by RR Haywood
‘Oh my god,’ she gasps, dropping forward to kiss his mouth while his hands move round to grasp her backside. The strength of him is immense, the pure ease in which he lifts her body in his hands and moves her back and forth with just the power of his arms and shoulders.
He is going to come, she can feel it with an instinct inside, but so is she and she gasps in disbelief at the ideology of synchronicity. It’s building now, building faster and coming, coming now.
She throws her head back as the orgasm grips to surge up inside her whole body, sending electric currents that judder her muscles. At that same time so he grunts and moves faster. A feeling within both of a perfect moment gained and they both shake, move and gasp as the orgasms stretch on and hold for eternity until she finally sinks down to find his lips and kiss him with a tenderness that replaces the hunger she had but a second before.
Down the stairs, along the hallway, out into the packed bar and across the far side, Miri lowers the bottle from her mouth and shakes her head. She saw them going to the back. She saw the looks in their eyes too and felt, at that second, a contrasting range of reactions that spoke of jealousy, happiness, worry and just pure simple drunkenness.
‘Damn it all to hell.’ She grabs the arm of a young man with buzz-cut hair. ‘Hey, sailor, bum a smoke?’
‘Sure thing, ma’am.’
‘Damn Harry. Damn Tango Two . . . Damn it all to hell . . . What’s your rating?’
‘E-3 Culinary Specialist, ma’am, we all are.’
‘Cooks? Damn it. The navy’s gotta eat though. What ship are you from? The only vessel near here is the USS George Washington. That your carrier, son?’
‘I’ve not heard of that vessel, ma’am . . .’
‘George Washington. The first goddam POTUS . . .’
‘Say, you okay?’ the sailor asks carefully. ‘Where you from?’
‘What’s the name of your goddam ship, sailor?’
‘The USS John Adams . . . You need me to get your friends, ma’am?’
‘The John Adams submarine was decommissioned in nineteen eighty-nine . . . and it sure as shit didn’t have E-3 rating culinary specialists on board. Who was the first POTUS? Was it Adams?’
The sailor nods, confusion in his expression. The older woman’s manner screams officer. Hell, she could even be from his own ship. The USS John Adams is the largest aircraft carrier in the world and he only knows a fraction of the personnel on board.
She straightens up, bringing forth warmth and humour to her face, which transforms instantly to sober and sharp. ‘Good work, son. Can never be too careful. Don’t give your ship information away to strangers. I’ll pass it on to your CO. Re-join your crew but don’t be late back.’
‘Ma’am, yes, ma’am,’ he snaps, surging to stand properly with a smart salute and relief washing over his features without questioning that she never asked his name.
‘First POTUS.’ She laughs, shaking her head. ‘Good line, huh?’
‘Yes, ma’am.’
‘Dismissed.’
‘Thank you, ma’am.’
She waits as he rushes back inside, then sags against a wall to light another smoke from his packet, which she never gave back.
‘Miri?’ Ben calls, walking out to look round.
‘Here,’ she says.
‘I asked someone inside . . . Affa is to do with a Roman patrol near Hadrian’s Wall in one-two-six AD.’
‘Good work,’ she says, inhaling on the smoke. ‘Got a starting point at least.’
‘Yeah, have you seen Harry or Emily?’
‘They’re having sex out the back.’
‘Are you taking the piss?’
‘A very British saying, Mr Ryder, but no I am not taking the piss. You heard of the USS George Washington?’
‘Yeah, big American carrier. Are you being serious about Harry and Emily?’
‘Strange thing is, according the E-3 rating I just spoke with the George Washington doesn’t exist and John Adams was the first POTUS.’
Ben stares, blinks and shakes his head. ‘John Adams was?’
‘Vice President to George Washington.’
‘Yeah, right. How do you know Harry and Emily are shagging?’
‘I think the whole bar just heard,’ she says, as flat and hard as ever. ‘Time has changed, Mr Ryder.’
‘It has,’ he says, nodding emphatically, trying to look and sound serious. ‘Awful,’ he tuts. ‘Ah, well, we’ll sort it . . . Fancy another beer?’
