Embrace the Romance

by S. E. Smith

  She closed the panel and turned toward the door but wasn’t quite ready to cross the space between. She reminded herself this intel was supposed to be solid as a rock—one traveling through space and time. Which meant it was solid until it wasn’t.

  She still had doubts about a mole, or so Madison had heard, but She must have approved the mission. Madison also knew that the details had been tightly controlled. Only Madison, Sir Issac, the new guy, and She knew about it. Even the geek who’d talked her through the tech didn’t know when or where they were headed.

  And Madison was the only one who had picked the exact time and place. Knowing that didn’t help the niggle, in fact, it made it worse, but not quite to a level three yet. Had Madison somehow given them away? She trusted everyone but She, but not because Madison thought She was a mole. It was She’s utter ruthlessness that made Madison uneasy around her. It was probably a good quality for a Rebellion leader, but it did make a lowly minion uneasy. Madison could admit that this prejudice could also have something to do with when she’d been born, at a time when heroes beat the bad guys by being heroic instead of ruthless.

  She hesitated, trying to pinpoint where her uneasy originated from. Madison had been told it was almost impossible to jump back in time and change the outcome of an op—there was even an equation for it. But “almost” wasn’t for sure, and that didn’t mean the opposition hadn’t learned how—or that She would tell her minions if the opposition had closed that loophole. Frankly, the way both sides had agents bouncing around in time, it was miracle they didn’t collide in transit.

  So Madison had two rules. She never believed everything she was told, and she always expected the worst—without going full on pessimist about it. More in the vein of “it was what it was,” with a little of “what will be will be” thrown in there.

  She’d escaped the Time Service agents more than once because of her rules.

  And because she believed the niggles in the middle of her back.

  According to their intel source, the mole had been, or was here on this outpost right now, only in another time. Dwelling on him being here, but not here, made her head hurt. She worked better without a headache. The science said that because all of time was aligned somehow—blah, blah, complicated equation—there were echoes, that these echoes could bleed through both time and space. There were certain species that could perceive these echoes. Wasn’t it a nice coincidence that Sir Rupert was one of those species?

  All they had to do was get in, let him look around, and leave without getting captured or wiped out of existence by the Time Service.

  Easy peasy.

  In other words, just another day—or millennium—in the Rebellion.

  She realized Sir Rupert had left her shoulder. He was standing in front of a large disc that had been propped up against the wall, partly concealed by some cleaning paraphernalia.

  “I haven't seen one of these for, well, for a very long time.”

  Madison directed her pinpoint beam at it. “What is it?”

  “It’s a transport pad. This is the precursor to the time travel launch pads.”

  “Seriously?” She shouldn’t take the time, but they were in what the geeks would call a minor time flux. Which meant they had lots of time until they didn’t. She joined the bird, running her light over what looked like a manhole cover. “You’ve gotta be kidding. Who had the nerve to use that thing?”

  Sir Rupert regarded her with some amusement in his dark eyes. “I did.”

  “Oh. Well.” She grinned. “No one ever said you lacked nerve.”

  He ruffled his wings, like he might be pleased.

  “Let’s get going,” he said. He fluttered back up onto her shoulder, and worked his way back into the pack, his moment of nostalgia for the good old days over.

  “You’re the boss,” she said, then added. “Keep your beak down.” Maybe if he dug his claws into her niggle, it would go away. Or at least give it a nice scratch. She activated the door and when it slid back, she peered out. The silence—and lack of shots fired at them—were somewhat reassuring. She stepped out and turned left, padding silently down the hall toward the command center.

  Three

  Briggs fitted the outside cover back in place. It had been an interesting exercise getting it open. A mix of WD-40 and a magnet did the trick. Sometimes you had to go low tech on high tech crap. The interior had been interesting. Not as interesting as an interstellar engine, but better than an inanimate table.

  He was pretty sure he’d found the break in the wiring—some duct tape fixed that—and then he’d traced said wiring back to what had to be the on/off switch on the outer rim. The power source had been the most interesting thing about the disc. Even almost depleted, it looked like it packed a lot in a small space. He’d almost taken it out—that would interest the geeks more than anything about the disc—but he wanted to see if he could turn the sucker on first. If he could get one over on the geeks at Area 51, well, that would be his second birthday present.

  He tightened everything down, then turned it over so the dots were facing up. He had his cellphone—he couldn’t phone home, but they’d launched a small satellite because the geeks missed being able to text—set up to record some video. Geeks always wanted proof. He adjusted it using the selfie stick he’d gotten as a joke gift at the Doc’s bachelor party. This he’d rigged into a crude tripod. Now he carefully zoomed it in on the disc and turned on recording. He circled back to the device, careful not to block the video. He looked at the camera, he should probably say something, but he was better with tools than words. Didn’t they say pictures were worth more anyway? He depressed the switch on the side and stepped back.

  This time something happened.

  There was a low hum that slowly built to just shy of annoying. He heard the moveable parts inside start to move. First one of the dots turned faintly red, then red flowed across the top of the disc. More humming and moving parts sounds, and the circles turned from red to green all at the same time, sending beams of green light toward the sky at least six feet in the air.

