Chapter VI

"Into the Eagle's Nest"

A trickle of water cascaded down his brow and traced a wet trail onto the bare flesh of his shoulder. A cold draft caressed him like so many icy fingers and he shivered. He felt a warm hand brush against his face and the coarse material of a blanket pulled up against his body. He moaned softly and gently moved his head, wisps of blue hair tumbling onto pallid skin that had just begun to regain color. He slowly opened his eyes and focused on the face before him. He tried to speak, but the young woman at his bedside placed an index finger against his lips.

"There's no need to talk, Serge. You need your energy," she said in a hushed tone.

He looked at her vacantly. Her blue eyes sparkled like sapphire chips in her soft featured face, framed by long lilac tresses pulled back into a ponytail. A pair of rectangular glasses perched on the bridge of her nose and her dainty mouth was curled up into a tired smile. A red armband imprinted with an eagle was wrapped around her left arm and two small brass bars were pinned to the collar of her blouse.

"How do you know my name?" Serge asked slowly, his thoughts still hazy. "And where am I?"

The young woman held up a small chart. "Your name? It says so right here." She chuckled softly and replaced the clipboard. "You're a guest in Lokar Fortress, a holding pen in the Republic of Porre. But enough of that for now. Get some sleep."

"A prison, you mean?" Serge said, arching an eyebrow and ignoring her suggestion to rest. "And I'm a prisoner?"

"If you prefer to call it that, then yes, we're in a prison and we're prisoners."

"We?"

She nodded somberly. "I'm a long term tenant here myself. They've even given me a uniform. If anything, these Porre thugs are sticklers for consistency." She self-consciously ran her palms across the white fabric of her shirt to smooth out nonexistent wrinkles.

"Why am I here?" Serge inquired as he pulled himself into a sitting position.

"Because you're a small, but important strand in an intricate web being weaved by the Powers-That-Be of the Republic. It has been ascertained that without you, certain projects cannot proceed. Tell me, are you familiar with the term, 'The Arbiter of Time?'"

Serge silently shook his head.

"According to a diary that once belonged to a high ranking army officer, a series of events of monumental importance happened a year ago. The strange thing is, no one remembers that anything even occurred and there has been no supporting evidence," she explained. "This officer was known to have been a very credible fellow, not prone to wild stories and speculation."

"And I was a part of these supposed events?"

"Presumably, yes. A name was mentioned in the book along with at least three dozen others. One individual, the Arbiter of Time, was the key the whole matter. You, apparently, are the Arbiter." She paused to rearrange her armband. "Knowing this, Porre intelligence set about searching for you. There was a slight problem, however. In this world, this dimension, our dimension, you are already dead."

A shiver went up his spine as he heard the revelation. It was as though he had experienced something quite similar, but his mind drew a blank. Serge shifted uneasily, prompting the young woman to hold his hand in sympathy.

"You're still very much alive now, I assure you," she said compassionately, "but your double in this world passed away eleven years ago."

He relaxed somewhat and grinned weakly. "It's a bit of shock, I guess."

"Rightly so," she replied.

"How did they get to me then?"

Serge's fellow prisoner turned away from him and looked out the small barred window at the far end of the room. She sighed forlornly and stared down at her clasped hands. "Many years ago, an unexpected side effect from one of my early experiments opened up a new method of—transportation. At first it was wildly unpredictable, but in a short amount of time I was able to exercise full control over its capabilities.

"As the years passed, the only traces of my sudden discovery survived in the stacks of notes I kept in my study and workshop back home. I had given little thought to it since I had other, more worthwhile and pleasant, matters to pursue." She sighed again. "But as fate would have it, I was spirited away and brought here by an agent of Porre, my research papers bundled along for the journey.

"I arrived here as a hostage of the Republic. The war was raging as furiously then as it is now and I was unable to escape. They kept me under arrest for two years when I refused to cooperate with their military scientists. But after numerous threats to my safety to those of whom I loved—love…"

She faltered as a tear rolled down her cheek.

Serge reached out to comfort her, but she stayed his hand.