Thirteen
The Complex, one month later
She looks awful. Pale, drawn and haggard and sitting in her dark office with the screens glowing against her skin makes her look positively evil. Her behaviour is changing too. She’s always been abrupt to the point of rudeness, but that acidic nature is now edged with barely concealed spite.
Alpha stands easy, his hands behind his back. Bravo at his side. Kate next to him. Gunjeep finishing the line. All of them silent.
‘One month,’ Mother says quietly in a voice like nails down a chalkboard. ‘We’ve been here for ONE FUCKING MONTH!’
‘Yes, ma’am,’ Alpha says, the only one brave enough to speak.
‘Yes, ma’am,’ Mother mimics, slamming her hand down on the desk. Gunjeep and Kate flinch. Alpha and Bravo don’t.
‘Are you checking?’ Mother asks, staring at Kate, who nods frantically. ‘ANSWER ME!’
‘Yes, ma’am! I’m checking. We’re doing it several times a day.’
Mother purses her lips, scowling at them, at everything. ‘Tell me again exactly what you are doing.’
Kate swallows, blinking a few times before drawing air. ‘We’re going into the history department of the university I used to work in to check for changes using the timeline comparison software program we developed to check for changes to the timeline . . . It’s, er . . . It’s what you told us to do.’
‘Are you being flippant?’
‘No,’ Kate says urgently, shaking her head.
‘It was too subtle,’ Mother mutters, speaking to herself. ‘Fuck off,’ she snaps, nodding her head at them. ‘Alpha can stay. The rest of you get back to work.’
The others leave quietly, closing the door behind them as Alpha remains standing easy in front of Mother’s desk.
‘Something has happened,’ Mother says. ‘There must be a reason we haven’t seen a reaction.’
‘Perhaps we need to do something else,’ Alpha says carefully. ‘One-two-six AD was a long time ago . . .’
‘Was it?’
‘Sorry,’ he says at her biting tone.
‘No, you’re right,’ she mutters. ‘I can hear them all,’ she adds after a pause.
‘Hear them?’ Alpha asks.
‘Out there. The peasant cunts whispering about me. Saying Maggie Sanderson was a hero. Ben Ryder is a hero. Safa Patel is a hero . . .’
‘I, er, I have not heard that,’ he replies, feeling the urge to suggest she use the bloody portal to get some daylight and fresh air. She stalks the complex, slamming doors and screaming at anyone in her way. Striding into rooms to glower round when the conversations end suddenly, ordering everyone to work when there isn’t much work to do and even the agents are getting twitchy at not being active. He also wants to suggest maybe she let the people in the complex use the portal to have some time away, even a few hours.
‘Too long ago, too subtle,’ Mother says, bringing Alpha’s attention back to her mutterings. She looks up at him with a decisive glare. ‘Go bigger.’
‘Bigger?’
‘We go bigger. We do something that will make them fucking pay attention.’
Alpha listens intently with that nugget of worry already growing roots in the back of his mind. He has heard what the people in the complex talk about. He has heard how the world was a different place after Cavendish Manor but that despite the cold war rushing in there was a bizarre world peace. Not one missile or bomb had been used. Not one invasion. Not even a threat. Just a deep paranoia that see
med to have oppressed governments while the masses rejoiced. He learnt about the names too: Ben Ryder, Safa Patel, Harry Madden, Emily Rose and Maggie Sanderson.
The concern is there. The worry that this isn’t about protecting the timeline or anything else. This is about winning and not being beaten by an insurance investigator, a cop, an old spy, a World War Two soldier and a shit agent who would have never made it to a One.
‘Are you listening?’ she barks.
‘Of course,’ he says quickly, politely.
‘Good. We’ll get started immediately.’
Fourteen
The Bunker, Thursday morning
The first thing Harry does when he wakes is remind himself where he is. Years of missions, bases and waking to new sights have taught him well.
He does it now and within a split second he knows he is in his room on his bed and the time of day is early morning. He knows that because the shutter covering the window is jammed and he can see the sky outside. He knows it’s raining because he can see it pattering against the window.
