Authors: Kristin McTiernan
She smiled winningly at him while she walked out across the hall into his prep room. After putting her thumb onto the lock box on the wall, it confirmed her fingerprint and popped open. Hanging inside was one silver crucifix.
“Hey Cody,” she yelled across the hallway. “You’ve only got one left in here. You need to get some more before the evening launch.” She slipped the life-saving beacon over her head.
“I had like ten of them in there,” he yelled back.
She returned to the launch station and resumed her previous position on her yellow footprints. “Well there aren’t any in there now. I’ve got the last one.”
A shadow of irritation passed quickly over his face, but it returned almost immediately to its standard cheerful countenance. “I guess I’ll have to requisition more. Okay, for real this time. Let’s get you going.”
“If I don’t see you before tomorrow, good luck on your date.”
He giggled mischievously and gave her an enthusiastic wave goodbye; then he pushed send.
A dull buzz popped into the air.
“What’s tha-” and she disappeared. It was High Noon, 12 p.m. exactly.
“I don’t know,” he mumbled quietly to himself. With the smile completely gone, he bent down and peered into the console.
***
Alfredo sat stiffly in his chair in the main Council chambers, constructed below the launch terminals, far from prying eyes. The Council was comprised of nine men, veterans in the various aspects of time travel, all seated at their table, which took up the majority of the room. They were staring silently at Alexander Ryckoff, who had been brought before them to answer charges of treason and temporal sabotage while supposedly conducting research in 2003 Soviet Union. The pale and slightly overweight associate professor stood nervously awaiting his sentence, sweat beading up on his forehead.
Ryckoff had been a time tourist on an extended observation, therefore was allowed contact with the local population. This permission, however, did not include forcible intercourse with a woman and impregnating her. The very fact he fled the Agents escorting him undetected was another matter to be dealt with separately.
The Council had maintained their menacing silence for more than twenty minutes. This was a ritual Alfredo had laid out. He wanted to ensure the accused had sufficient time to read and reread the mantra written on the wall above his head: As you sow so will you reap. When a man makes an error in daily life, he must deal with the consequences himself. When he makes a mistake in the time stream, all of humanity must suffer for it. No one knew that better than Alfredo and he was not going to allow this type of behavior.
Alfredo rose to his feet with the hint of a sardonic smile and addressed the accused. “Alexander Ryckoff, you have been found guilty as charged. In calculating your sentence, the Council has considered your history of abuse toward women, your premeditation of the offense, and the possible ramifications of an offspring sired by a temporal traveler. You have been sentenced to death.”
Ryckoff recoiled in shock, his mouth gaping in confused horror. Alfredo found his reaction typical of rapists; they truly believed all other men shared their twisted views about women. But as Ryckoff felt strong arms pull him back toward the door, he would know he had misjudged these men.
“No, wait!” Ryckoff shouted as he struggled against the Agency guards. “No one saw me! She was a whore; I didn’t do anything wrong!” He continued to scream as he was dragged toward the door.
From the corner of his eye, Alfredo saw his Vice President, Gabriel Ruiz, turn his head away from Ryckoff, seeming not entirely comfortable with the sentence Alfredo had so ferociously endorsed. But Alfredo himself watched the prisoner go, amused by his struggle against the guards and his terrified protests.
When the rapist was out of the room and his screams were sufficiently muffled by the closed door, the old priest turned his gaze on Alfredo with an air of resignation.
“What did the Agents do about the girl?”
“Fuentes dealt with her. He staged a mugging on the street, causing abdominal trauma to induce a miscarriage. It was nothing that would have been out of place in Stalingrad at that time.”
The priest looked down angrily, but he said nothing, just nodded.
“Abdominal trauma?” Gabriel’s low volume did not disguise his anger. “Do you think euphemisms will change the ugliness of what you just said? Do you think it will disguise the sin?”
Alfredo slid his eyes over to the younger man, letting his gaze linger on his face to ensure Gabriel took his meaning.
“When you took your oath of office, as Councilman and then as Vice President, you swore to uphold the timeline above all things, even your conscience.”
Gabriel’s only response was a shaky intake of breath.
Alfredo recited at him, “The timeline must be preserved.”
Whenever a time tourist acted improperly, no matter how small the offense, he was immediately taken into custody. A form letter was sent to the next of kin informing them of the arrest. The family would not see the offender until after the sentence was carried out, nor would they know at which facility he was imprisoned. Most of the time, offenders were given a fine, a few weeks in jail, and prohibited from traveling again. In cases like this, however, that form letter was the last Ryckoff’s mother would ever hear of her son. Information about offenders was confined solely to the council. They had no oversight, not even from the Vatican. The Holy Father had no need to be appraised of the ugliness that sometimes occurred.
