by O M Faure
‘Hello, I’m Olivia.’
‘Umh… hello, I’m Stu – I mean, Stuart, miss.’
He stares at her, no doubt noticing that she’s a real redhead. Her breasts are pushed up against her forearm and her curves are on full display; he blushes, shakes her hand, eyes averted and looks back up at her face, swallowing.
We don’t seem to be in immediate danger, so I let my fists down and move toward the exit. He steps in my way, looking embarrassed and awkward.
‘What are you doing? Stop! I can’t let you out.’
I’m not about to let him lock us in again. He looks weak, so I go around him and step out the hangar. He swivels, spluttering, ‘Wait, wait, no get back in there, ma’am, please. You’re not allowed. It’s not proper process.’
The corridor is lined with doors on either side, with no clear indication of a way out. The paint is gray with age and flaking and there’s a faint smell of mold and dust. We’re probably in a disused basement. He’s still pointing his gun at me, looking unsure, sweating profusely. If he raises his arm again to wipe his face, I’ll take his gun, I learned the maneuver in Krav Maga. I don’t recognize the make of the weapon and come to think of it I’ve never seen one like that, but I should be able to figure out how to use it. Anyone other than Olivia would take advantage of the fact that his back is now turned to her, to overpower him. But no, not Snow White.
‘Stuart, we’ve had quite an arduous journey to get here. Is there anywhere we could sit and have some refreshments while you figure things out?’
Olivia sounds like she’s at a fucking tea party. I sigh but let it play out.
‘Yeah, yeah, sure.’
He leads us to an abandoned room, sparsely furnished with two scruffy sofas and a rickety coffee table. Every surface is covered with a gray coat of dust.
‘Bring us clothes, water and something with sugar. Also we need to talk to someone in charge.’ Trying to match Olivia’s non-threatening tone, I force out a ‘Please.’
‘Umh. Sure, OK. I’ll bring you that. I already pinged the guv and he’s gonna send instructions asap, ma’am.’
‘That’s brilliant, thank you very much, Stuart, we appreciate your help.’ Olivia smiles. But when he leaves the room, she takes a big shuddering breath and exhales slowly.
He comes back a few minutes later with a uniform like his, water bottles and a handful of snacks. There’s only one set of clothes, so I put on the tight pants and t-shirt, and Snow White gets a pair of boxer shorts and the gray synthetic jacket which smells of sweat. It’s a really odd uniform, cut strangely. Apparently he didn’t have any spare shoes, so we both remain barefoot.
Apologizing profusely, Stu leaves while we get dressed, visibly relieved not to make any decisions anymore. Why do the British always apologize? It’s exasperating. As soon as the door closes behind him with a click and a light buzzing sound, I get off the sofa and look for a handle but there is none. I push the door with my shoulder. Locked.
There’s a blue pad next to the door but I don’t know how to use it to open the door. There are no intercoms or phone, no doors to anywhere else. If only there was a window, we could at least figure out where we are, or try to break it open. But no such luck.
Whoever took control of the Cambridge facility now has our lives in their hands. But how did they capture us and why can’t I remember it? We must have fainted when that white light exploded. Maybe that was a stun grenade or something. At the first opportunity, I should escape. Leave Olivia behind. She’d slow me down and I don’t want to be responsible for her. She can play nice if she wants to, but I need to survive.
‘Nothing usable here,’ I say, slamming my palm against the door in frustration.
‘Nothing here either.’ She’s sniffling while she looks in some metal cupboards and opens drawers, the uniform jacket so short that it exposes the boxer shorts every time she bends to look down.
‘Let’s rest then, since we can’t do anything for the moment,’ I sigh.
I twist off the cap of my bottle and drink a long gulp. At least it doesn’t seem like we’re in immediate danger. I drink the rest of my water and think. There seems to be a hierarchical structure and the night guard doesn’t appear to have instructions to kill us on sight – so far, so good.
Olivia drinks some of her water and cocking her head to one side, frowns. ‘Is your hair different?’
