“Allow me to introduce Doctor Francois le Blanc. Francois is head physicist here at Libra. He is the technology wizard behind our leap into the future.” Beckman paused, broke into a chuckle and added, “Or should I say . . . into the past?”
Blake, Bellinger and Dal introduced themselves to the affable le Blanc. He nodded and made a clicking sound with his heels. “Je suis très heureux de vous rencontrer.”
Bake said, “Let’s dispense with the formalities, I’m Blake, the blond guy here’s Dal, and this is Patrice Bellinger.”
They exchanged handshakes and Blake said, “I’ve got a question, actually I’ve a bunch of questions. The acronyms I see plastered all about this place – LPA – what is it?”
“I assumed my colleague informed you we are an internationally supported foundation known as Libra Pubis Aeternas, or Libra as we prefer to be known.”
“Sounds obscene,” Dal frowned.
The younger man chuckled, a warm, pleasant sound. “On the contrary, it is Latin and translates to eternal balance of population.”
“I knew that,” Dal said flippantly.
Blake cocked his head to one side; and asked with a deeply curious look on his face, “So then, you gentlemen, you’re the, eh . . . the self -elected population police?”
Both Beckman and le Blanc exchanged disdainful glances and Blake caught the body language.
Blake asked, “You mind sharing what we’re being denied here? I mean, you say you’re an internationally supported foundation and that you can reduce the causes of overpopulation. I understand you’ve got the nod from some of the big boys back home - but who exactly funds the operation, who’s giving your people the backing?”
There was a long silence. Beckman leaned toward a flat screen at one side of his desk, gently touched the monitor and slid a finger across the screen. A cylindrical beam projected from a small dome inconspicuously set into the metallic ceiling. The form of a man materialized within the cylinder.
The figure stood frozen, and after a minute had passed he began to move his fingers and flexed somewhat as life traveled up his arms and released full mobility. He stepped from beneath the light source, smiled and moved toward Gerhardt Beckman.
Bell reached for Blake’s hand, squeezed it tightly as they stood in awe of what had just taken place, their eyes searching the room for whatever trickery had created the illusion.
Hans Beckman stepped from beneath the dome, and seated himself at the table.
“Good day, Agent Blake, Agent Dallas, Miss Bellinger. I see you have met the brains behind our foundation, Francois and Gerhardt.” He gestured at one of the men. “Do you require my presence, Francois?”
The three agents stood in a trance like state. Dal jabbed his elbow into Blake’s rib cage and mumbled incoherently, “What the fuck! Did you see what I saw? Tell me it’s some kinda computer trickery, what the . . .”
Blake turned to Beckman who was touching another section of the panel and then threw a daggers look at Bosch. “What the hell is this, Bosch? You get around, don’t you Hans? And I thought we moved fast. How’d you get here so quickly? Where’s your buddy, Danzig? Why’d you skip out on the meeting with us . . . with Sam?”
“Questions, questions, questions, Agent Blake, so many questions. Ah yes, the Particle Accelerant Chamber, a grandchild of the Enterprise – a Captain Kirk bi-product
– another case of fiction evolving into reality.” He walked on by the three agents and leaned into the doctor’s ear. “Do you really need me here, Francois?”
“Merci, Hans. Our guests are inquiring about our mandate. C’est permissable pour les dire tout? I am sure your presence vindicates me of blame should I disclose any umm...” He sniggered, pulled a face, “. . . well, should I disclose any proprietary information.”
Bosch nodded and adopted a more serious demeanor. It was the first time Blake had seen the absence of the German’s ever-present grin.
“Proprietary? Hmm, I would say confidential more than proprietary,” Bosch shrugged. “Gentlemen, we are supported by a world governing group who meet annually to discuss the world and the direction in which it is heading. They set people into seats of power, and those people determine who will live . . . and who will not.”
Le Blanc placed a hand to his mouth and said quietly to Bosch, “Vous ne les direz pas de la Société, n’est-ce pas?”
