“Excuse me.” Judy Walsh’s voice was barely audible.
Oslovski motioned for her to speak.
“I just . . . I just wanted you all to know we’re not all like that. Christians, I mean. Some of us—maybe even most of us—believe peace is God’s will.”
“And I must be honest in admitting,” said Vahid, “that there are some very devout Muslims who feel much as Colonel Ferris does. I trust their beliefs will not reflect on me.” He glanced at Trevor who shook his head.
“Of course not. I’m sorry if I was out of line. I hate bigotry. Especially my own.”
oOo
At 0900 hours they were calibrated and ready. On strict orders from Caldwell, Ferris would be the first to go, Hilyard following as immediately as possible.
Magda Oslovski found that significant. It implied that Ferris was the primary operative and that Hilyard was his backup.
She, Trevor, and Vance briefed them just prior to the Shift, reminding them not to stray too far from the Temporal Field Grid lest they lose track of it and become stranded.
“Of course, one of you could heft it and carry it with you,” said Oslovski. “It’s portable enough, but the potential for damaging it is increased if you move it. The nearer to the materialization point you can accomplish your . . . mission, the better. We’ve positioned you behind a support column, well out of sight so you should be able to just leave the Grid in place.”
She glanced at her handcomp, checking her notes. “Oh, yes. You’ll be invisible as long as you’re within about two meters of the Grid. That’s part of the Field effect. Again, if you stay close to the Grid, you can use that for cover.”
Trevor Haley bit the inside of his lip and peered studiously at his own handcomp.
“Any questions?” Oslovski glanced from one operative to the other. Both shook their heads. “All right, then. Colonel Ferris, if you’ll follow Dr. Haley, he’ll set you up on the Grid. Major Hilyard, you’ll watch from the observation deck with General Caldwell.”
Judy Walsh was nervous. Her hands shook slightly as she prepared an infusion of tranquilizer for Colonel Ferris. She breathed a sigh of relief that he wasn’t the type that liked to watch shots being administered.
She was just preparing to infuse him when he sighed and said, “I don’t suppose you could give me a pill to adjust my electrolytes?”
She blinked. There was a smile on his lips and it unnerved her. She glanced at George Wu, who was performing the last minute adjustments on Ferris’s bio-monitor.
“Sorry, Colonel,” said George, “but we’ve got to get this stuff into your blood stream pronto. Besides, Dr. Walsh likes to watch people squirm.” He grinned conspiratorially. “We have to let our MDs have some fun or they get cranky.”
Judy smiled nervously and pressed the infuser against Ferris’s neck. He winced, then sighed again and looked at her.
“Pretty women are so often cruel. I’ve never understood that.”
“Yeah,” said George, his eyes on Judy’s blanched face. “Uh, Dr. Walsh, we’d better hurry.” He jerked his head toward the O.R.
She nodded, picked up her tray and let him steer her out of the Theatre. Once in the O.R., she set the tray down with a clatter and wrapped her arms around herself. “Thanks, George,” she mumbled, her teeth chattering. “I’m sorry, but this whole thing is just—”
“Shifting,” said Shiro.
Judy glanced at her, then at the monitors. The Spectral Field glistened like a shower of diamonds. Within it, Colonel Ferris faded from sight.
“Station, Dr. Walsh!” ordered Oslovski.
Judy exhaled sharply and slid into her seat. The data on the Colonel’s vital signs rippled across her screen. “Heart rate spiked briefly to 150. It’s falling off now. One twenty . . . one hundred. Stabilizing at . . . ninety-five. Respiration normal.”
Oslovski leaned toward Shiro Tsubaki. “Where is he? Or should I say, when is he?”
“Green minus seven and Shifting towards Aqua.”
“On the timer, Shiro. Give the tranq a few more seconds to work, then make the spatial shift and pull him in.”
Shiro nodded and glanced at her timer. “Okay, I’m going to reset coordinates in 10, 9, 8, 7, 6, 5, 4, 3, 2, 1, 0. Resetting coordinates.” She punched up the new location on her keyboard.
“Cue Trevor. Reversing Field . . . now.”
