by Orton, D. L.
Matt recoils. “Crikey Moses! Is there anything to be done?”
The kid shakes his head. “It’s too damn late.”
The JHU guy glances up at Matt, his eyes pleading. “What’s the status on the time machine?”
“Well, we should have the full-sized version ready in a few days. And we’ve built a decompression capsule as well. It’ll make the trip a bit more comfortable for Diego.”
Everyone stares at me.
“That thing is an execution chamber,” Sam says.
“No, it’s not.” Matt looks hurt. “The problem was the power supply, and we’ve fixed that now.”
“Any idea where you’re going?” Phil asks. “Or when?”
“We were hoping you guys could tell us.”
“Believe me,” the kid says. “I’ve been searching for a universe that doesn’t go belly-up, and it doesn’t look good.”
We all sit staring at our hands.
And then the pieces fall into place. “That’s what the biotech plans are for!” I say. “Somewhere, in some other universe, people figure out how to survive. They create the Einstein Sphere and use a time machine to send the plans back to us.”
Phil thinks for a moment. “Then why send instruction to build a time machine?”
“Maybe they want us to send the plans on to someone else,” I say.
“Yeah. Sort of a domino effect,” Matt adds. “But in any case, we may have been concentrating on the wrong project. We need to figure out how to build the biotech device. That may be more important than anything else.”
Relief and hope flood into me. “Isabel. She’s a geneticist. My god, it’s her handwriting on the note.” I look pointedly at Matt. “She’s the one who figures out how to survive and sends us the bionano plans.”
“Sweet Fanny Adams, you’re right. They’ll have to bring her in now.”
The Peeping Tom guys stare at us, not following. “Who’s Isabel and what’s a bionano?”
Matt stands up. “Possibly our last chance to save the human race. Come on, we need to find Picasso. I’ll fill you in on the way.”
Chapter 27
Matt: Pretty Nasty Stuff
So here I sit deep inside an underground bunker outside Washington DC, Picasso pacing in front of me like a caged tiger. Everything in here looks eerily familiar, right down to the Empire State Building outside the fake window, the cheap imitation wood tables, and the beastly coffee. I remind myself not to drink the water.
After nearly an hour of twiddling my thumbs, I can’t take it anymore. “Bloody hell, mate, can you stop with the pacing, please?”
A month ago, Air Force One was shot down over the Amazon rainforest, probably using a surface-to-air missile system sold to the terrorists by the US Government.
If it weren’t so god awful, it would almost be funny.
Hours after the plane went down, an ex-Hollywood action hero was sworn in as the President. Turns out, the guy is a religious fanatic who promises to “bring back the real America.” Apparently, the best way of doing that is by declaring martial law, offering huge tax incentives on gun purchases, and canceling all government services.
But that’s not the worst of it. Only a couple of days after we figured things out, our funding was cut pending the new President’s personal approval—personal as “in person.” So here we are, locked inside an underground cell watching the clock tick.
Why is it always cold, dark, and cramped? But I suppose it beats snakes.
The door swings open, and we are escorted into a large conference room just as four elderly men are shown out. Picasso gives them a nod and then turns to me. “Ex Star Wars guys.” I give him a blank stare, and he adds, “Now working on a city-sized force field, but they haven’t made any real progress in decades.”
The President, who is eating a chocolate-covered donut, is wearing a gray T-shirt with “Pro Life. Pro God. Pro Gun.” on it. He’s sitting at the head of an oblong table surrounded by what appears to be an impromptu Halloween party. On his right is a scantily-clad redhead with breasts the size of Montana. She’s reading some sort of glossy fashion magazine and doesn’t even glance up when we enter. Next to her is a short Asian man in a cowboy hat. To the President’s left is a balding blond guy in a Hawaiian shirt, and next to him is a middle-aged woman wearing a white fedora and holding a small dog. Of the seven people seated at the table, there is only one person wearing anything close to business attire: a black woman in a dark blue suit.
The President licks chocolate off his fingers. “Well then, what’s up?”
I take a seat, and the woman in a suit jacket reads out the title of our project.
Picasso, who is in dress uniform and pinned with enough medals to open a pawnshop, remains standing. “We have a working time machine, Mr. President, and we need your approval to use it on a matter of national security.”
“A time machine? You mean like a TARDIS?”
“Yes, sir.”
“That’s the craziest thing I’ve heard all morning,” the President says. “But definitely cool.”
The well-dressed woman shifts in her chair. “Assuming that you have built a time machine, what do you intend to do with it?” She glances at the sheet of paper in her hand and adds, “Master Sergeant Richter?”
“Madam Secretary, we have not yet tested the theoretical limits of the machine, but the instructions we obtained from the Einstein Sphere call for a Faraday Cage large enough to carry a single human passenger. Upon arrival in the past, that time traveler would complete a prearranged mission, and any changes would propagate to us.”
“You plan to undo some grave screw-up, I presume?”
“In a word, yes.”
“And who decides and approves these actions?” the woman asks.
“We have a cross-discipline team approved by the National Security Agency, the CIA’s Special Activities Division, and the DOD’s Defense Clandestine Service.