Bell picked up the comment and relayed it to Blake. “From my high school French skills, I believe he said something about a society.” She half turned to le Blanc. “Am I close?”
Le Blanc blushed and made an apologetic shrug. “Pardonner mes manières. Je suis parler si confortable ma propre langue. My apology.”
Dal made a coughing sound, dismissing the Frenchman’s pathetic display. “You mean to say you guys are run by the fourth Reich, is that it Hans? Are you guys like . . . sieg heil?” And he made a snappy Nazi salute.
Bosch replied, forcing a contrived version of his former grin. “On the contrary, Agent Dallas, we are under the auspices of the Bilderberg Society, they are hardly admirers of the German war machine. They are a compilation of world leaders who determine through scientific and economic resources, what is good for the planet, and conversely what might adversely affect the planet. Do I make myself quite clear? They smooth out the road bumps, so to speak.”
“Yeah, sure – quite clear,” Dal said raising a hand to cover his mouth and mumbling to Blake, “Ja, mein Kapitän.”
Bosch caught the comment, turned away, and stared at the panorama.
“This is just too surreal,” Blake whispered.
“Surreal?” Dal queried, his head tilted at Blake. “You think so, huh?”
“Congratulations,” Francois le Blanc said with a smile. “You three are about to lay to rest all of those who dispel our illustrious Einstein’s Unified Field Theory. You are to travel to a very nice region of Southern France - to the Dordogne. The people may appear a little strange and perhaps even eh - somewhat hostile. However I rest assured all three of you are up to the task. We will need to acquaint you with the dress of that period, familiarize you with customs of the era, mannerisms, all of the usual requisites.”
“Why the education,” Blake asked with a querulous face. “Haven’t we traveled enough to skip that part of the, eh . . . inauguration? I mean to say, if we haven’t already seen it, it probably isn’t worth visiting, right?”
Silence.
“To the Dordogne, huh,” Blake said with a wry grin. “That isn’t too far from here, right?”
“Too far, Agent Blake? Well now that would depend on your perception of distance as a quantum measure. I would say it is exactly six hundred and fifty-three years from today’s date.”
Beckman lifted a hand and spoke slowly, deliberately. “You see, Agent Blake, Einstein showed mass and energy is one and the same. We at Libra have in our possession the means to safely tele-transport all three of you to any past era we so choose. The device we have designed employs light in the form of circulating lasers with the capacity to warp time, or perhaps you might understand it better if you visualize time as being looped.” He paused, passed Bosch a subdued snigger and chortled as if in ridicule. “Conventional thinkers believe a time machine must consist of some massive object.” The snigger increased and his chin raised a little as he added proudly, “This we have proven wrong.”
“As Gerhardt is saying . . .” Bosch interjected, “. . . to prove and consequently successfully utilize time loops, we have designed this desktop pad.” He ran a finger along the top of the screen. “This controls our reassignments.”
Dal squinted at Bosch and leaned across to look more closely at the flat paneled screen. “But this has got to connect to a main facility. Like - this isn’t the whole deal, right?”
“Intuitive of you, Agent Dallas,” Beckman said. “We have a mother unit containing a series of mirrors. Within the unit a light beam circulates resulting in the warping of surrounding space. Initially sub-atomic particle
s were restricted to a very short lifetime. However, we at Libra have expanded that lifetime by exposing the particles directly to the circulating light beam, realizing after several laboratory tests that this ‘extended particular lifetime’ clearly indicates that particles do in fact flow through a time loop and into the past.”
Bosch interjected. “As Einstein theorized, time is directly affected whenever you do anything to space. We can twist time simply by doing the same to space. Just as man can walk through space, Libra can walk through time.”
“Your concept of time has me confused,” Blake said, holding up a hand. “It’s far different to my understanding of time. You know, time is this,” and he tapped on his wristwatch. “What specifically is your perception of time?”
Dal clapped softly and Bell gave an approving nod.