"It's alright," she said. "It's been far too long. I must learn to let things go and be happy with the memories." She gave him a heartrending smile as she fought back her tears. "I was coerced into working for them and for nine long years I've remained here as a researcher. I modified the schematics of my past experiment to work along their standards, using a specific catalyst to create the intended effect. They used the modified product to bring you here, to our world."

"What's going to happen to me?" Serge asked with urgency in his voice.

"Nothing for the time being, but it's hard to say at this moment." She rose from the mattress with her clipboard in hand, dried her eyes, and headed for the door. She paused briefly and turned around. "I'll see you tomorrow, Serge. Be brave."

"Wait!" he called out suddenly. "I'm sorry, but I didn't catch your name. I'd like to—thank you for speaking so openly with me, Ms…"

"Ashtear," the young woman replied pleasantly, "Doctor Lucca Ashtear."

* * * *

Doctor Whally climbed out of the carriage to face the Department of Special Projects. A massive structure, it was designed to impose and intimidate. It did. A grand row of fluted columns supported a series of marble arches that formed a half circle around the centerpiece, a mausoleum-like building that housed the main offices. The doctor smirked when he remembered a joke that an old colleague had told him regarding how Special Projects could bury its staff in the building it occupied in the event anyone died. 'That way,' the wit had said, 'you'd never have to worry about anyone leaving work early.'

"A good portion of the scientists inside don't even leave the premises, let alone go home early," Whally muttered to himself. He had never found the joke to be funny, partly because he was employed there as a researcher and didn't fancy dying at work and because the man who had shared the yarn with him was an idiot of the first degree.

He ascended the white stone steps and marched toward the entrance, valise in one hand and his identification papers in the other. The stone faced guard that met him in front of the wooden double doors examined his pass, grunted, and ushered him through layers of security without question, as if everyone knew where he wanted to go.

They all knew him on sight. The most brilliant scientist of his generation or of any for that matter, his journals and articles on the advantages of steam power in war had propelled him into the spotlight, grabbing the attention of the Army High Command and that of the politicos in the Republic's civilian leadership. He was the man who first urged the development and construction of iron clad warships, giving Porre unmatched supremacy at sea. Numerous awards and accolades lined the bookshelves in his office.

His austere guide sent him up a staircase through the kind of security gauntlet one only passed through to the most sensitive of areas within the building. Armed guards patrolled the narrow corridors, rifles loaded and bayonets attached. He stopped in front of a large oak door and rapped three times. There was a slight pause followed by a minute click. The door swung halfway open with a creak and a man cautiously peered out from behind.

"You're behind schedule, Doctor Whally," the fellow snapped.

"I was merely wanting to be fashionably late, Doctor Grant. Did I succeed?"

"Shut up, Whally. Witty banter doesn't suit your character," Grant replied caustically. He opened the door wider and grumbled. "Now do you want to come in or would you like to waste some more of my time?"

Doctor Whally stepped into the cramped office and took a seat. Grant shut the door and slumped into the chair behind his desk. He rummaged through his top drawer and pulled out a leather bound tome with a golden embossed Porre eagle on the cover. He tossed the book roughly onto his desk in front of his colleague and crossed his arms.

"And it's all there, I trust?" Whally said.

"Damn it, man, I'm not stupid!" Grant snarled viciously, "That thing has been sitting in here for the longest time and there is no reason to believe anything should be missing."

Doctor Whally shrugged his angular shoulders and picked up the volume. He opened his valise and dropped it in, closing the brass teeth of the bag with a snap. He gave Grant a forced grin and stood up.

"Reconsider, Doctor." Grant interjected gravely, "Reconsider what you're about to do."

"There's nothing left to reconsider."

"Science is impartial to the machinations of war, you fool! Giving direct aid to those militaristic hardheads is a violation of everything good and sacred in our profession!"

Doctor Whally sighed. "I was hoping that the Green Eyed Monster would spare you, Doctor Grant. But it seems that I was wrong."

"For crying out loud! Open your eyes! This has nothing to do with envy! If being the head of Special Projects means helping them spread death and destruction, then you can by all means have the damned position! It's a question of ethics!"

Whally pursed his lips and walked to the door. He reached for the knob and paused. "Thank you, Doctor Grant. I'm sure the book will be of great use to the efforts of the Republic."

Grant slowly sank into his chair and watched silently as his colleague left the office.