by Timothy Zahn
Right on cue, the lounge's lights flickered. "Immediately, Mr. Shaeffer," Griff answered. "I'm afraid it's not much of a show, but if you'd like we could head downstairs and you could see Banshee in action."
"I'm not here to play tourist," Shaeffer bit out. "I'll be in the communications center if you need me; let me know as soon as the Jump is over."
Griff reddened slightly. "Yes, of course." He turned and quickly left the lounge, heading left toward the elevator. Shaeffer nodded to each of us in turn and followed, branching to the right toward the room where our modest radio, wire, and computer-net equipment were kept.
And I was left alone with the other Jumpers.
For a moment we all just looked at each other. Then Kristin stirred. "You haven't kept in touch very well, Adam."
I shrugged fractionally. "I've been pretty busy," I told her. It was more or less true.
"So have we," Hale said, more than a little tartly. "Work load's increased considerably since you cut out on us."
My eyes flicked to Rennie. "Don't look at me," he said blandly. "I was fired; you're the one who deserted."
"That's putting it a little strongly, isn't it?" I asked... but the indignation I'd intended to put into the words died somewhere en route. I hadn't been able to tell them the reasons then, and down deep I knew I couldn't tell them now, either.
"Yeah, Rennie, desertion's much too harsh a word," Hale chimed in. "It's not strictly desertion when the captain advises you to get off a sinking ship."
"What's that supposed to mean?" I asked him.
"I think you know," he ground out. "You've always been Griffs favorite Jumper—that's common knowledge. I think he warned you that we were about to be snowed under by a huge work load and suggested you take off and leave the rest of us more expendable Jumpers to struggle under the pile."
"That's not true," I said, trying hard to keep my voice steady.
Hale snorted. "Of course not. It was just pure coincidence. Sure."
Clenching my jaw, I leaned over the table for a look at the map Shaeffer had left behind. It was an impressive job, larger scale even than the standard 7.5-minute topographic ones I used for backpacking. The crash site was marked by a large red oval near one end, and my recently filled stomach did a couple of turns at the thought of having to go back and watch it happen. "Did Shaeffer say anything about surveying the crash sight, or just watching for the primary cause?" I asked.
"That's the way," Rennie said with mock approval. "When you can't win, change the subject."
I focused on Kristin. "Did he say anything about surveying the crash site?" I repeated.
"Not to us," she said. "But, then, we're just the Jumpers. We don't count for anything in that sort of decision-making."
"If you're wondering specifically about body trackings," Hale put in, "I'm sure you'll get a shot at one. They've become almost standard for us these days."
I shivered. Watching people die in mid-air explosions was bad enough... but to follow the bodies down as they fell to earth, seeing up close the burned and battered shells that had once been human beings...
"Unless, of course," Rennie suggested, "you want to talk to Griff about exempting you from anything particularly unpleasant."
I gritted my teeth. "I'll do my share of whatever comes up. See you later." Turning my back on them, I headed out of the lounge.
For a long moment I stood leaning against the hallway wall, slowly bringing my trembling knees under control again. I hadn't really expected to be welcomed back with open arms, but the sheer intensity of the others' hostility had hit me like ice water in the face. Clearly, Griff had kept his promise not to tell them why I'd left Banshee; whether or not I could survive three days under that kind of pressure wasn't nearly as clear.
But I would, of course. For whatever reason, Banshee needed me here... and I'd always been there when people needed me.
Taking a deep breath, I turned left and headed for the elevator.
—
The Banshee building's basement always reminded me of a cartoon I'd seen a long time ago in which one of the characters had bragged that "the house itself isn't much, but you should see the rec room." A one-time basement and subbasement had had their walls and the dividing floor knocked out to create a single vast space, with nothing to break it up but strategically placed pillars put in to support the rest of the building above it. The result was a room the size of a small warehouse... a room the Banshee equipment still filled to over-flowing.