My hands fly up and pat my cornrows. Feeling exposed and puzzled, I gather the leave-out and braid it, wondering why anyone would bother to remove my weave.
‘Do you think we’re safe?’ she asks.
‘We’ll know soon enough.’ I rip open the protein bar before she can get it and bite a chunk off.
‘We should have killed the guy and taken our chances. Too late now.’
She looks shocked. ‘Why on earth would we hurt Stuart? He hasn’t done anything to us.’
‘Seriously? Because we’ve been kidnapped and we have no idea who these people are, that’s why.’
‘Yes, but Stuart didn’t seem to know much and I don’t think he meant us harm.’
‘Yeah, or he’s with the Helenus and you’re exhibiting the first signs of Stockholm syndrome.’
She taps the bottle cap against her lips. ‘Stuart doesn’t look like the kind of guy the Helenus would hire.’
‘Neither did your dreamy history teacher.’
My words sting, but she nods. ‘OK, maybe you’re right, we should assume the worst then.’
She looks completely out of it. She rubs her face in her hands and the dried blood on her temples crumbles and scatters on the uniform shoulders. She hasn’t noticed, she’s staring curiously at the candy bar wrapper.
‘That’s odd, I don’t recognize this brand.’
‘Olivia, focus for God’s sake. Who gives a flying fuck about the food quality?’ I take a breath and make an effort not to snap at her. ‘The Helenus took over the Programme; that much is clear. So we’re probably in one of their facilities.’
‘I’m not sure. If these were Helenus people, they would have killed us already.’
‘They still might.’
‘But why go through the trouble of abducting us and removing all our belongings?’
‘Maybe they didn’t want to take the risk that any of our clothes or devices might be tracked?’ I venture. That reminds me. I check my forearm for the microchip. It moves under my skin when I push it tentatively with my grimy finger. Still there. None of this makes any sense.
‘I’ll take the first shift,’ I say.
We both take a sofa. Olivia sleeps within minutes and I sit up, trying to fight my heavy eyelids. Now that the adrenaline has left my system, exhaustion takes over.
16
DeAnn
Cambridge, November 1
* * *
A hand is shaking my shoulder.
‘Ma’am? Ma’am?’
I open my eyes blearily.
‘Mmh?’
‘My guv has arrived at HQ, we need to go.’
Stuart is bending over me, his gaunt face apologetic but excited as well. I was fast asleep for what feels like hours. Olivia’s waking up as well. The stupid woman dozed off on her shift. She’s useless. Well, at least they didn’t kill us in our sleep, that’s something.
Olivia is pulling back her hair into a messy knot.
‘Ready?’ Stuart says, looking at his feet.
He takes us down the corridor on the right and we start a long trek past at least a dozen doors. The walls are gray, paint is peeling off and the doors are all closed. It looks really similar to the Programme facility, but then again, so would any corridor lined with identical doors.
We reach an underground parking garage and all of us climb into an odd-looking minivan with smoked windows; Stuart sits in the front and says something really quietly and the clear plastic collar around his throat pulses with white light for a short instant and we set off.
We drive for the better part of an hour and I keep searching thr
ough the dim windows for a landmark or a natural feature that could tell me where we are, but come up empty. Ugly suburbs give way to high rises and clusters of uninspired project estates. It’s all steel and concrete as far as the eye can see. We could be in any city. There is decay everywhere, the houses are grubby with dust and pollution. The roads are full of potholes and there’s a yellowish smog hanging over the urban landscape.
Soon, we arrive in a downtown area where towers rise up to unfathomable heights, throwing long shadows over gray streets. The sidewalks are extremely crowded. Maybe it’s rush hour or something.
Cars zip past our minivan, as we start to slow down and take smaller streets and finally we enter an underground parking lot and we all get out. Stuart guides us to an elevator. He calls out, ‘Floor 186,’ and waves his wrist in front of a pad.
‘Where are we?’ I ask.
‘I’m real sorry but I can’t say nothing. My guv will do the talking. Sorry.’