The men sat silently for a moment. Padre Lopez-Castaneda uttered the beginning of a suggestion to pray for the soul of the aborted child when a loud boom erupted above their heads. The room shook and an overhead lamp crashed to the floor. Alfredo knew every bit of machinery in this building and knew what that sound meant. It only took two seconds for him to react. He flew out of his chair and ran over to the console on the far side of the room. He tapped on the screen and the operator’s panicked face came up.
“What the hell just happened?”
The woman peered down and tapped her own screen, quickly scanning to look for the source of the explosion. “The halon dispensers in Launch Station 4 were activated at 1200… there was a significant vibration throughout the entire building…”
Alfredo had heard enough. Without bothering to relay the information to the rest of the council, he raced out of the room. Isabella’s team was the only one traveling at noon. The only one.
Having no time to wait for the elevator, he sprinted to the end of the hallway and opened the door to the emergency stairwell, setting off the alarms. The claxon shrieked all around him as he took the stairs two at a time, gasping with the effort. When he made it up to the ground floor, he ran into several technicians evacuating the building. He screamed at them to get out of his way, and continued his race toward the launch station. Guards in gas masks were already in the room when he arrived and moved to hold him back.
“Get off me!” He snarled at them, pushing his way to the console. It had been blown apart and, despite the halon, was still on fire. There was no way he could get information from it now. Feeling helpless, he turned away from the console and looked down.
His vision blurred with tears and from exposure to the gas, but as the two guards moved away from him, he could see clearly what happened to Cody Peterson. Alfredo coughed in the thinning air and steadied himself a moment. Forgetting the useless console, he kneeled next to the prone boy, who was miraculously still breathing. His eyes were a bloody mess and his nose was simply not there. One of the guards held his head steady, waiting for the medics to arrive with a brace.
Alfredo put his face next to Cody’s fragment of an ear and whispered, “If you can talk, I want you to tell me if Isabella made it to Brussels.”
The labored raspy breathing got thicker. There was so much noise around him, but Alfredo heard none of it. He didn’t hear the alarms, or the fizzling of the empty halon dispensers. He didn’t hear what the medics said to him as they pushed him out of the way to help Peterson, nor did he hear the prayers Padre Lopez-Castaneda was saying over the boy. He hadn’t even realized any of them had entered the room. All he heard was Cody Peterson’s response to his question:
don’t … know … just … gone
.
5
“What’s that?” Isabella asked the question just in time to see Peterson and the launch station vanish into a dull grey fog. She felt the expected wave of nausea of time travel, yet something was wrong.
She was in a river, most definitely not where she was meant to be. With slow strokes, she swam to the muddy bank, only just realizing rain was pelting her face in addition to the river water. Something had gone terribly wrong with the transmittal; she was too terrified to speculate on what just yet. She plunged her hands into the mud and wrenched herself out of the cold water, ripping grass out as she went.
It was slippery, and the ever-thickening rain did nothing to assist her. She slithered on her belly, her hair still in her face. The chignon had not survived the fall and both of her stockings had come undone. But that didn’t matter; only one of her accessories truly mattered. She allowed herself a gasp as she collapsed and rolled onto her back by the riverbank. The rain fell hard on her face, but compared to the thick slime of mud coating her entire front, it felt good. Her hands clumsy from cold, she felt around her neck and was relieved to find the crucifix still there. This reassured her that all was not lost and she sat up to survey her surroundings.
Agency protocol dictated she should immediately seek cover and scan the surroundings for any witnesses to her arrival. There was the effect on the local population to consider; witnesses would have seen a woman appear out of thin air and fall into the river. But Isabella was not thinking of protocol as she sat in the grass, a puddle forming around her rear end.
Isabella looked all around herself, and was greeted with grass as far as she could see. If this was Brussels, which she doubted, it was not in the 20
th
century. No one was there, and assuming she could find shelter, this would be a good place to wait out the forty-eight hours until she could activate her emergency beacon. She didn’t know what the
hell
Cody had done, but she was going to kill him when she got back.
Pulling the crucifix from under her dress, her teeth chattered as she pushed down on Christ’s feet. Normally, when a traveler did this, she would hear a soft female voice cheerfully greet her with the date, location, and how many hours remained before retrieval.