Oslovski activated her headset and hailed Trevor, who was standing by in the lower level Theatre. “Shiro’s reversing now. You’ll have him in about twenty seconds.”
“We’re ready.” Trevor hefted the infuser-full of Ephkal-A and waited, his eyes on the spot where Ferris and the Temporal Field Grid were slated to appear. Beside him, Vance Keller took a deep breath and counted.
Ferris re-materialized right on schedule, head lolling slightly, hands still clutching his compact weapon. He materialized facing into a curving screen that all but engulfed him. His unfocused eyes saw the sweeping upper gallery of the Word Conference Center. He wobbled his head to the right. A pillar blocked his view.
Trevor moved quickly with his infuser, then nodded to Vance.
“He’s all yours,” he mouthed.
oOo
Ferris was troubled. The Time Shift had disoriented him and he felt slow and muzzy. He was glad the chosen location offered so much protection. He knew he was supposedly invisible, but he found that a little hard to believe. He chucked inwardly at his own skepticism. Here he’d just traveled through time and he was balking at the idea of invisibility.
He scanned the immediate area. It was completely clear. According to their information, this part of the auditorium had been totally sealed off and was guarded at either end. There was no way in and no way out . . . except their way.
He could hear the sound of a myriad voices rising from below and checked his watch. It was 1045. He settled his shoulder against the pillar and waited for Hilyard, the “Battle Hymn of the Republic” playing softly in his head.
oOo
Dr. Judy Walsh was ready this time, or so she thought. She had a smile all ready for Major Hilyard as she prepared his infusion of tranquilizer. Then, he turned out to be a watcher. She gritted her teeth and smiled more broadly.
“What’s in that shot?” he asked unexpectedly.
The infuser wavered an inch from his neck. Judy’s face paled then flamed. “Just . . . uh . . . vitamins and . . . uh . . . a compound to-to balance your electrolytes.”
“Why is that necessary?”
She tried hard not to meet his eyes, but hers kept colliding with them. “The effects of the Field cause certain . . . uh . . . stresses on the—on the nervous system. This will counteract them.”
He studied her intently for a moment, eyes narrowed, then asked, “Is there anything harmful in it?”
She stared at him, half relieved, half terrified. “Oh, no!”
He nodded. “Get on with it, then.”
Judy blinked at George—who stared back, owl-eyed—then administered the tranq.
oOo
Bert Ferris swiveled as Hilyard materialized behind him. He checked his watch. It was 1050. They checked their weapons—matte black rifles with scopes that were as long as the barrels—then moved stealthily to the steel and cement railing at the edge of the gallery.
Ferris looked back toward the Grid. He couldn’t see it because of the pillar, but he gauged they were within the two meter invisibility range. He raised himself up slowly and peered over the edge of the gallery. He checked his watch again—less than a minute to go. He readied the rifle.
Below, Gorbachev was introduced in several languages. The audience cheered and applauded at length. Ferris’s lip curled—a standing ovation for the Devil. He rose to his knees and lifted the rifle. He sighted.
A shot reverberated through the hall and the figure in the center of the stage froze. In that second, Ferris fired twice.
The figure crumpled beneath a spray of scarlet.
In the pandemonium after, Ferris sank
back and gave Hilyard the thumbs up, then he crawled back to the Grid. After a swift peek over the railing, Hilyard followed. Ferris mounted first and waited for the Field to engage. A mere twenty seconds later, he was back in his own time.
Hilyard followed, coming out of the Field to see Ferris wobbling away toward the door. His own legs felt weak and he staggered against someone. He turned his head groggily to see Dr. Walsh blinking at him. She tried to smile.
“You made it,” she said. “Welcome back.” She gave him another infusion. “Something for the disorientation.”
He nodded and let her lead him from the room.
oOo
“I don’t understand it,” fumed General Caldwell, “You said expect changes. And believe you me, we did. But nothing’s changed—not a damn thing. Fulfilling our mission seems to have accomplished nothing. I called our contacts in Washington, Berlin, Moscow—everything is the same.”