The lift is still going up five minutes later and my ears are blocked. I yawn to pop them and notice Olivia and Stuart following suit.
Finally the doors open with a ping onto a large reception area with lime-green carpets and stark lighting.
The PA, a thin woman in her fifties, looks at us with rounded eyes and quickly rises to escort us. She has more makeup on her face than I put on in a year. She’s wearing hot pink leggings made of shiny spandex, vertiginous heels and a short faux-leather perfecto jacket. Her neon-pink wig is fashioned into a bird’s nest held together by too much hairspray. Her face is pinched and her bright lipstick has sunk into the little wrinkles around her mouth, making her look disturbingly as if she’s just eaten the chicks that might have lived in her hair’s nest. What the hell is this place?
She opens the double doors and ushers us in like a show hostess. The whole place smells faintly of chemical deodorizer. We step tentatively into a vast office with floor-to-ceiling windows, as the double doors close behind us. Stuart, Olivia and I approach the walnut-burl desk near the windows. The green carpet feels thick and soft under my bare feet.
A man is standing with his back to us, surveying the view. The light is much more intense here, and, after the darkness of the underground floors, I’m blinded. I can’t recognize this skyline at all. The city is covered with immense skyscrapers. The one we are in seems to be merely in the average range.
I search for something familiar and spot a river, but I can’t really say where we are. It’s got to be Asia. Where else would they build such high towers? Maybe a Gulf state?
My eyes adjust gradually, as the man turns to look at us. He has brown hair, very short on the sides and longer on top, gel slicking down the longer strands into a neat pompadour. His nails are manicured and coated in a dark gray polish. He’s clean-shaven and also wears a full face of makeup. He’s dressed in a weird outfit, a long jacket over a white t-shirt, no tie. His tight, shiny black leggings are uncomfortable to look at, so I focus on his silver sneakers.
He looks us up and down in silence and I’m uncomfortably aware that I’m wearing Stuart’s hand-me-down uniform, which probably looks ridiculous on me. He turns to the hapless night guard.
‘Rank, job title and name?’ His voice is deep and I recognize the ring of command.
‘Junior attendant, night shift of the decommissioned Cambridge device, Stuart Gainer.’
‘Have you confirmed their identities?’
‘Their name, rank, ID and dates of birth match two agents who went missing on the thirty-first of October 2016, boss.’
Well, yes, of course, that was a few hours ago, why even mention it?
‘Have you scanned their microchips?’
‘No guv, but I can do it now if you want.’
‘Proceed.’
Stuart turns to us. Biting her lip nervously, Olivia extends her forearm and he scans her with a small, clear plastic device around his wrist. It pulses with blue light after the swipe above her forearm but nothing bad happens, so I extend my arm too.
‘Their microchips match the two agents’ IDs, guv.’
Technically we’re not agents at all. Just back-office personnel. I say nothing, though.
‘That will be all.’
Stuart nods and turns to us, looking unsure.
‘Goodbye, Stuart, thank you for your help earlier,’ Olivia says, patting his shoulder.
‘You’re all right,’ he answers with a small smile. He hesitates. But after a beat, he turns and leaves. I see her throat bob as her eyes follow him to the door. I’m nervous too. But I won’t let it show either.
I’ve kept my eyes on the older man during the exchange. He seems powerful yet also uncomfortable. I wonder why; after all, he’s got all the cards here. He’s the one who abducted us. Something’s off. And what’s with the makeup?
He sits at his desk and gestures for us to take the two chairs in front of him. ‘Pardon the formalities, I needed to check that you really were who you said you were.’ His eyes are cold and the apology rings hollow.
‘I trust this is in order now?’ I ask.
‘Yes, it is.’ He sits back and makes a steeple with his hands. ‘My name is Montgomery de Courcy, I run the KEW operations.’
‘What is this place? Where are we?’
‘We’re at the Programme headquarters, and today is the first of November 2081,’ he looks at his wrist, ‘and it’s six a.m.’
