“The only way to get to the right time frame is to follow them through when they go. That’s the only solution,” someone declares.
Meanwhile the Chairman Egeaklv watches The Book of the Future and the portals continue their path across the map. Looking more closely, he discerns for the first time that the volume has clearly been repaired. Damnit, he thinks, that stupid beast had the missing page all along. To avoid revealing this information to the group and thus making things even worse, he wipes the book’s image from the display. He looks up again, the light sheet illuminating his face from below.
“There are very few agents who will be able to contend with a challenge like this,” says the Chairman. “We will require an individual with the skills to track this Tromindox, be there when it travels to another time frame, and follow it through. Undetected. Ideas?”
“There’s really only one agent skilled enough, and everybody knows it,” someone says, “and that’s Silverwood.”
“Silverwood? Kate Silverwood?” someone else blurts. “That woman is crazy! Besides, she’s no use to us now. She’s not an agent any more. She’s a bounty hunter. She won’t listen to a thing you say. Total freak, that one. Not to mention, she took her kid and blasted off into the future somewhere. Good riddance, I say.” Heads nod in agreement.
“Not Kate Silverwood, you idiot,” the Chairman says, “Her husband.”
Everyone looks around at each other. That’s it, look around at each other, he thinks, because that’s going to help. What a useless group of bureaucrats.
“That man is a criminal!” someone shouts. “He’s no better than her. They’re both nuts. Deserve each other. That is, if they were living in the same time frame…” a few scattered laughs echo through the chamber.
“Well, now that we have taken the opportunity to discuss the shortcomings of the Silverwood clan—who, by the way, were never known to even once lose control of The Book of the Future—” he looks around at the group, “perhaps someone here has a better idea of how to deal with a situation that should NEVER HAVE HAPPENED IN THE FIRST PLACE!” A lone piece of the Chairman’s hair flops onto his forehead. He glares into the eyes of each person at the table. Everyone looks down.
“Now, clearly this is a highly specialized job,” he continues, gathering himself, “A highly dangerous job. And Mr. Silverwood is obviously the only person with the skills and knowledge to do it, so I will go and speak to him. Offer him a deal.”
And none of you have the guts to do it, so as usual I will have to, he thinks. This is how this whole situation got screwed up—because I asked someone else instead of doing it myself. And surprise, they screwed it up. Fake portal—what were they thinking? No Tromindox is going to fall for something like that. I’ll have to go and see Mr. Silverwood myself. If I can remember where to find the prison.
The Chairman takes off his glasses, places the data display under his arm, straightens his suit coat, runs his hand over his hair, and walks away from the assembly. His shoes click across the smooth floor and the chattering voices at the table fade away behind him.
Mrs. Woods sweeps the wooden steps in front of the Brokeneck Hotel in Brokeneck, California when a black-cloaked man in a wide-brimmed black hat appears in the street, sun-baked gravel crunching beneath his boots. She looks up, leans her broom on the railing, wiping her hands and turns to go inside while untying her apron. A moment later she reappears and walks out to the middle of the street where her visitor waits for her. She squints and puts her hand up to shield her eyes as she steps out into the sun.
In Brokeneck it is customary to conduct your conversations in the middle of the street, because no one drives there. Savvy residents will have a look up and down every so often to keep informed. That is, unless it gets too hot, in which case everybody retreats to the covered porches of the gold-rush era buildings and watches from there.
“Ma’am,” the man says, removing his hat. “I’m bound to make a delivery to you, courtesy of the Council. You are Eleanor Woods, are you not?”
“I am indeed, sir,” Mrs. Woods replies. “What do you have for me?”
The man reaches into his pocket and fishes out a small coin-like object with a hole in the center. “It is my understanding, ma’am, that you desire a field free of Tromindox. Is that correct?”
“I do,” Mrs. Woods says. “I have lodgers arriving soon who will require protection.”
