanders or using a wine glass to conceal the mouth when speaking—it’s relatively easy to carry on conversations with team members on the ship with minimal risk of eavesdropping locals.
Still, depending on the mission’s time period, communication in the wild can be super tricky. On one of my first jobs, in 1217 France, we searched for the bodily remains of Saint Edmund; a holy relics collector wanted his bones for his private collection. I was overheard talking to the Timeship by a small group of powerful, superstitious men. Turns out that talking to yourself within earshot of ignorance can be misinterpreted as muttering witchcraft spells under your breath. I narrowly escaped burning at the stake—with Edmund’s right femur safely stowed in my bag—thanks to Nico’s technical wizardry and a talking goat.
“I saw her,” Nico says, sniffing in clear indignation. “She doesn’t need to be snippy.” The CommLink goes silent.
If Fagin registers his displeasure, she gives no sign. Her focus remains on the potential buyer. “I have connections with influential courtiers who introduced me to the merchants importing wine from Portugal, Spain, and the island of Madeira,” Fagin says, a coy smile on her lips. “This vintage is an extremely rare Madeira. Let me assure you, Monsieur le Vicomte, this,” she taps the decanter on the table for emphasis, “can’t be found anywhere else unless you come to me.”
“Indeed?” he asks. “If I negotiate with you, then I would have exclusive purchase privileges? A common wine anyone can buy doesn’t interest me. It would displease me to discover that our arrangement leaves room for other buyers.”
“Yes,” the Parrot says, “we would be displeased.”
“If we agree on terms, you will hold the exclusive contract. You should know our wine commands a premium price. Our winemakers have keen instincts for all vineyard matters—from the health of the vines to preparing the casks that hold this liquid gold.” She raises her glass to her nose and sniffs. The Vicomte and his wife follow suit. “They are the only winemakers in the world capable of producing the same wine year after year.”
More accurately, the Replicator is the only winemaker capable of producing the perfect wine, year after year, no matter what.
The Vicomte’s eyebrows fly right to the top of his forehead. “Do you mean there are no variations in your wine from one season to the next? You must forgive me, Madame, but my sensibilities tell me this is quite impossible to achieve,” he says with a smirk that I’d love just one shot at wiping clean off his face.
“Yes, quite impossible—” the Parrot begins, but, mercifully, Fagin derails her.
“I have proof.”
“Please don’t misunderstand,” the Vicomte replies. “My faith in you as an accomplished woman is not in doubt. I do suspect that someone has taken advantage of your natural naiveté, a trait I’m afraid all women share, and convinced you that such a remarkable feat is attainable.” His laugh is thin and reedy and insulting.
Fagin gives me a quick wink—our agreed-upon signal because she’d known the Vicomte would require proof. Five wine bottles are displayed on an ornately carved side table where the trio are gathered. I do this two more times for a total of five new bottles and set crystal decanters on the table as well.
The last two bottles show less age and dust than the others. Fagin opens each one, ensuring the nobles watch every move as she decants the wine, then she sets the bottles where their labels are visible at all times. I bring two clean glasses for each decanter, and uncover a smal
l tray of sliced bread and bring it to the table.
“The wine needs to breathe, but it’s important for you to watch as I decant them so you can verify you’re not drinking from one bottle. Even in their current state, your discriminating palates should discern the veracity of my claim.” Fagin disarms him with a flattering gaze. She gestures to the first decanter. “First, the Fifteen-Aught-Seven vintage.”
“Twenty-five years old?” he asks, as he leans toward the table to read the dust-smudged label. He runs his thumb across the delicate paper until he’s able to read the faded ink stamp.
Fagin spreads her hands open in a gesture of invitation. “The first of several rare and precious vintages before you today.”
The Vicomte gives Fagin the same look he might give a clueless child. Simple, weak-minded female, he might be thinking. She’s been duped into believing a fairytale about her wine.
“We’ll see about that.” The Vicomte pours a small amount of the deep ruby liquid into two glasses and hands one to his wife. They sniff. Then sip and swirl and swallow.
“Please, cleanse your palates before the next drink,” Fagin says, handing them each small pieces of bread. She notes the pair’s dubious expressions, and explains. “It ensures your mouth is a fresh canvas for the wine to paint upon.”
Still doubtful, they each nibble a small amount of bread before proceeding to the next carafe.
“Now, the Fifteen-Twelve,” Fagin announces with a flourish, and provides two generous pours of the next decanter. God, I love watching her work. So damn smooth.
The Vicomte raises his glass, leveling a steady gaze on the implacable Fagin. Again, the couple sniffs. Sip and swirl. Swallow. Confusion clouds the Vicomte’s eyes as realization dawns, but he’s not ready to admit the truth on his own taste buds. His wife’s expression doesn’t change as she samples the first three bottles; she seems clueless about what she is experiencing.