He also knows he was drinking heavily last night from the taste of gorilla shit in his mouth, the dull whump at the back of his head and the general feeling of dehydration that comes from a big session.
Harry also knows he was in a fight last night. He knows that because he is remembering it in a series of flashbacks. Those flashbacks also start to bring forth other memories, such as dancing with the men and women in the procession and carrying Emily and Safa about for a while. He remembers the bar after and learning a new song about a hotel in California and some grinning lad spraying him with a hose, or was that before they went into the bar? When was the fight? Who did they fight? Ah yes, it was the Yanks. Good lads as it turns out. Didn’t mind a ruck and a pint after and no harm so no foul. He smiles at the memory.
Aye, that was a good night. Maybe one of the best, although there was that night in London when he was on leave and they had the brawl with the Canadians. Now they can fight and they’re big lads too. Stout and solid.
Then he remembers the other bit in one solid flashback that makes his eyes widen and his heart thump while his already tender stomach flips over a few times. The bar, the lights, they were both wet, they went out the back, she took her top off on the stairs and they . . . they . . . Oh dear. Oh no. The sofa. On the sofa. They did it. Emily. With Emily. Flashes of her naked body strobe his mind.
‘Bugger.’ He surges up from the bed towards the door with a rush of guilt.
‘You are so loud,’ Emily grumbles, rolling onto her back with a groan as Harry’s eyes widen at the sober sight of her breasts and other lady parts.
‘Bugger.’ He grabs a towel and grapples with the door, cursing under his breath until finally remembering he has to pull and not push.
‘Harry,’ Ben says, standing bleary-eyed in his doorway opposite.
‘ABLUTIONS,’ Harry bellows, trying to slam his door closed, cover his penis with the towel and run across the middle room all at the same time.
Harry seals himself in the bathroom and brushes his teeth like a man possessed. He turns the shower on and yelps at the near-freezing water hitting his body. He takes the cold in a manly fashion of rushing to wash while thinking of last night while trying not to think of last night and the sight of Emily’s lady parts. What does he do now? She’s in his room. What about Edith? ‘Bugger . . .’
War is a funny thing. It brings out the best and worst in humanity. Some men use it to bend the rules of honour. Harry doesn’t. He went to a brothel just once. It was after a brutal action that lasted weeks and only finished when it came down to hand-to-hand fighting, a thing Harry excels at, and the first time he earned the nickname Mad Harry. He killed more Germans than everyone else in his platoon combined. Later, on leave in whatever port they stopped at, he got drunk, got in a scrap and paid for sex. The woman was thin from rationing. Her bones showed through her skin, but she gave kindness and held him after, which was the thing he really wanted in the first place. She even let him stay the night. It was his aura of utter calmness that she felt, and she too slept the first full night in a long time.
The chaplain told him later that it was fine. That prostitution was the oldest trade in the world and a comfort given to warriors ever since time began. The chaplain said to do the things Harry does leaves a mark on the soul and to take comfort in the arms of a woman, even paid for, is sometimes a good thing and, besides, Harry is a decent chap and it’s not like he roughed her up or anything.
So Harry got on with his war and held his honour intact. Until last night that is. He rushes from the shower and sets about drying himself off like a bear fighting with a rabid towel. He is betrothed, but then Edith isn’t born yet or died years ago. Harry died in Norway. Is he still betrothed? Was it wrong? Is it wrong? It’s Emily! Of course it’s bloody wrong. She’s a shipmate, a comrade-in-arms, one of the lads, one of the team. Oh dear. Oh no. This won’t do. You bloody fool, Harry.
He has to apologise and report himself to the CO immediately and seek a redeployment to spare the girl’s blushes. He stops fighting with the rabid towel to remember there is no redeployment. ‘Bugger.’
He stops drying himself, wraps the towel round his waist and firms his resolve to do what must be done.