  Interesting. Still not sure what it did.

  He was tempted to stick a finger into one of the beams, but he knew better. Funny how knowing didn’t stop the wanting.

  Oh, the human condition.

  He looked around, found a stick, and carried it back to the beams. He poked it into one of the green lights. The stick glowed green, but nothing happened for a count of three, maybe four, then the end of the stick vanished.

  Okay. Birthday present number three. Got to keep all his fingers. And he now knew this thing did something. Wasn’t sure what, but something. He went and shut off the video, then turned back to do the same to the disc, but right then the hum increased in intensity and the green lights began to pulse.

  Four

  Thanks to a sudden increase in her niggle—and a minor change in airflow—Madison ducked before the first shot sizzled past where she’d been standing. Crouched behind a control panel, she fired back and was already changing position before that shot reached the other side of the room. She might have heard a muffled thump, as if someone had dropped to the floor. Hopefully it was not of their own free will. Fire was returned where she’d been, then tracked to each side.

  That would be why she kept moving.

  Sir Rupert, who had poked his beak out of the pack so he could use his super power, now ducked back down, so far it felt like his claws were digging into her rear. The pack had some deflective qualities, which she hoped they wouldn’t need.

  Memo to self: if it niggled like a trap, it was probably a trap. It could be a fluke, she reminded herself. Maybe someone dropped in and found everything off. Bad luck happened, too. It wasn’t always a trap. Only time would tell which it was, an irony she wished she had time to appreciate.

  She got a dig in the back, which meant Sir Rupert thought it was time to go.

  Good idea, might be hard to make happen. She didn’t have time to check, but she had
a feeling all the station’s stuff was back on. Supposedly this suit would mask their location and could do an emergency flashout even with blocking tech deployed, but a failed flash out would mark her position for them like a big arrow in the sky. Not even she could tumble and dance herself out of the kind of fire that would attract. And—there was that thing about not believing everything she was told. A stench was growing around this op that was making her question everything. But Sir Rupert would have told her immediately if the mole was in the op information chain.

  They might still be able to jump out from the closet, if they could get there. Unless that gap had been left open on purpose, a gap in coverage designed to lure them in. All roads led to this being a trap, but that should have been impossible. As if she hadn’t learned that the impossible was only impossible until it wasn’t.

  She kept her body between Sir Rupert and the incoming—he was more important than she was—as she began to retreat along the shortest route back to the closet. And—this is why she got picked for these missions—as a former gymnast, she knew how to move in ways even highly trained Time Service agents didn’t expect. She initiated an intricate and random series of tumbles, leaps, and rolls—careful to keep her pack from coming close to touching the ground, or any other objects, or being exposed to enemy fire. Music in her head helped, though she missed hearing the real thing.

  As opportunities presented, she fired back and even went high at one point. No one ever expected that. She fired down on them from some kind of file cabinet, and then dropped down, using it for cover while she got her bearings.

  Lots of shots incoming. And they were blue, which meant they were trying to stun her. For now. But the color of the shots told her something else.

  This was a Time Service Interdiction Squad. Their best and brightest. Could it be Boris out there—she shut that thought off at the root. Don’t go there.

  If they caught sight of Sir Rupert, they wouldn’t settle for knocking her out. They would not risk him getting off this outpost with what could be in his head. Would their scanning be able to separate his profile from hers? The pack was supposed to prevent that, too. But…oddly enough, sometimes the super tech got too sophisticated for its own good and missed the small stuff. Like a parrot. She would have liked to figure out what gave them away—apparently still hoping this wasn’t a trap—but she was too busy dealing with what was.

  She had a slight edge, or so she hoped. Unlike many of the other rebels, she’d never been a Time Service agent, so their intel on her should be limited to those scans taken during past ops, which varied based on the sophistication of the tech used at the time. With time travel in the mix, she never said never. But at least they’d never had a chance to dig around inside her head. People could try to be unpredictable, but they tended to be unpredictable in ways that sophisticated tech could predict. Yeah, another equation.

  She reached the hallway opening and flattened against the wall in a low crouch, angled so that Sir Rupert was protected as much as possible. She felt the vibration as more station systems came online. Didn’t have time to see if they’d found her video loops. She was pretty sure they’d be able to track her soon, if they weren’t already.

  Just in case they weren’t, she dug in her pocket for one of the pebbles she invariably kept there for moments like this, and tossed it well away from where she wanted to go. It clinked against the metal floor and a flurry of shots crisscrossed the spot. Still blue.

  The volume of shots confirmed her suspicion she was up against a squad. Kind of flattering. In a not wonderful way.

  None of the shots had come from the door she wanted to go through. Apparently she was supposed to just dive through. Because the best and brightest the Time Service could muster would leave one door unguarded.

  She did a crouching roll across the opening—she did have a bird on her back—and fired multiple rounds through the opening, laying down a wide spread to clear her path ahead, then she was up, following her fire down the hall. It was a nice narrow hallway with no alcoves to hide in. Hopefully the hostiles on her heels would be just far enough behind to give her time to get to the closet.