But Isabella did not hear the familiar, reassuring message. The anticipated female voice she had heard so many times did not come forth to comfort her. What she heard instead sent a shiver of dread through her body, and her stomach once again felt a drop.
“Hello Izzy. I bet you’re wondering where you are. Well, I’ll be nice and tell you. You are in your own personal Hell. That Papist trinket you’re holding doesn’t have anything in it except this recording. No pulse generator, no emergency beacon. You do not exist outside of time, and you can never come back. You are now officially Lost, and you will never see America again. This is your home now, and the best you can hope for is to die quickly of hypothermia. But given the ethnic groups in your immediate area, I doubt you’ll be so lucky.”
There was a pause, but she could still hear him breathing.
“I hope you’ve been giving that ass of yours a lot of practice with your little boyfriend. Because it’s going to get quite a workout when they find you.” He gave a high pitched laugh. “And don’t worry, honey. I’ll take care of the house.”
The recording ended. Isabella sat still, staring down at the crucifix that had pronounced her doom. There were no thoughts going through her mind, but as she sat in her daze, her breathing became very audible.
“Oh my God.” She knew what he had done to her. “Oh my God.” He had pretended; he had been planning this all along. He had set up everything to do this to her. He had murdered her.
“Oh my God! Oh my God! Oh my God!” The blasphemous screams vaulted hysterically from her mouth unbidden and uncontrolled. She had no capacity to see his wrath coming toward her, but now it was upon her and she could think of nothing except her impending death.
She did not feel the rain, nor did she feel her own voice cracking under the strain of her screams. She felt only her ragged gasping breaths and the slow feelings of pins and needles creeping into her hands and feet. She looked out into the vast infinity of empty pasture, her vision shrinking into a tunnel, and finally the screaming stopped. She fell back into the saturated grass and, before unconsciousness overtook her, she prayed Etienne’s stated possibility of hypothermia would come true.
The chill of the breeze woke her. Still damp and miserable from her fall into the river, Isabella squinted dully at the grey sky above her, a sense of calm returning to her. She had been schooled well at Coronado. Now recovered, the beginnings of a plan sprouted in her mind. Etienne would not get the last laugh; she was going to live through this.
The rain had stopped, but the clouds made it impossible for her to determine the time of day. Still lying on her back, she contemplated her course of action. As water was of paramount importance, she must travel along the river. There were bound to be cities built near the water. If Etienne, moron that he was, had been thinking properly, he would have dropped her into a desert. Here she had water, and water meant life. The surrounding grasslands held little promise of easily attainable food, but that was a problem for later.
Etienne had most likely deposited her into an area about which she knew nothing, ruling out Western Europe. It was cold enough to be Russia in summer, but the landscape was all wrong. She was not in the Pacific nor, she doubted, was she in the Americas. Native Americans, Pre-Columbian tribes, and/or Mestizos would not likely attack her outright; she had their pigmentation, which would help them accept her.
There were no trees within her sight as she sat up to gain a better view. Trees could at least help her determine if she was in Asia. She was not so well-versed in botany as to determine what type of grass she was sitting in. It was just exceptionally green, even under the pewter sky.
“Son of a bitch!” she hissed to herself, rising up off the ground into a hunched, seething posture. If fear had initially overwhelmed her, anger had taken its place. “You will
not
defeat me, Etienne.”
He had made this situation impossible for her. Even if she was able to deduce her location, she would not be able to guess the year.
“You were right Father,” she said with both tears and an ironic smile. “I should not have underestimated his anger.”
She wiped her nose, smearing more dirt onto her face, and went about getting ready for travel. She took off her ruined stockings and garter belt and buried them shallowly in the wet earth. The oxfords chafed her bare feet, but going without shoes in an unpredictable landscape was a ridiculous idea. She looked down at herself, realizing how utterly filthy she was—thirsty as well.
Careful not to slip in the mud, Isabella made her way back to the river bank and kneeled next to the water, the current having slowed with the rain’s cessation. After washing the dirt from her face and hands, she drank as much of the cloudy and quite possibly disease-ridden water as she could force down. Her stomach would have to become acclimated to the food and drink of this time and location; she supposed the local water was a good place to start.
Her hair smothered her face as she drank, and she lamented having nothing with which to tie it back. Some birds chirped in the distance, and she was reminded to survey the land again. It was easier now the rain had stopped, and it turned out there actually were a few trees in the distance. She lowered her face to drink some more water when a faint sound behind her prompted her to skid around on her knees.
Bells.