A small sign on the cabinet nearest the elevator proclaimed all this stuff to be the property of the U.S. Government Time Observation Group, Banshee's official name. Official or not, though, I'd never heard anyone refer to us by that name, even in official correspondence. Probably, I'd always suspected, because no one up there really took us seriously. With a staff numbering in the low twenties and an operating budget under four million a year, we were hardly a drop in the bucket as far as Washington was concerned. Not to mention the fact that the whole thing was generally considered either ghoulish or a waste of money by most of the handful of officials who knew anything about it.
I don't know who coined the name Banshee for the group. I know only too well why it had stuck.
There was absolutely nothing theatrical about a typical Banshee Jump, a fact that had disappointed more than one official visitor over the years. There were no revolving lights warning of high-voltage, no large and blinking status boards, no armies of steely-eyed techs huddled over displays under dark-room-red lighting. The lights were normal, our three operators had a tendency to slouch in their seats; and even the Jumper, Morgan Portland, might simply have been asleep on his contour couch amid the handful of sensor leads sprouting from his arm- and headbands. It would have taken a close look at the EEG display—and some knowledge of how to interpret the readings—to realize that Morgan was essentially registering as dead.
All of us Jumpers had long since come to the conclusion that no one really knew how the Banshee apparatus worked. Oh, all the parts were understood, to one degree or another—that much was certain. The mathematicians could show you all the equations and formulas and tell you how they implied time reversal; the various scientists could show you how the equations related to the real universe, both in physical equipment and in brain and mind structure; and the engineers could show you how all this boiled down to several million dollars' worth of apparatus. There were even those who claimed to understand how a person's consciousness could be decoupled from his body for up to an hour at a time without any major ill effects. But when you put all of it together, no one really knew how or why the whole thing worked the way it did. No one knew why there was a seventy-two-hour limit on how far back in time a Jumper's consciousness could go, no one knew why only certain very specific types of people could Jump in the first place... and no one knew how it was our disembodied consciousnesses could sometimes be seen by those about to die.
It had first happened to me on my seventh Jump, and it would forever color all my thoughts about Banshee. A little girl, maybe seven years old, had spotted me as I floated by an airport locker in hopes of seeing the person who had planted a bomb there. At least I assume she saw me; the expression on her face could hardly have been explained by anything else in the immediate vicinity. Her mother had pulled her away a moment later and plopped them both down in a waiting lounge, but she'd continued to glance nervously back in my direction. Two minutes later the bomb had blown out the bank of lockers and most of the roof overhead.
The girl and her mother had been among the casualties.
I shuddered with the memory and forced her face from my mind... and cursed once more the unfeeling idiot who'd taken his inspiration from that and similar incidents to hang the name Banshee on us.
A motion off to the side by one of the RF generator cabinets caught my eye; Griff, doing a walkthrough of the equipment. He saw me as I started toward him and changed course to meet me. "So... how did it go up there with the others?" he murm
ured.
"Not exactly your TV-style homecoming," I retorted softly. There was no reason for anyone to whisper while a Jump was in progress, but people invariably did so anyway. "I wish you'd told me Rennie was going to be here. And maybe prepared me a little for the sour apples from everyone else."
He sighed. "I'm sorry, Adam; really I am. If it'd been up to me, you wouldn't be here at all—that despite the fact you're still the best Jumper we ever had. But Schaeffer insisted we bring both you and Rennie back."
"Did you point out to him that three Jumpers are perfectly adequate to handle the half-dozen or so Jumps it'll take to figure out what happened?"
"I tried, but he wouldn't budge." Griff scratched his ear thoughtfully. "What makes it even stranger is that he seemed to know an awful lot about us—must've actually been keeping up with the reports we've filed into the bureaucratic black hole back in Washington."
"Very flattering. Doesn't explain why he's out here being underfoot instead of directing things from the White House, though."
"No, it doesn't," Griff agreed. "Maybe he thinks he can help. Or else needs to at least feel like he's helping."
"If he wants to help, he'd do better to be in Washington helping brief Vice President McCallum on his new office."