Harry throws open the bathroom door and marches into his room to see his bed neatly made and Emily’s naked backside bending over as she stoops to pick up her clothes. A sight to see that renders him hopeless to cognitive thought, and with willpower dredged from the depths of his soul he forces himself to turn away to cease any vision of her lady parts.
‘Morning,’ she says in a husky sleep-filled voice. ‘My head,’ she groans.
‘Aye, head.’
‘What a night.’
‘Aye, night . . .’
‘You okay?’
‘Aye.’
‘Sure?’
‘Aye,’ he says, still facing away while listening to the rustle of clothes being pulled on behind him. He had a speech in his head. He had words ready and now fumbles to think clearly and know where to start. He wrings his hands in front of his waist and exhales noisily through his nose. ‘Miss, I . . . It was . . . Ach, but the thing is . . . I’m not a rogue that . . .’
She smiles at his nerves with a glint of mischief in her eyes as she steals up behind him and moves in to press against his skin still cold from the shower. Her arms loop round his waist and she thinks back to last night, sighing softly and exhaling warm air over his back that makes him stand that bit taller and stiffer. She takes that as a sign of pleasure and presses her lips to kiss lightly as the magic of the night comes back. The same desire, the same urge, the same thing in sobriety as when drunk and her hand drops to move over the bulge in the towel but the enormous hand coming down to grip her wrist makes her realise she entirely misjudged the situation.
‘I am not that man, miss . . .’
She hears the rebuke but doesn’t see the wince on his face at the harshness of his words.
‘You were last night,’ she says in a tone equalling his.
‘What I mean, miss . . .’
‘So what was last night?’ she asks, pulling away and feeling an ever so slight tug when he tries to draw her arm back as though he is reluctant to let go.
The words he had in the bathroom won’t come and he flounders to try and think what to say, to form the words right and hold his honour and decency to do the right thing.
‘It’s fine,’ she says lightly, patting his arm. ‘We were drunk. Forget it. I’d better go.’
‘Miss . . .’
‘Emily. My name is Emily, Harry. I’ve earned my place here.’
‘Miss . . . Emily.’ He turns quickly, seeing her just in her bra and shorts with her top held in her hand.
‘What?’ she snaps, when he turns away. ‘Oh, don’t be so bloody prudish, Harry. You were all over them last night . . .’
‘Ach, miss . . .’
‘EMILY,’ she shouts, pulling the do
or open, then instantly hating herself for shouting at him. She can see the nerves on his face and the complete lack of understanding at what to say. ‘Please, my name is Emily,’ she adds, forcing a softer tone.
‘Emily,’ he rumbles.
‘Hot water still off? Great. Another day in the fucking bunker . . .’ She walks briskly away as Ben opens his door to come out, but spots Emily and quickly pushes it closed. ‘Morning, Ben,’ she snaps, rushing faster out into the corridor with tears pricking her eyes.
‘You okay, shithead?’ Safa asks as Emily storms into their set of rooms.
‘EMILY,’ Emily shouts before moving back to the door to face out into the corridor. ‘MY FUCKING NAME IS EMILY . . .’
‘Hung over much?’ Safa asks, then walks out and up into Ben’s and Harry’s rooms to see Harry still standing with his towel round his waist staring into space and Ben peeking out from his room. ‘What’s up with you lot?’ she asks.
‘She gone?’ Ben asks through the gap in his door.
‘Stop being a twat. Beardy, what’s up?’
‘Nowt,’ Harry says, reaching out to slam his door closed.
‘What the fuck?’ Safa asks. ‘What’s going on?’
‘Shush,’ Ben says.
‘Shush what? What’s happened?’
Ben nods at Harry’s room then nods at the main door while making his eyes wider.
‘What?’ Safa asks.
Harry, Ben mouths.
‘What about him?’ Safa asks.
‘Emily and Harry last night,’ Ben whispers.
‘What? What last night? Last night what? Spit it out . . .’
‘They had sex.’
‘So?’
‘Eh?’
‘They’re adults. They can do what they want. You coming for breakfast?’
‘But . . .’
‘But what?’
‘But they had sex,’ Ben exclaims quietly.
‘So what? You’re such a woman.’
