Borrowed Time- the Force Majeure

by E W Barnes

  Jonas slumped in the chair, his head in his hands.

  “We can go back and get it when the mission is over, right?” Sharon asked. “1215 is not going anywhere. We finish the mission, get the TPC back to normal, and then get the first aid kit.”

  “You don’t get it, do you?” Jonas burst out. “You think because we’ve already told the director what we did in the future that all will go well in the past. That’s not guaranteed. We could be creating a parallel timeline where the bootstrapping doesn’t take place. Nothing is certain!”

  “If TPC agents are there, it won’t create a parallel timeline,” Sharon assured him with more confidence than she felt.

  “I have more to report,” Mrs. Bower piped up before Jonas could respond. “Be aware that as a result of the error in 1215, the TPC has placed the temporal nexus in lock down mode.”

  “Lock down mode?” Sharon asked.

  “Lock down mode tracks all shifts and halts them before the temporal amplifier can engage. The system is blocked,” Miranda said. Caelen’s and Jonas’ worried expressions mirrored the orange of alarm in Miranda’s eyes. “It will be impossible to make any shifts without the Director’s Prerogative device.”

  “What about the loop?” Sharon thought she knew the answer.

  “The loop has been terminated,” Mrs. Bower said.

  They froze in shock. They only had until the upload to figure out their next steps.

  “Ok, so the TPC is after us and we can’t use the temporal amplifier except with the program insert. Yes, it’s bad right now. But if we finish the mission, everything will be ok,” Sharon said, trying to reassure her shaken companions.

  “You’re right, it’s just…” Miranda started.

  “We’ve never been locked-out of the system before,” Caelen said. “It’s, uh, disconcerting.”

  “That’s not the word I would use,” Jonas muttered.

  “We’ll have to move quickly, before they catch up with us,” Miranda said.

  “Mrs. Bower, how much time until the upload?” Sharon asked.

  “You have 26 hours, 42 minutes.”

  “Enough time for a hot shower, food, and a good night’s sleep,” Sharon said, pulling herself off the couch. “Then we’ll tackle the next shift.”

  ◆◆◆

  They each bathed and napped before organizing things for their next shift. Sharon had enjoyed watching the dirty water run down the drain as she showered. All that dust from a long journey 800 years ago, swirling around her feet, and then gone.

  “We don’t have contacts in 1948 when the U.N. resolution was drafted. But I've an idea,” Jonas said as he helped himself to another slice of pizza. He was still trying to regain his confidence after the disastrous loss of the first aid kit.

  “What do you propose?” Caelen asked.

  “Like we knew who the key players for changing the Magna Carta were, we also know who the drafters of the U.N. resolution were,” Jonas started.

  “I thought Eleanor Roosevelt drafted it,” Sharon said.

  “She oversaw the process and was instrumental in its development. She relied on a man named René Cassain to research and write it. We need to get him to make the changes.”

  “If we don’t know him, or know someone who knows him, how can we do that?” Sharon asked.

  “Our best option will be to identify him, perhaps also a key assistant or clerk, observe their movements and patterns, and arrange some kind of serendipitous meeting where make we our suggestions for the resolution.”

  Caelen looked dubious until Sharon chuckled.

  “It will be like a training mission,” she said grinning. “New York City in 1948 sounds like a great place to train.”

  “We won’t be in New York,” Jonas said.

  “Why not? I thought the U.N. Headquarters was in New York City.”

  “It is in your time, but not in 1948,” he answered. “The building you think of in New York wasn’t built until 1952. The United Nations adopted the resolution we’re trying to change in Paris.”

  Sharon tilted her head, a glint in her eye. “Paris in 1948? If you insist.”

  During the remainder of their lunch they discussed the details for visiting 1948, reviewing several books Jonas brought with him in his pack. That afternoon Sharon and Jonas traveled to the shop in Los Angeles to get 1940s costumes. This time the traffic was smooth.