  The doors lining the hall were all metal, so any that were partly open she lit up as she ran past. Amazing how hot a metal door got from even one energy blast. Her weapon wasn’t set to stun. Not anymore.

  She heard cursing, and at least one body hitting the ground. Shots came from behind now, tracking after her like angry bees. She was still doing her gymnast thing, but the hallway was narrow. She needed to get out of it and fast. She returned fire from a low position, her flip taking her into the shallow protection of the closet door. Her shoulder was out just far enough to catch a blast that almost spun her away from the door. That wasn’t a stun. But not a kill shot either. She staggered from the hit and pain, but managed to stick it. Sir Rupert gave a soft squawk.

  “You hit?” She pressed in closer, angling to protect him, fired off some shots and hit the control to open the door, ignoring the pain spreading out from her shoulder and trying to cloud her thinking.

  “No.”

  She fired another spread, then the door opened at her back, and they were inside the closet. The door closed and she fired on it, aiming at the handle and hinges until they glowed bright red. Only then did she reach up and try to flash out.

  Not a huge shock when they didn’t.

  Might be damage from the hit, but most likely the opposition closed the hole they used to get in. Also meant their intel on the suit was wrong. Or they’d upgraded for it already, but—

  “Blocked?” Sir Rupert asked, making his way back to her shoulder.

  “Yeah.” She should have tried to jump sooner—

  “They locked this place down before they started firing,” Sir Rupert said, as if he knew what she was thinking. Which he probably did. He was that smart. He didn’t waste time bemoaning the failure of the suit to perform as advertised.

  Multiple shots made the metal door rattle in its frame. They had maybe thirty seconds. Probably less.

  “The transport pad,” Sir Rupert said.

  “Why did I know you were going to say that?” Had she had the same thought? Was that why she’d retreated here? Sometimes if felt like even she didn’t know what she was thinking. She crossed to it and started to lower it.

  “Not that side.”

  “Heavy bugger.” She flipped it over, wincing as pain flared brighter in her shoulder. She blinked spots away, kicked the bucket and mop to the side so there’d be room for it to lay flat. She glanced back. Red spots were appearing on the metal door. Spots that glowed and expanded as the metal began to melt.

  “Turn it on here.” Sir Isaac’s beak touched the spot, then he hopped on the device.

  She depressed the spot. There was a hum, but it felt like a long time before the circles turned red.

  She glanced back again, maybe ten seconds, and they’d be through. She pointed her weapon at the door, preparing to take a stand if she had to. Sir Rupert was the one who had to escape. She took a quick look back, but he was gone. Just a pattern of green beams shooting up from the disc and piercing the ceiling.

  “Man, I hope you know where we’re going.”

  A pinhole opened in the door, growing rapidly as they concentrated fire on that spot. The shots were red now. One red beam skimmed by her other shoulder as she scrambled onto the device. The door burst open, weapons firing at, and sparking off, the green beams—then the room vanished in a tunnel that was both familiar and not familiar. Just a transport pad, she reminded herself, but the ride felt like more than that. It was beyond rough. She tumbled and bounced around in the tunnel. Saw the white light coming and tried to slow down. Couldn’t. Tried to aim for the center. Didn’t think she’d nailed it.

  She might be about to find out about catapults, though….

  The transit sped up. Wasn’t going to stick this landing. Be lucky she didn’t break something. With a spin she flew head first through the center of the c
ircle of light….

  Five

  Something catapulted out of the green beams of light like it had been hurled, something that squawked loudly as it tumbled beak over claws, just missing Briggs’ head. The spinning tumble continued unchecked toward a stand of palm-like trees. Somehow it recovered, made a narrow pass between two tree trunks, then circled back to a landing on the peak of the cottage. It ruffled its feathers as if annoyed, then began to preen itself.

  A parrot? He blinked. The green body, with a band of red just above the beak looked parrot-like.

  “That’s not something you see every day.” Particularly in this birdless place. Too bad he’d already turned off the video. No one would believe he really saw a parrot shooting out of that thing.

  The bird looked up and Briggs had the odd feeling it had understood him. He’d heard parrots were pretty smart. He glanced back at the disc. At least now he was pretty sure it was some kind of a transport pad. Definitely needed to get the power supply out—

  He heard the hum build again and turned fully around, just in time to catch what flew out next. Instinctively his arms wrapped around the very humanoid—very female—form it ejected. He staggered a few steps and then went down. The sand was harder than he’d have thought. His breath rushed out as they slid toward the water, his arms still wrapped around the woman.

  When they hit wet sand, they slowed, and finally stopped. He felt water soaking into his shirt and heard the waves hitting close to his head. Took him a couple of tries before he could grab some shallow breaths. Each one was filled with the smell of salt, woman, and singed something.

  He could feel the female struggling to catch her breath, too. Yeah, she was definitely female. Almost every inch of her was pressed against a lot of him, creating a different problem in catching his breath.