Griff shrugged fractionally. "From what I've read, Shaeffer and Jeffers go back a long way together, since Jeffers's first stint as mayor in Phoenix. There are other people available to brief McCallum; I get the feeling Shaeffer's more out for vengeance."
I shivered. "In other words, we'd better get him the cause of the crash in double-quick time, or else?"
"We can hope he's more sensible than that. But there's a strong tendency in people to look for scapegoats when things go wrong."
I thought back to the other Jumpers upstairs. "Yeah. Well... we'll just have to see to it that we do our job fast and get out from in front of the gunsights."
My last word was punctuated by the snap of circuit breakers shunting the end-point power surge to ground. Across the room, Morgan's body threw itself suddenly against the couch's restraints. A moment later his eyes opened a crack and he burped loudly.
We were at his side by the time the operators had the straps off. "What'd you get?" Griff asked, helping him up into a sitting position.
"It was the right inboard engine, aw right," Morgan nodded tiredly, massaging the sides of his neck. "Smoke trail out o' it just 'fore it caught fire and blew to shreds."
"Did you get inside the wing and see where the fire started?" Griff asked.
"Sorry—didn't have time. I was too busy backtrackin' the line o' smoke." His eyes met mine and I braced myself for a repeat of the confrontation upstairs. But he merely nodded in greeting and shifted his attention back to Griff. "I've seen a lot o' engine-fire plumes, Griff—this'un didn't look right at all."
Griff swore under his breath. "Shaeffer thought it might be something like this. Okay; come on upstairs and we'll take a look at the blueprints."
Morgan nodded and swung his feet over the side of the couch. "Dr. Mansfield," one of the operators called, "you want us to get ready to cycle again right away?"
"Yes," Griff answered, taking Morgan's arm. "Hale will be down immediately for prepping. We'll be Jumping again as soon as you and he are ready."
"Why the break-neck rush?" I asked Griff as he helped Morgan navigate away from the couch. "It's—what, after six already?"
"Shaeffer's in a hurry," Griff said tightly. "For now, that's all the reason any of us need. Give me a hand, here, will you?"
—
Morgan's report was strong evidence; but it took two more hours and a Jump by Hale before Shaeffer was willing to come to the official conclusion all of us had guessed at.
President Jeffers's plane had been sabotaged.
"Something in the engine or fuel line," Shaeffer growled, tapping his clenched fist on the blueprints of the VC-25A's right wing. "Something that could start a fire despite the flame retardants in the fuel."
"Implies a pretty drastic breach of security," Rennie murmured.
Shaeffer threw him a hard look but kept his temper in check. "I would think so, yes. Finding out just how the bomb was introduced should show where and how big that hole is. Dr. Mansfield, I want another Jump tonight. How soon before the equipment can be ready?"
"Half an hour at the least," Griff told him, glancing at his watch. "But I'd like to point out that it's already coming up on eight o'clock and the Jumpers will need both a good night's sleep and some wind-down time before that."
"They'll get all the rest they need," Shaeffer said shortly. "Allow me to point out that you've still got three Jumpers you haven't even used yet."
I looked over at Kristen, saw her mouth twist sourly. Being treated like merchandise or pack animals had always been especially annoying to her. She caught me watching her, looked quickly away.
"Well... I suppose we could go ahead," Griff said slowly, looking around the table at the rest of us. "Late-night Jumps can be rougher than usual, though—biological rhythms and all, you understand—"
"We're up against a time crunch here, Doctor," Shaeffer snapped. "How many times am I going to have to repeat that?"
"Yes, but we've got three da—"
"I'm not talking about the damn three-day limit—" Shaeffer broke off abruptly, and for a second a strange look flicked across his face. "We're dealing with the media here, Doctor," he continued in a more controlled tone. "The American people want some answers, and I intend to get those answers for them. So. Who's next?"
Griff grimaced and turned to Kristin; moving my head, I managed to catch his eye. "I can take it, Griff," I said. "Evening Jumps never bothered me much." It wasn't quite true, but it was close enough.