“I see.” The woman adjusts her reading glasses. “And you intend to strand this time traveler in the past?”
“Yes, ma’am. We don’t have the ability to bring him back, and we don’t expect him to survive more than a few days.”
The guy in the cowboy hat gives a cynical laugh. “Poor bastard.”
She motions toward the project sheet. “If I read this correctly, your Achilles heel is access to electricity. What are your specific power requirements?”
“I would need to check on exact numbers, but given our current mission parameters, a ballpark estimate would be six hundred megawatts.”
She sits up straighter. “So this time machine of yours will require more electricity than a nuclear reactor produces in a year?”
Picasso nods once. “Yes, ma’am. That is correct.”
Chatter breaks out around the table.
She speaks over the noise, visibly annoyed. “And what is the largest object that you have successfully sent back in time, Master Sergeant?”
I look up at Picasso, but he doesn’t hesitate. “A pencil, Madam Secretary.”
Her eyebrows rise. “And how far back in time did you manage to send this pencil?”
“A few milliseconds, ma’am.”
The President, who has been doodling on his briefing papers, glances at his watch and makes an exasperated noise. “Can’t you just tell me why we should fund this Doctor Who thing?”
Picasso shifts his weight. “Yes, sir. We plan to send one man back twenty years in the past. If his mission succeeds, the looming pandemic will be avoided, saving millions of American lives.”
The President looks bemused. “Seriously? What pandemic are we talking about here?”
“I assume you are aware of Hemorrhagic Fever outbreaks in California, and now Texas and Florida?”
“Yes, of course. Strain of Ebola. We have a team putting out those fires right now.
”
“Well, it’s going to get worse, much worse. The virus is going to mutate, and billions of people will die. There won’t be enough manpower left to bury all of them, let alone keep the lights on and the tap water flowing. And you know who history will blame, sir. You.”
The well-endowed redhead glances up from her magazine and addresses the President. “He could be right, Maverick. If the virus becomes highly infectious, it could spread around the world in a matter of days. You know the Black Death in the 1400s killed sixty percent of Europe’s population, and that was before air travel.” She taps a red fingernail on his paper. “Pretty nasty stuff, darlin’. Maybe we should fund this one.”
“That,” Picasso says, “is a very astute analysis, ma’am.”
The redhead nods at him and goes back to reading her magazine.
He turns to the President. “To put it succinctly, how much money would the government spend to save billions of lives, sir?”
“I expect we’ll do whatever it takes.” The leader of the free world gives the buxom woman a pat on the thigh and then nods at us. “Thank you, boys. We’ll get back to you.” He clears his throat. “Now then, who’s next? Let’s get them in here quickly. I was supposed to tee off ten minutes ago.” He picks up another chocolate donut and takes a bite.
As I follow Picasso toward the door, the next group files in, and we step sideways to let them past. A middle-aged guy with a name tag that reads David Kirkland brushes past. He’s carrying an expensive-looking poster of a city inside a bubble.
“I thought the force-field guys already went?”
“Must be something else,” Picasso says. “And I think that’s the CEO of Kirkland Enterprises, the guy who was planning to build the Mars habitats back before things went all to hell.”
We watch a train of servicemen lug heavy cardboard boxes into the room. The last guy stumbles over the raised doorframe and spills the contents of his carton across the floor. Mr. Kirkland barely glances at him.
Picasso and I bend down to help the guy pick up the mess.
The President smacks his lips. “Let’s get started.”
The woman Picasso called Madam Secretary reads from the next brief. “Biodomes to Protect Cities from Infectious Disease, Environmental Threats, and Biological Weapons.”
The King of Donuts lets out an exasperated groan. “Holy God in Heaven, doesn’t anyone do research on nice things? With all these doom and gloom projects, you’d think we were all going to die.”
Chapter 28
Isabel: Heads or Tails
I wake up to the sound of metal clattering on frozen ground. I can see my breath, and the floor is covered with a dusting of snow, tiny cat footprints leading from the open window to the bed and back. I pull the covers up over my ears and shut my eyes.
Diego is dead. The babies are dead. I want to be dead.
The annoying racket continues.
Goddamn it! Just let me die in peace!
I force myself to get out of bed, tiptoe across the frost-covered floor, and peer out the window. Except to use the bathroom, I haven’t been out of bed in days, and my legs are wobbly.
The world outside is covered in a tattered blanket of old snow, but I don’t see any signs of life, not even any footprints.
Lucky peeks out from the covers and meows.
“Yeah. I hear it too.” My voice is gravelly from disuse.
There is more banging and clattering.
God almighty, who is making all that racket?
I shove my toes into old tennis shoes, put on Diego’s robe, and shuffle out into the living room, careful not to step on any half-frozen mouse carcasses.
Lucky’s been bringing me food.
Something about that thaws my frozen heart just a little.
After another minute of the banging and crashing, I unlock the front door and wrench it open, ready to face whatever awaits.
Two amber eyes gaze up at me, and then the black and white dog wheels and lopes away.
“Tolstoy?!”