Church bells from the sound of it. They gonged loudly, first one then a second. She scrambled to her feet, slipping in the mud a bit, and started running wildly toward the sound.
“Please dear Lord, let there be Christians here!” The clanging bells continued, and as she moved quickly in their direction, she saw two towers rising up out of the fog, square and built from stone. Small pillars rose from each corner of the towers and she could vaguely make out windows beneath the ramparts.
Giddy laughter escaped her mouth as she ran faster. This could be a church or an abbey and she would be given sanctuary. God must be smiling on her. He was angry with Etienne and was going to help her get home.
Her previous plan of keeping a low profile firmly put aside, she continued toward the ever-growing outline of the church, smiling widely as she ran. But her pace slowed significantly and halted all together when she saw something else. There were riders coming toward her at a slow canter, five of them, most certainly men. In her present location, she was completely exposed. There was nowhere to hide.
Most likely, they could see her outline in the cloudy air, but if she stayed far enough away they might let her pass. It was her only option at this point. So she began walking slowly, her head down. At least with the presence of people, she may be able to guess her location. The appearance of the riders had completely taken away her happiness, replacing it with dread and apprehension. She only hoped Etienne had been lying in his description of the native inhabitants.
The bells had stopped now and the riders were coming closer. She could see now they were Caucasian, fair-skinned, and armed with swords. Keeping her eyes downcast, Isabella tried to look the role of a peasant on her way to church, but there was no period in history on any continent that her shin-length red dress would have been appropriate, so she would not pass any close observation. Her breath darted in and out, her heart pounding in her ears. But it did not drown out the sound of the horses; it did not soften the memory of Etienne’s high-pitched laughter. Who were these savages?
They had slowed to a walk with four of them were in a tight cluster and a fifth trailing farther behind. The two in the front were talking and did not appear to take notice of her.
Thank God
, she thought to herself, her eyes darting upward toward the church. As if in answer to her prayers, she saw a darkly dressed figure walking near the courtyard. A nun? She was almost to her salvation.
That was when he called out to her.
She knew instinctively the man on the horse was talking to her. She was past them now, and the man had obviously turned his horse to address her. It was a question, she knew that, and he did not sound angry. From the single sentence shouted to her, she thought now she was in Germany, and however concerned the German man sounded, Isabella opted to ignore him.
There was another shout, this time from a different man. His voice did sound angry, as did his horse, which gave an irritated snort as his rider jerked him around by the bit. Isabella’s breath became shallow, and she kept walking.
“Gefæmne!” the angry man yelled.
At this outburst, Isabella stopped walking and turned to face the riders. One of them dismounted and approached her, seething in anger. He was blond and very short. His dress indicated the Dark Ages; it also indicated he was not a man of peace, as he was armed with both a sword and a dagger. Tears pricked her eyes and she watched him come closer.
Every instinct she had screamed for her to run. She was very fast, and could certainly outrun the dwarfish angry savage. But the horses would mow her down in seconds; so there she stood, rooted in fear. She clutched her arms to her chest and continued to look down, hoping they would think her mentally challenged and leave her alone.
The angry man was in front of her now, and screamed another sentence. It sounded like an order, but she did not understand even one of the words he spoke. Though she knew basic modern German, nothing he said sounded familiar. He was close to her and she felt him breathing on her, prompting a strangely detached memory of her fight with Etienne in the car. Her body shuddered against her will, making the blond savage even angrier.
He snatched her arm and dragged her back to the cluster of men, his fingers biting painfully into her flesh. Isabella felt her ears grow hot, as her fear now mixed with anger. He smelled terrible, like pigs on a hot day.
The man sounded as if he were enjoying himself, treating her like a dog on a leash. As his grip tightened, she looked at the other men on their horses. It was the man at the rear the short warrior was shouting to. He was younger than the rest, still in his teens, and he did not seem to find any amusement at her situation. Was Isabella being mocked, or was this boy the target of derision?
They came to a halt in front of the two men who had led the unholy procession. Both were bearded with dark hair, but only one of them looked on her with kindness. Unlike the others, he was wearing a rough cloth garment. Was he a priest? She knew he was the one to first call out to her, and hoped he had the decency to regret that now.
The second dark haired man stared with an uncomfortable intensity. One look at his sword told Isabella he was the master of this group. The hilt was adorned with several jewels, and his cloak bore an intricate pattern that would have taken the seamstress months to perfect. There was a fifth man off to the side who gave her a confused look, one oddly tinged with fear. Why was he looking at her like that?