At the mention of his contacts, Magda Oslovski glanced across the table at her husband, her heart suddenly feeling like an ice cube in soda water. Did the contacts check their history books? If they did...
She berated herself mentally for such a glaring oversight. They’d been so wrapped up in the technological aspects of the situation, they’d ignored the most obvious logical ones.
“General,” said Vance, “we never said things would change radically. Just that they could.”
Out of the corner of her eye, Oslovski saw George Wu trying to attract her attention. He gestured, first, at his video unit, then at himself. She responded with a slight nod.
“Are you sure you killed him?” Caldwell was asking Ferris.
“Killed or vegetized,” responded the Colonel emphatically. “No one survives two direct hits to the head with an AK-70.”
“Hilyard, you corroborate?”
Hilyard nodded.
“How can we know for certain?” was Caldwell’s next question.
Oslovski glanced at George Wu.
“History books,” he said quickly. “Newspapers. We can have the Library Computer get a sampling.”
“Do it.”
George keyed in his request. Within seconds, they were looking at a front page spread: GORBACHEV VICTIM OF ASSASSINATION PLOT.
“Continue,” George prompted. The page changed. WORLD STUNNED BY VICIOUS ATTACK ON GORBACHEV: DOCTORS HAVE LITTLE HOPE FOR SOVIET LEADER’S SURVIVAL.
“Hold that!” said Caldwell. “Let me read the copy.”
“Amplify,” said George.
The page enlarged, rendering the text beneath the caption readable.
“He wasn’t killed,” murmured Caldwell. Then frowned. “But it amounts to the same thing—severe brain damage, kept on life support in a Moscow hospital. He’s a vegetable.” He shook his head. “I don’t get it. How come nothing’s changed?”
“What were you expecting?” asked Oslovski as dispassionately as she could.
He ignored her, his eyes devouring the story on the monitor.
“I could find some history books,” offered George.
Caldwell waved a hand at him. “No, don’t bother. I caught the drift from this—” He flicked his fingers at the newspaper spread. “A lot of wimpy speeches about ‘our brother’s sacrifice not being in vain,’ a lot of fancy political rationalization about the impossibility of going back. Weak willed—” He clenched his jaw.
“Maybe the effects are further in the future,” suggested Ferris.
“That’s a distinct possibility,” said Oslovski thoughtfully. “Time travel is a frontier. What we know of the Temporal Spectrum suggests that changing history—altering the pattern of the Spectrum—might cause an actual branching effect. This close to the bifurcation, we might not see its full effects. Although, heaven knows, we could even have created an anomaly—a parallel history, or a bubble in history.”
“And we could be in the middle of this . . . bubble?” asked Caldwell.
Oslovski adjusted her glasses on her nose. “As I said—a distinct possibility. Then again, maybe Someone or Something just won’t let us change history . . . retroactively.”
Caldwell just stared at her blankly. Ferris gritted his teeth. Hilyard smiled.
“How far in the future—these effects?” demanded Caldwell.
Oslovski shrugged, enjoying his frustration. “Years, decades . . .”
“I want to see it,” he said. “I want to see the future.”
“All right, but it will take several days to recalibrate our equipment for a forward Shift. We could be ready to send your operatives into the future in as little as . . . say . . . four days.”
“Not them, me! I want to see it! Hilyard, you’ll come with me. In the meantime, I’ll be having my contacts check their own Library computers.” He jabbed the table with his forefinger, then pivoted on his heel and left the room with Ferris right behind. Hilyard watched them leave, then rose slowly and followed, still smiling.
Oslovski shivered. “I see what you mean about him,” she told Vance. “He is creepy.” She turned to George. “I could just kiss you! Where did you get that stuff you showed us?”
George shrugged. “Over the last couple of days I got to thinking about how Caldwell and his bunch would react to this, and it occurred to me that they’d want to see solid proof that what their operatives said happened actually did happen. There wasn’t any time to discuss it with everyone, so I had the Library Computer play ‘what-if’ with the assassination and come up with some hypothetical headlines and political analyses. Then I just got a little creative with the output and had the computer assign well-known authors to the commentary. There’s a front page, lead story and follow-ups for every major U.S. and European publication. Oh, and I had the computer draft some hypothetical history texts, too.”