The man holds out the portal and Mrs. Woods takes it. “That there is a rarity, ma’am. A reversible field, capable of covering a wide distance. Wide enough to encompass your establishment here,” he nods toward the hotel, “if that is what you aim for.”
“It is indeed,” Mrs. Woods says. “I thank you, sir. Please take these as payment.” She reaches out her fist, and the man places his hand out flat beneath it. She lets five coins fall into his palm. They are portals, but not the kind strong enough to create a field—those are special order. Since Mrs. Woods has to secure the hotel, she is happy to trade a few coins to make the deal, even if it means revealing a bit of information to the Council. They have other things to worry about, she trusts. She hears they have Tromindox showing up at their headquarters these days, brazenly demanding things and taking what they want. The Council has their hands full.
“Won’t you stay for a glass of lemonade?” Mrs. Woods asks. “It’s not even eleven yet and already hot.”
“I’m much obliged to you,” the man says, placing his hat back on his head. “I’m afraid I have business elsewhere and must be going. However, before I depart I am obligated to read to you the disclaimer that accompanies this very specialized piece of equipment that I am delivering to you.”
“Go ahead,” Mrs. Woods says.
The man reaches into his breast pocket, and pulls out a rolled up piece of thick paper. He unrolls it and holds it out in front of him, adjusting the angle to better read in the bright sunlight.
“The Council of Portals hereby certifies that this is a fully-functioning Field-Generating Portal of the Secondary Order, and as such transfers all responsibility for its use to its user. Deployment of this portal may result in effects including but not limited to the prevention of a breach by Tromindox and other projected or time-traveling creatures, headaches, dizziness, nausea, dry mouth, and a persistent high-pitched whining noise. In certain rare cases the field generated by the portal may collapse, resulting in damage to property or persons. The user hereby accepts full responsibility for all actions and effects resulting from the use of the aforementioned portal, and in no way holds the Council or its affiliates responsible for any effects, ill or otherwise, resulting from the use thereof.”
Mrs. Woods waits a beat to be sure the man is finished reading. Then she adds, “Perhaps if the Council spent as much time tending to their own business as they spend writing legal mumbo jumbo, I wouldn’t be requiring such a field in the first place.”
“I’m inclined to agree with you, ma’am, however in my capacity as the deliverer of the portal I am sworn to read this little paper, be that as it may. I endeavor only to protect the Council from any misunderstandings.”
“I hope that you will convey to the Chairman my deepest gratitude, and remind him that there is one more delivery to make.”
“Yes ma’am, I will do that. Good afternoon.”
With that the man touches the brim of his hat, hands the paper to Mrs. Woods, turns and walks away down the middle of the street. The crunching sound of his boots fades until there is nothing left but a bit of dust trailing his footsteps.
Across the street, behind the dirty windowpanes of the Brokeneck Bookstore, a figure stirs.
Mrs. Woods looks down at her new acquisition, then turns and walks back into the hotel. A moment later she is back on the porch, sweeping with her apron on.
An enormous, shiny, black and otherwise featureless car rolls to a stop in front of Building 103. The Chairman climbs out and slams the door behind him. His shiny shoes make a skt-skt-skt sound as he climbs the fifty or
so equally-spaced steps to the building’s imposing entrance. He glances upward, and the movement of the clouds gives the impression that the top of the building is moving, too.
He pushes aside massive glass doors to enter the vast, featureless, black marble lobby. Mozart plays softly. The building receptionist, a birdlike young woman in spectacles perched at a tiny desk at the far end, puts down her romance novel and looks up. Her mussed hair and well-worn book seem out of place in this antiseptic environment. The skt-skt-skt of the Chairman’s shoes draws closer and closer to her. She waits patiently, book in her lap. Eventually he gets near enough that they can speak.
“Hello Mr. Eg… Eg… , Mr. Chairman,” the receptionist stammers.
“Hello, Sally. Would you be so kind as to direct me to the current location of the prison archives?” The Chairman leans on the desk and squints a little, his sharp blue eyes looking straight into hers. The Chairman is handsome, in a remote sort of way, and it’s best to keep men like him at arm’s length. Like, about fifty arms’ length. On the other side of a canyon, for example.