Griffs lip twitched, but he nodded. "Yes... all right, fine. If that's all, then, Mr. Shaeffer...?"
Shaeffer nodded, and the group began to break up. I got out fast and headed toward the elevator; but even so, Morgan managed to catch up with me before I reached it. "Left my jacket downstairs after my Jump," he commented. "Mind if I tag along down with you?"
"No, of course not," I said as he fell into step beside me. "How bad is it?"
"The crash?" He shrugged, a nervous twitch of shoulders beneath his shirt. "Not too bad, leastwise not as long as you're up in the air. Not goin' be much fun at ground level."
"They never are."
"No."
We'd reached the elevator before he spoke again. "So... how you been doin'? We ain't heard much from you since you left."
"Judging by my reception earlier, it's just as well," I told him, hearing an unaccustomed trace of bitterness in my voice.
He nodded heavily. "I talked to Kristin after my Jump. You know, she was kinda hurt the way you just upped and left."
"I didn't just 'up and leave'—"
"You know what I mean. Woulda helped, you know, if you'd told us why you were quittin'."
I looked at him sharply. Had he figured it out? "I had my reasons," I said.
"I reckon you did. But Kristin and Hale don't take a lot on faith. S'pose it's a little late to worry 'bout now. So what do you think of this mess?"
"What's there to think about it?" I replied grimly. The elevator arrived and we got in. "Like you say, it's a mess."
"What 'bout Shaeffer?"
"What about him?"
"Strikes me as a mite... over-wrought, I s'pose."
I snorted. "He has just lost both his employer and a long time friend. How would you expect him to act?"
"I'd expect him to be mad as a hornet," Morgan nodded. "Nothin' wrong with that. But there's somethin' under the anger that bothers me. I get a feelin' he's hidin' somethin' big up his sleeve. Somethin' he wants to do, but at the same time is scared of doin'."
I bit at my lip. Morgan had grown up in a backwoods area of Arkansas, and people tended to assume he wasn't particularly bright. But what he lacked in book learning he more than made up in people-sense... and if he thought there was something
odd about Shaeffer, it was time for me to start paying better attention to the man. "Maybe he's involved in the discussions of revenge against whoever's responsible," I suggested slowly. "McCallum's never struck me as the sort to call in military strikes—maybe it's Shaeffer's job to convince him otherwise."
"Maybe." Morgan shook his head. "Well, whatever it is, I 'spect we'll hear 'bout it soon enough."
The elevator door opened and we stepped out. "See you later," Morgan said as he scooped up his jacket from a chair near the contour couch. "Good luck."
"Thanks." Squaring my shoulders, I headed over to be prepped.
—
Twenty minutes later, wired and tubed and mildly sedated, I was lying on the contour couch and we were ready for my Jump. "Okay," one of the operators called. "Here we go. Countdown: six... three, two, one, mark."
And abruptly I found myself in brilliant sunlight, floating beside Air Force One as it soared over the mountains on its unknowing way to death.
To see the past like this had been a horrible shock to me the first time, and though its impact had diminished since then I didn't think it would ever fade away completely. There was an immediacy to the experience; a sense of objective, 360-degree reality, despite the obvious limitations, that was nothing at all like viewing the event on a TV screen. For me, at least—and probably for most of the others, too—that sense came with a suffocating feeling of helplessness and stomach-churning frustration. I was here—really here—at the actual real-life scene of a real-life disaster about to happen... and there was nothing I could do to prevent it.
Griff had once brought in a psychiatrist who'd tried to tell us that everyone felt similarly when they saw disasters that happened to have been caught on film. If that revelation was supposed to make us feel better, it hadn't worked.
But all this was standard reflex, the thoughts and emotions that had come in one form or another with every Jump I'd made, and even as the frustration rose in my throat, the old professional reflexes came up to cut it back. Gritting my teeth—a sensation I could feel despite having no real body at the moment—I moved forward over the wing and dipped beneath its surface.