“That question requires a most complex reply, Agent Blake,” Beckman said. “My perception of time divides events - moves them apart from each other. Things around us are continually changing. People around us change, weather patterns change. These changes are all beyond our control. We are unable to meddle with changes that take place around us each day, whereas physical events are real, they are intrinsic. Your reference to measuring time by using your wristwatch is valid. You can change time simply by changing the settings, which alters the pace a person may arrive at a point. They can arrive five hours late or even an hour early, but that’s not physical transference. Only motion affects time.”
A sense of doom swelled inside of Blake as he waited for continuance. Beckman took a seat alongside of Bosch. He nodded at Dal and said, “Einstein proved this very theory by showing that the time on an atomic clock when sent around the earth on a jet is slower than a clock that remains on earth. The clock on board the jet cannot catch up with the earth bound clock.”
Dal, appearing to follow along, asked, “How dangerous is this time travel?”
“It presents no danger, Agent Dallas,” Bosch said. “As long as you do not confront your grandfather and kill him. That is known as the Grandfather Paradox. Of course, in the event of such an unlikely event, we would not be sitting here having this discussion, would we? The Grandfather Paradox is not an issue. You will be traveling back into a different universe. Your arrival in September of the year 1356 cannot affect your existence in our 2015 universe.” Bosch gave an assuring series of quick nods. “Do not be concerned with your safety, you will all safely return.”
“How can you be sure?” Blake asked, studying Bosch’s face for a long ten seconds. “I mean, that thing, that uh, Particle Accelerant Chamber, how do we know for sure that it’ll get us back here?”
“Quite simple, Agent Blake, because you are all here now – are you not?”
CHAPTER SEVEN
Andermatt, Central Alps
Indoctrination
March 25
3.38 P: M
The woman in the white smock stepped through a silent sliding door and made a half bowing, half smiling gesture to Bellinger who was sitting, and struggling to pull on dark burgundy hose that appeared far too tight.
Bell grunted, “I’ve always wondered why women stopped wearing hose, now I’ve got the answer.”
With the hose in place, the assistant began to wrap a binding around her upper body. Bell let out a deep breath and cursed her shapely over-endowed bust. The heavy woolen surcoat was far too snug. The wardrobe assistant tugged at the binding and groaned.
“You must take a deep breath and then let it all out. I have a daughter around your age, she too is well endowed.”
Bell glanced at the woman who groaned in frustration, “I cannot get you flat enough.” The woman nodded, And made a not too discreet tsk, tsk sound through her teeth.
Bell exhaled loudly. “This thing’s way too tight, what do we do now?”
The woman gave it some thought then huffed in an exasperated manner, “You will be on horseback and...” She paused, stood hands on hips and shook her head as she gave Bell a top to toe inspection. “Just look at you,” she said, “You will be flopping all over the place. Dear me, this just won’t do now, will it?”
Bell stood in front of a full length mirror and gave herself a head to toe inspection as the woman fussed about her like a mother hen.
“We will just have to remove the surcoat. I will bind your bosom and find a larger coat to drop over the binding.”
Bell grinned at the woman’s use of the word ‘bosom.’ With the surcoat removed and after several more minutes of grunting, the assistant encircled Bell as though she were wrapping a mummy, flattening her chest a little more with each circumnavigation. When the wrapping was done, she sat back, admired her handiwork, wiped sweat from her brow and gave her victim a victorious nod of approval. With the larger surcoat now uncomfortably in place, Patrice Bellinger strutted out of the dressing area to find Dal sitting on a settee, complaining as he adjusted his black hose, much to Bell’s amusement.
He pretended not to see her. As she drew nearer he groaned, “Not a fuckin’ word.”
She touched his arm and fought back a grin. A Kodak moment, she thought and just had to extrapolate for all it was worth. With her hand firmly squeezing his arm, she said, “Would you like an experienced hand?”
He gave a quick annoyed nod to his right palm. “I already have an experienced hand – leave me alone.”
The wardrobe assistant knelt by Dal as he continued his struggle. She went about smoothing his loosely fitting hose, running her hands tightly up each leg, pushing the hose upward to his crotch.