“What made you decide Gorbachev didn’t die?” asked Vance.
“Well, it also occurred to me that Caldwell might very likely do his verification somewhere that fell through my cracks, as it were. If he did, he’d see that Gorbachev died of natural causes in a private hospital outside Moscow at the age of eighty something. I had to adjust my ‘history’ to that. I was able to get to his private computer through the Library of Congress system. If he connects through that system, he’ll find that Gorbachev was taken to a private facility where he eventually died—this is history according to George, now. I also planted the idea that there was an attempted cover-up. That a group of Soviet higher-ups tried to make light of the President’s injuries and claimed that he had only been superficially wounded—so that people wouldn’t lapse into despair or renewed animosity.”
“Why that?” asked Vance.
“Covering our tracks, Doc. There’s still every chance that Caldwell or his contacts could look in the wrong places and come up with a Gorbachev who was not only alive, but lively. Even with my noodling, that could still unravel our whole fabric. Now, if I knew who Caldwell’s contacts were, what data they’d be likely to access and what nodes they’d be using, I could make sure they all got matching information. Unfortunately, I’m not a mind reader.”
“You might not have to be,” said Oslovski. She held up a small, dark gray box. “Hilyard dropped his handcomp.”
George gaped. “And it’s displaying a list of contacts?”
“No, it’s displaying an index.” She held it out to him. “You’re the hacker—have at it.”
It was at once logical and beyond all possible miracles to suppose that the names and system addresses of Caldwell’s contacts for Project Hourglass were amongst the data stored in Hilyard’s handcomp, but they were. George and Louis went into high gear. They downloaded the information to their own handcomps and immediately set about using it to shunt any requests for information originating from the contact’s terminals through to the QuestLabs’ Library server. Hilyard’s unit was returned to him post haste.
“But what if somebody just goes to a library terminal and requests information about Gorbachev’s assassination?” asked Shiro.
; George allowed himself a self-congratulatory grin. “I planted something in the nature of a glorified IF-THEN statement in the Library of Congress system. IF anyone requests information on the assassination attempt, THEN they get routed to our ersatz fact file. Since all libraries network to that system—” He shrugged.
“George, you’re a marvel,” Oslovski told him.
He blushed faintly at the praise. “Well, I couldn’t cover all our tracks, but I did what I could. It’s just . . .” He made a wry face.
“What?”
“Well, it seems too much of a fluke, I guess. Here we find ourselves in a position where we could use certain information and—bingo!—it falls onto our conference room floor.”
“Miracles do happen,” observed Vance.
George tilted his head. “I don’t doubt it. But there’s something a little odd about this miracle. For two weeks, Hilyard’s been taking notes on that handcomp. I didn’t find a trace of them.”
“Maybe it was encrypted,” suggested Shiro.
“Even encrypted information takes up room in memory, my dear. The only data left in that unit, with the exception of the information we needed, was general stuff. There wasn’t even a letter to mom.”
Oslovski stiffened. “You’re suggesting we’ve been set up.”
George shrugged. “The nodes I accessed were operative and the addresses and passwords were real. Maybe I’m just being paranoid.”
“Maybe not.” Oslovski frowned thoughtfully. “Let’s keep a close eye on Major Hilyard.”
“What do we do if he does anything suspicious?” asked Louis.
Oslovski grimaced. “I haven’t the foggiest idea. But we don’t have any time to worry about it. We’ve got to get ready for Phase Two of Operation Little Big Horn. First order of business is helping General Caldwell decide where to go.”
oOo
“It has to be someplace where I can ascertain military activity,” said Caldwell. “In other words, a military installation.”
“A . . . War Room, perhaps?” suggested Oslovski.
“You mean a Tactical Center,” corrected Ferris. “We haven’t called them War Rooms for years.”
A rose by any other name, thought Oslovski. Aloud, she said, “Tactical Center, then. Would that be appropriate?”
All the Colors of Time Page 5