  After dinner Jonas retrieved from his pack a cigar box secured with rubber bands, opening it to reveal a collection of 20th century currency. They sorted through the huge wad of bills and coins until they had found everything minted in 1948 and earlier.

  “We’ll exchange this for local currency after we arrive,” Sharon said. “This should be enough to get us food and shelter for a week, if needed.”

  “We may not need to,” Jonas said. “People accepted U.S. currency in many countries during the years following World War II.”

  While Jonas sorted the money into four equal amounts, Caelen and Miranda cleared away the dinner dishes. Sharon followed them into the kitchen, stopping Caelen as he ran water in the sink.

  “I’ll do it,” she said.

  Sharon’s hand was still aching. After her shower she’d cleaned the wound with antibacterial soap, followed by antibacterial cream, an adhesive bandage, and pain killers. It felt better but it was a long way from healed. More time in hot water will do it good, she thought.

  After she finished cleaning, she headed into the library. Caelen was alone sitting on the couch waiting for her.

  “Let me see your hand,” he said.

  “It’s fine,” Sharon answered but she could see he would not be deterred. “Fine, Mr. Training Agent. I needed a new bandage anyway,” she said as she held out her hand, palm up.

  “What's your prognosis?” she asked when he didn’t say anything.

  “It doesn’t look much better, does it?”

  “It feels better.”

  “It’s still swollen, and the redness has spread.”

  “Look,” she said, curling her fingers around his. “It will be all right. I’ll load up on antiseptic cream and bring lots of bandages and watch it closely, ok?”

  “Am I interrupting?”

  Jonas stood in the doorway, a cardboard box in his

  hand. His expression was partially curious, and partially something else Sharon couldn’t place. She pulled her hand out of Caelen’s.

  “He was looking at my hand,” she said.

  “I thought you might need another bandage,” Jonas said offering the box. Sharon took it with her thanks and left the library.

  ◆◆◆

  After a fast breakfast the next morning, they were ready to go. Sharon had her old laptop bag which she figured would pass in 1948 if no one looked too closely. She filled it with extra bandages, a tube of antiseptic cream, and painkillers. She hoped that her make-shift first aid kit would stave off serious complications until there was time to see a doctor.

  Unfortunately, the 1940s costumes didn’t fit them well—Sharon’s trousers were too long, and Jonas jacket was too tight. Miranda was relying on safety pins to help her blouse fit better.

  Shoes were the biggest problem. Not one pair fit any of them. Jonas borrowed several pairs of socks to keep his from falling off, and Caelen’s toes were pinched. But there was nothing they could do about it. There was no time to buy different shoes, and not enough money to replace them in 1948. They would have to make do.

  The one silver lining was that the hats and long wool coats fit and were very comfortable. They added scarves and gloves borrowed from Sharon and hoped no one would notice they were made from materials that didn't exist in 1948. Still, Sharon’s confidence was not as high as when they shifted to Canterbury.

  Jonas programmed the temporal amplifier, tucking the remote control and Director’s Prerogative insert in a pants pocket.

  “Ready?” he asked.

  Sharon braced herself, remembering the discomfort she felt during the shift to 12
15, but there was nothing to worry about. This shift was fast, reddening the surrounding room, blurring and warping her vision, and then she was standing outside on a damp, chilly morning.

  “Brr. It’s cold,” Jonas said, putting on the gloves he had stuffed into his coat pocket in the warm library.

  Caelen looked up at the gray sky as Miranda ensured no one had seen them appear out of thin air. They were on a cobbled side street. A few cars passed on a main thoroughfare about a block away and several pedestrians were walking past the alley, their collars turned up against the nip in the air. One turned to peer at them clustered together before pulling her hat down lower over her blond hair and continuing on her way.

  “Remember, today is December 8, 1948” Jonas said. “The U.N. unanimously adopted the resolution at 3:00 in the morning on December 10th. We have about 36 hours to complete the mission.”

  “Let’s find lodgings, set up our base, and find the people we need,” Miranda said.