Dal lifted his eyes to Bell. “She has skills, huh,” he sniggered.
Bell quipped, “She’s got a daughter my age, so those are, um – very experienced hands.”
Dal took in the woman’s satisfied expression. He asked, “You enjoy your work, don’t you?”
“Always,” she replied working the hose up his legs as Bell coughed and placed a hand over her grin. The wardrobe assistant’s solemn demeanor added humor to the situation as Dal experienced arousal. He shook his head, looked around searching for anything to take his mind off the sensation. He thought about his last visit to the dentist and ran his tongue over his rear crown. But her hands were nearly there. He grimaced. She caught the look and pulled away.
“They are not dress hose,” she said, “they are not meant to be too tight, do they feel comfortable?”
“A little stiff, it’s been a while.”
“Since you last wore hose?”
“He hasn’t actually worn...” Bell said, thinking of something to say, but not say it so as to embarrass Dal. “He was much younger – must have been about twenty years since I last saw Dal in tights. Right, Dal? If memory serves me correct - you were playing Tinkerbell.”
He shifted his eyes to Bellinger. “You know your problem, Patrice?” He allowed a timely pause, gave a dismissing glance to the wardrobe assistant and pondered his words carefully. He ran a slow hand up the length of his right thigh. “Your problem is you need to go someplace nice and private and have intercourse with yourself!”
Blake entered from another of the wardrobe rooms as the woman tried to disguise her sniggering, much to Dal’s embarrassment.
Drew Blake carried a shield of white with a large red cross and wore a silver helm with two narrow horizontal slits trimmed in gold. He wore chain-mail, red leggings and a blue flowing cape. He was accompanied by Beckman, le Blanc and Bosch. He made his way to the mirror, posed in a knightly fashion and made a slow circling turn.
“He looks quite resplendent, do you not agree?” Beckman asked, as Bell wiped tears from her eyes, further adding to Dal’s annoyance.
Dal gestured at his attire and glared at Bosch. “So what’s the deal here, Hans? What’s with Sir fuckin’ Lancelot in his blue cape? I look like a peasant.” He turned his attention to Bell. “And little Lord Fauntleroy here, she ain’t much better.”
Bosch hesitated before stepping in with a reply. “Please allow me to explain. We need to add a little respectabili
ty to the group’s appearance. Agent Blake will travel as a knight, while both you and the young man here...” and he gave an apologetic nod to Bell, “...you will be his serfs, his servants as such.”
Dal collapsed into a nearby chair, hung his head and groaned, “Please!” His self-esteem had reached a new low.
Bell smiled up at Blake. “If nothing else it’s gonna make a great Halloween outfit.”
Blake took three awkward paces backward and made a circling move. He looked at Bell for a few long moments and sighed, “Thank you, Tinkerbell.”
They were perfect candidates for a medieval fair, the knight, the knave, and Tinkerbell.
Dal felt he was having a bad day but it was nothing in comparison to what lay ahead. They followed Bosch along a passageway and into a small darkened room where Francois le Blanc stood by a table covered with an assortment of weaponry, broadswords, daggers, and five circular discs, each no larger than a quarter. Blake glanced at the table as le Blanc pointed from one weapon to another.
“This is our familiarization area. We are about to undergo a quick training session,” he said smiling at Bell. “It is most important you appear to be a man. Your length of hair, it could prove dangerous should you remove your chain-mail. Under no circumstances are you to remove your clothing. If you are found out, you will be put to death. In that century it was against the law for a woman to impersonate a man. Have no doubt of what will happen prior to your death. I need not tell you the ways men act in times of war, unspeakable atrocities.”
Dal glanced at the others. His ears pricked up and he made a shrugging gesture to Bosch. “War? You didn’t mention a fuckin’ war. I thought the aftermath of the Black Plague is all we are buying into - what’s with this war shit?” And he crossed himself.
Bosch hesitated. “It’s the, eh, the war between England and France, known as the One Hundred Year War. But it began in 1337 and raged until 1356.”
The Lucifer Sanction Page 7