The whole room seems to list off kilter. Resisting the urge to hold out my arms for balance, I grab my knees and try to get my beating heart under control. It can’t be.
Olivia sucks her breath in and her face goes one full shade paler. Her knuckles are whitening around the armrests.
We look at each other.
The room still spinning around me, but I make an effort to keep a blank face.
The silence stretches as de Courcy observes us attentively. I swallow and cross my legs, trying to look confident while my mind plays catch-up. We left on 31 October 2016 in the late afternoon. Sixty-five years later, to the day. This is incredible. I thought I’d guessed what the Programme was about but I wasn’t even close.
‘Sorry, which city are we in?’ Olivia asks, sounding winded.
‘We are in the conurbation of London.’
My mind is scrambling to make sense of this. Could this be a prank? Or maybe a hallucination? I take a big breath and try to corral random thoughts into a semblance of composure and calm. OK, we’re in 2081. We’re probably in the hands of whoever took over in 2016. We’re not agents, we weren’t selected, we weren’t properly briefed. Basically, we’re fucked.
De Courcy’s guarded, careful of what he reveals.
‘So I gather that you were not expecting us?’
‘You’re the first Programme agents to ever arrive from the past. The room you appeared in and in fact the entire Cambridge facility has been out of use for twenty years.’
‘I see.’
I take a moment to think. If this is the future, how come he’s not asking about the attack on the Cambridge facility and the role we might have played in it? Shouldn’t there be a report from whoever took control after the attack, warning any future heads of the Programme that two staff members escaped and might appear in their timeline? Or maybe he already knows exactly who we are and that’s why he doesn’t need to ask. We’re dead if he’s with the Helenus.
‘Is this a Cassandra Programme building?’ I ask. Not much point in playing coy.
‘We’re a fully operational time-travelling facility. We host all agents here and use a more modern pyramid for our forward missions.’
Again with the vagueness. Is he avoiding the word ‘Cassandra’ on purpose? His face reveals nothing of his thoughts and he leans all the way back in his armchair, observing me.
Whatever the situation is, we really don’t have much of a choice, as our lives are currently in his hands. I’ll play along for now until I find an angle I can exploit.
Olivia has been watching me and when she sees me relax m
y posture, she breathes a sigh of relief and breaks into a smile. ‘Thank you, Mr. de Courcy, for putting our minds at ease.’
She probably doesn’t believe in evil and duplicity. I suppress an eye roll and try to match the idiotic expression on her face. I’m not so easily lulled, but for now, I allow him to think that Olivia speaks for both of us.
‘Do you have a process for us to follow?’ she asks.
I let her engage with him while I observe him.
‘Yes, we’ve searched our archives for 2016 procedures and found an old protocol, which I read on my way here. We’re assuming your microchip is programmed to return to 2016?’
‘Yes, exactly,’ I say.
Olivia looks like she might cry. I touch her bare foot with mine, as discreetly as I can. She turns to me and mirrored in her eyes is the same relief I’m feeling right now. We can go back. We can go back.
‘Excellent, so we’ll make sure to get you to the pyramid on time, one year from now, on the thirty-first of October 2082.’ He smiles. His teeth are so white they’re practically shining.
‘Of course, the one-year mission,’ Olivia says and I kick her foot again, harder this time.
‘I’ll see to it that you are back here in plenty of time. The protocol involves sending you to two countries, for a period of six months in each. You’ll be together and accompanied by a Programme operative, so you can receive support when needed. The aim of the process is to ensure you gain an understanding of our timeline’s situation. We’ll provide you with IDs, jobs and transport to your destinations.’
That sounds good. Maybe this is going to work out better than I thought. The only wrinkle is that we’re not actually agents. He doesn’t know that and I’m certainly not going to disabuse him of the notion.
‘When you are in the field, you are not to intervene in anything.’ He stops and looks at us, clearly a warning. ‘You are to observe and only participate in activities related to the jobs to which you’ve been assigned. I’ve summoned my team and they’ve already started organizing the relevant logistics. You should be able to depart in thirty-six to forty-eight hours.’