  Jonas had argued that they should arrive a week before the ratification, to give them more time to find the people they needed and plant the seeds for the changes they were trying to accomplish; but Miranda worried that the more time they spent in 1948, the greater the chance they might negatively impact the timeline.

  Sharon was more worried that the longer they spent in one place, the greater likelihood the TPC would catch up with them. She suspected Caelen was concerned about that, too, but he kept his worries to himself.

  Miranda led the way to the main road which was broad and straight. On both sides of the street were shops with apartments above them. Other buildings were devoted entirely to single-family homes or apartments. They passed a bakery, a tailor shop, several homes, and a flower shop before stopping in front of a small hotel just as it started to rain.

  “Hotel de Poulet,” Jonas read aloud. “This looks promising.”

  They followed him up the stairs, hurrying inside before they got soaked. The lobby—a hallway with a desk—was empty. They could see down the hall reaching back away from the front door, and a flight of stairs on one side. Jonas rang the bell that was sitting on top of the desk.

  A woman came out of a door across from the flight of stairs, chewing and swallowing as she approached. They must have interrupted her breakfast.

  “Oui?” she said in an impatient voice, looking them over from down her nose. Sharon shifted in her ill-fitting clothes.

  “We would like two rooms,” Jonas began.

  “Do you have a reservation?” the woman interrupted him.

  “No, but…”

  “I do not have two rooms available if you do not have a reservation,” she said, turning from the desk as if to return to her breakfast.

  “What about one room?” Caelen said. The woman eyed him and scanned the four of them patronizingly.

  “Yes, I have one room, but it is a suite on the top floor, the best room in the house. It is not inexpensive.”

  “That will be fine,” Jonas said, trying to get control of the situation again. He pulled out his cash, and the woman sniffed.

  “American dollars,” she muttered darkly.

  “We can get the money exchanged if you prefer,” Miranda said.

  “No, no, this time I will take it.”

  They gave her false names and she wrote them in the guest book and recorded their payment before leading them up the stairs to the suite on the top floor. After the fourth flight Sharon was winded and her palm was throbbing again. Jonas’ forehead glistened with perspiration.

  The woman opened a set of double doors into a room with high ceilings and long narrow windows. The walls were stark white, but the furniture upholstery was pale blue. There was a sitting area, a bathroom, and a single room through a door to the right.

  “Thank you,” Miranda said.

  “I am Madame Poulet,” the woman said. “If you need anything, ring at the desk.”

  Sharon heard the doors close behind her while she took off her coat and walked to the windows. The room had a view of Parisian rooftops and little else, though Sharon thought she could see the spike of the Eiffel Tower through the clouds above the gray slate and round smoking chimneys.

  Jonas offered to get food. “Eating after a shift helps me feel more settled in the time frame,” he explained.

  Fifteen minutes later he was back, shaking rain out of his hair, with long skinny baguettes and strawberry jam tucked under his coat. On a side table next to a tin of ground coffee was a percolator and a hot plate, both of which baffled Miranda. Jonas enthusiastically showed her how to use them while lecturing about the invention of the percolator by a Parisian in 1919.

  Soon there was the enticing smell of fresh brewed coffee which Jonas served in solid white mugs (found on the shelf under the side table) along with the fresh bread and jam.

  Despite the rain, her aching palm, and her rolled-up pant legs, perhaps Paris in 1948 would be a good shift after all, Sharon thought.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  “It’s unlikely our targets will be out in this weather. They are probably in meetings right now, which means we have time,” Miranda said, looking through the window as she sipped her coffee. “Now that we know where we’re staying, we can map out where we need to go from here.”

  Jonas pulled the remote control from his pocket.

  “We’re about half a mile from the Palais de Chaillot, which is where the United Nations is meeting,” he said, scanning the device.

  “What can you tell us about the Palais de Chaillot?” Caelen said as he shoved his fists into his damp shoes to stretch the leather.