“Certainly Mr. Chairman,” Sally says. She reaches into a drawer and pulls out a stack of what looks like large playing cards, except that you can see through them. She sifts through the stack for a moment, selects one, and lays it down on the screen embedded in the desk in front of her. The card illuminates, blue light shining on her face and reflecting in her glasses. She pokes around for a moment, pulls up a few bits on the display, gets rid of a few other things, and finally points to a small box on what looks like a map of one of the building’s floors. “The prison is currently filed on floor 63,” she declares. “Take the second bank of elevators.”
“Thank you Sally, as always,” the Chairman says as he sweeps past her desk.
“No problem, Eagle Yak Life or whatever your name is,” Sally mutters under her breath. She picks up her novel, crosses her legs, and goes back to reading. She was just getting to the part where the long-separated couple finds each other again.
The Chairman steps out onto floor 63 and pauses. Looking up and down, he takes in the seemingly endless white hallway extending in both directions.
The prison is really more of a filing system. A horribly complicated filing system, since you can most effectively isolate a prisoner when you stash them not just in a place, but in a time as well. Very hard to find them, very hard for them to get out. They don’t know where, or when, they are. Of course, this creates an awfully big paperwork headache. Archives on top of archives. Finding an individual prisoner can take some considerable effort. Prisoners move around all the time, as does the prison itself.
In this case, the Chairman has followed this particular prisoner with some interest, so he knows where to look him up. He steps up to the solid white wall, pulls a clear card out of his pocket and attaches it to the wall in front of him. The card lights up with data. Names and faces. He swipes across it and more names and more faces fly by until he pokes it with a finger and brings it to a stop. Another swipe or two, forward, back, and then there he is. Mr. Silverwood: long black hair, cheesy grin in his prisoner identification photo.
While waiting for the system to retrieve Mr. Silverwood’s cell, the Chairman straightens his back and faces the wall. He tries on a couple of different stern facial expressions. How do you greet a man with whom you have a—shall we say—complicated history, and who may or may not know you locked him up? He must be prepared for whatever attitude Mr. Silverwood might throw at him, and maintain the upper hand at all times. He smoothes back his hair and takes a deep breath.
A whirring sound, and then a ten-foot-square section of the wall turns transparent and reveals the cell of Mr. Gabriel Silverwood, prisoner number 96-84287.
Which is empty.
The Chairman takes in the scene, or lack thereof, in front of him. He touches the data card on the wall, and the force field on the front of the cell turns off. He steps in. The cell is entirely white, with only a platform for sleeping and a toilet. In the case of this cell, there’s one small square object lying in the middle of the floor. It is a device, with a screen on one side and a single button. It is beat up and cracked, and obviously doesn’t belong in this sterile room.
The device activates when the Chairman picks it up. It beeps, the screen flickers, and then—there is Mr. Silverwood himself. He is looking away, but appears to hear a corresponding beep on his end and turns toward the screen. He leans forward, peers in and his face bursts out in a smile of recognition.
“Ah! Hello there, Mr. Chairman Magistrate Sir. I was pretty sure that I would hear from you. It sure took a while, though. How the heck have you been?”
Gabriel Silverwood has the kind of unstructured personality that makes you forget he is a highly-trained agent and assassin. Some might dismiss him as a loose cannon, who happens to have decent battle skills. He has a history of acting on impulse that has gotten him into—and out of—trouble on many occasions. It was impulse that led him to leave this little device behind as a gift in his prison cell.
Gabriel’s long, straight black hair is pulled back behind his head. He has a tall, wiry frame and light skin (or maybe he’s just pale and thin from the prison time and lack of sunlight) and his fidgeting and posture gives one the feeling that he will spring into action at any moment. From what the Chairman can make out on the tiny screen, it appears Gabriel has traveled to some outdoor location and there looks to be a second person moving around behind him. When—and more importantly how—did he break out of prison?