I shiver in the icy draft. There on the porch is the empty water bowl.
I fill it up with water from the crock in the kitchen and carry it back to the front porch, Lucky on my heels. “Okay, Tolstoy. Here’s your water.” For half a minute I stand there shivering in the bathrobe, but nothing in the forest moves. “Damn.” I whistle a couple of times.
A basset hound limps out from the garage, his head down and his tail wagging.
I smile for the first time in weeks. “Good boy! Come get a drink.” A moment later, the dog is lapping up the water.
“Wanna come in?”
He wags his tail and takes a tentative step, then turns and looks back.
The golden retriever is peeking from behind the garage. I pat my thigh and she comes slinking forward, followed closely by one of the other mutts. The golden’s shoulder is caked with blood and dirt, but she wags her tail when I call out encouragement.
“Wasn’t there another one, kitty girl?”
Lucky peers up at me and meows.
“I thought so too. I wonder what happened to him.”
A few moments later, the water bowl is empty, and I have three wagging tails on my front porch. I hurry back into the bedroom and pick up Lucky’s half-frozen mice. I hold up one by its tail and call out in a stern voice, “Sit!”
Three dog butts hit the deck.
I give each dog a mousesicle and then spy Tolstoy watching from the edge of the trees. I call out to him too, but he won’t come any closer, so I go to get more water.
All three dogs follow me into the kitchen, their toenails clicking on the hardwood floor. The Bassett plops down on the rug and shuts his eyes. The two other dogs sit next to him, their ears back.
“It’s okay, guys. I won’t hurt you.” The golden wags her tail, slides her paws forward, and places her head on her feet. The beagle curls up next to her, and I notice that one floppy ear is torn and infected.
“You’re safe now.” I refill the water bowl and set it back down in front of them. The beagle takes another drink and licks my hand. I pat him on the head, careful not to touch his injured ear. “It must have been rough out there for you guys.”
There’s a scratching noise behind me, and I turn to find the missing shepherd pawing at the front door. His beagle pal gets up and trots over to greet him, and then they both stare at me, their heads cocked.
“Sure. Come on in. The more, the merrier.” I refill the water dish and take it back outside. Tolstoy is waiting at the edge of the trees. I take a couple of steps toward him, but he turns to go.
“Wait!” I set down the water dish, but he doesn’t come any closer. “Okay. Take your time. After all that’s happened, I don’t blame you one bit.”
He sits down in a bit of sunshine.
What do dogs really love?
I rummage around in the hall closet until I find an old can of tennis balls and take one out. The shepherd lifts her head, watching me.
“I’ll save one for you, girl.”
She wags her tail for the first time.
I slip through the front door and bounce the ball on the porch.
Tolstoy barks, so I toss the ball into the forest. He bounds through the trees, retrieves it, and drops it on the first stair, his tail wagging.
I step down and pick it up. He backs away as I approach, but doesn’t bolt. I toss the ball again, and while he chases it, I move the water dish down and then sit on the top step.
He retrieves the tennis ball, sets it next to the bowl, and takes a long drink.
I stay very still, smiling so hard my face hurts. “Thanks for saving me, Tolstoy. Twice, so far.”
I throw the ball once more and then take the bowl back into the kitchen, leaving the door open a crack. I start water heating in the teapot, and then go back into the b
edroom and shut the window, put on some warmer clothes, and brush my teeth.
When I tiptoe back to the kitchen, all five dogs are stretched out on the floor, four of them sound asleep. Lucky is lolling between Tolstoy’s front paws, batting one of his ears and licking his face. He thumps his tail when he sees me and glances hopefully at the tennis ball next to the water dish.
“Later, big guy. Let your friends get some rest first.”
He lets out a long, low sigh and puts his head back down.
I walk over to the front door, push it gently shut, and then make myself a cup of tea.
Chapter 29
Diego: Out of Time
It’s nearly midnight, and I’m sitting alone in my underground room, the stars twinkling outside my window at exactly the same spot as they did last night—and every other night since I was taken hostage. I’m scheduled to go back in time tomorrow morning, and to be honest, I’m glad to finally be done with this whole frustrating charade.
A couple of guys from PSYOPS have been prepping me on what to tell my parallel self, but I think Cassie gave me the best advice so far: Follow your heart. The guy’s going to fall in love with her just like I did, so teach him how to make it last.
Maybe I should just tell my younger self to hunt down Dave Kirkland and stick his body in a dumpster.
The thought is oddly appealing. Still, there’s a part of me that hopes Dave is watching over Isabel, keeping her safe.
I swallow hard and stare out at the fake stars.
I miss you, Iz.
There’s a knock on my door, and Matt peeks in. “Can I come in?”
“Sure. What’s up?”
He sits down in the desk chair, rubbing at the back of his neck. “You know, I’d go in your place if I could, Diego. There’s nothing keeping me here.”
“Thanks, but Picasso is right. This one has my name written all over it.”
He forces a smile. “Speaking of Picasso, I told him you wanted to get a message to your Isabel.”
“No worries,” I say. “Anyway, it doesn’t matter now. I just wish she knew the truth.”