  “It was built for an international exposition in 1938 and currently houses museums and an auditorium,” Jonas said. This was information he had memorized. “The U.N. meeting took place in the auditorium.”

  “If there’s a museum, we should be able to get into the building more easily,” Sharon said. “At least it isn’t a high security venue.”

  “There will be security, of course,” Jonas said. “And I’m not sure how many tourists visit Paris at this time of year. But Parisians love their museums. If the museum is open to the public while the U.N. is in session, we’ll be able to get inside.”

  Jonas looked at the remote control again, tapping buttons. Then he held it up so they could see the small screen on the device.

  “This is René Cassain,” he said.

  The remote control showed a black-and-white photo of a middle-aged man in a suit and tie. He had a warm if serious expression. Jonas tapped more buttons and showed them a picture of Eleanor Roosevelt.

  “You know who she is,” he said. “It makes more sense to find him, better yet one of his aides or assistants, and track their movements, than try to connect with her. She was a celebrity and while she will be easier to track, she will be harder to access.”

  Miranda turned back to the window.

  “The rain is stopping. This might be a good time to go to the Palais de Chaillot to get the lay of the land.”

  Jonas nodded. “That’s a good idea. Plus, when we finish, it will be just in time for lunch.”

  Madame Poulet was not at her desk when they left, though music could be heard in the apartment across from the stairs. It sounded like Edith Piaf, Sharon thought, which added to the ambiance. Outside it was lighter than when they shifted in that morning, but not by much, and the cloudy sky promised more rain. Despite the inclement weather there was still a steady flow of pedestrians on the street.

  The wind picked up as they neared their destination and Sharon closed her coat tighter against the insistent breeze. From what she could tell, the Palais de Chaillot was more of a complex than a single structure, built on a tree-covered rise which in the summer would be a forest of green but now was a sea of bare gray trunks and limbs.

  They worked their way up a set of stairs to reach a wide terrace shining with moisture. The staircase they climbed had a twin on the other side of the terrace, both flanking a large structure built into and under the hill.
The terrace served as the roof of the structure. Above and behind were two buildings that arched like wings from either side of the large walkway that ran between them.

  Once they reached the terrace Sharon had an unobstructed view stretching to the river, across a bridge, and beyond to the Eiffel Tower. Even with a backdrop of steel gray clouds, it was beautiful iconic. She walked forward, drawn toward the vista and then froze in shock, her breathing ragged.

  “What is it?” Caelen asked.

  “This view, this place. This is where Hitler stood when he invaded Paris. There was a photograph….”

  In her mind she heard the drone of bombers, the wail of air raid sirens, and smelled burning oil and wood. She turned to Jonas hoping he would tell her she was wrong, but he didn’t.

  “You’re right. This is where that photo was taken. For the people of Paris, for the world, it was less than 10 years ago that horror happened.”

  He stepped up beside her. “But they will take that memory and make a new one.” He pointed to the walkway between the two arching buildings. “After the U.N. resolution is adopted, they will rename this and call it the esplanade of human rights. That will be its legacy; not the evil that came before.”

  Unexpectedly, Sharon heard her grandmother’s voice in her mind, something she had said in 1962, in another timeline:

  The struggles of these people will resonate into your time, making your world a better place.

  Rose Sprucewood had been talking then about different conflicts and different challenges, but the thought still applied. Sharon looked again at the Eiffel Tower and it was as if the tapestry of history, the ebbs and flows of human failures and successes were laid out before her in a pattern she could discern. Taking a deep breath, she stood taller.

  “I understand,” she said to herself.

  Jonas thought she was talking to him.

  “Good. C’mon, let’s go find the people we need.”

  ◆◆◆

  Jonas led the way across the terrace, keeping the two arching wings to his left. The walkway was a work of art, paved with great squares of dark and light colors one inside the other. There were similar squares on the terrace, set apart at a distance, and the design was beautiful. The gloss from the rain made the alternating squares within squares almost glow.