The Chairman tries to compose himself and appear calm. “Hello, Mr. Silverwood.”
“Gabe. Call me Gabe.”
The Chairman scowls. “Gabe. Or Steve. Obviously you’ve gained your freedom prematurely, which is unfortunate since I was on my way to offer you a deal.”
“Well, I guess the deal’s off,” Gabriel says.
“As I said, that’s unfortunate,” the Chairman says. “I think you would have been very interested in this particular deal.”
“Your deals stink,” Gabriel says. “But you do make them sound really appealing… that is, until someone ends up in a jail trapped in time and space.”
“I know where your wife and children are,” says the Chairman. “Or I suppose I ought to say, I know where—and when—your wife and children are. That would be more accurate.” The Chairman lifts up his chin and stares straight into the screen.
Gabriel’s demeanor changes immediately and the goofy face disappears. He sits down to consider what he has just heard. He looks at the ground. Just below the surface, Gabriel Silverwood is an angry, isolated man who has not seen his family in a very long time.
“Okay, and I suppose you want something in exchange for that information, am I correct?” Gabriel says.
“Well, you know, it’s interesting you would ask,” the Chairman says, starting to enjoy himself now that he has the upper hand in the conversation. “Because, this deal actually benefits you, too. It’s a very good deal. If you hold up your end, you get the information, and the means, to get to the place—and time—where your family is. And stay there. No strings. Doesn’t that sound like a good deal?”
“I’ll be the judge of that. Talk.” Gabriel is leaning in to listen, trying to remain calm. He has never been good at remaining calm.
“There’s been an incident,” the Chairman says. “A considerable number of portals have unfortunately been taken. Along with The Book of the Future. A book that has been repaired, by the way. Interesting, since you were the last person known to be in possession of the missing page. But no matter, back to my story. Recently, a Tromindox paid a visit to our headquarters.”
“Your headquarters?” Gabriel asks. “Who told the Tromindox where your headquarters are? You people really are losing your touch, you know that?”
“Never mind what happened. It’s sufficient to say that important responsibilities were left in the hands of idiots, and it won’t happen again. These portals that were taken, they were unique. Use
d in combination with the book, they give the Tromindox far too much time traveling capability. These beasts are going to be able to move around at will and in much greater numbers, Mr. Silverwood. You know what that means? Agents or bounty hunters—like your wife—won’t be able to fight them off one by one. The Tromindox will go where they want, when they want. And they will multiply. I don’t have to tell you, battling Tromindox in multiple time frames at once isn’t going to work. We shall find ourselves at a serious disadvantage. A lot of people are going to perish. And I’m afraid bounty hunters like your wife are going to be in for a nasty surprise, if you get my meaning.”
Gabriel understands exactly what the Chairman is saying. The thought of his wife going into battle with what she thinks is one Tromindox, and finding out it’s really five, or ten, or twelve…
“My wife can take care of herself,” Gabriel says.
“Oh I’m certain she can, Mr. Silverwood, when she knows what she is dealing with. That’s the problem. And should she be, say, compromised, what’s to happen to those two children of yours? We wouldn’t want to leave them alone in a world filled with hungry Tromindox, now would we?”
Gabriel reaches into his pocket and touches the utility knife he keeps there, the one encoded with his daughter’s bio-signal. It’s an exact match to the knife that he gave to Helen when she was five; he had it taken to her by an agent at a time when it wasn’t clear if he would ever see her again. Even though it sits silent, the knife represents an unseen and unbreakable link with Gabriel’s family. A link that he reaches for unconsciously.
When Gabriel went into prison, his time frame was altered. He was knocked out of sync with his family, turned into a man with no anchor. To truly be free, Gabriel would have to once again reach not just the right place but also the right time. Many prisoners, faced with this kind of isolation, severed from the human connections that mean everything to them, fall catatonic or even kill themselves.
Silverwood Page 4
