Chapter 13
Six Days, Eighteen Hours, Thirteen minutes
Despite all of the miracles he witnessed throughout his tenure as Director of Operations for Project BackStep, Bradley Talmadge didn't know what to think.
He had arrived at work early this morning, much earlier than usual. Yesterday, the NSA had provided him with an uncharacteristic wealth of intelligence briefings, and he wanted to review all of them. It seemed that terrorist activity - much to his dismay - was on the rise. "Call it 'job security,'" he remembered Parker once cajoling him. Setting aside all of the possible good he and his team could ever do, Talmadge would gladly give up BackStep if it meant living in a world free from terror. The latest briefs were only so much of the same: insurgent activity in Iraq, several hinted high level assassinations against United States' interests abroad, etc. A drug lord - Marachez? - ran loose in Cuba with hopes of securing an international distributor for 'Sanity,' the newest designer drug. A splinter faction of a militia group calling themselves the 'Blood Berets' were rumored to be plotting the release of a major [unnamed] biochemical agent into Huston, Texas's water supply if the U.S. government didn't sever all ties with Israel. A Syrian national was apparently responsible for the beating death of a U.S. senator's daughter. Talmadge shook his head in disgust, taking only a moment to wonder what the world - and how - had become.
In the blink of an eye, all of his fears - all of the Security briefings about all of the most dangerous events in the world's possible near future - were shelved as, now, one man was unexpectedly here.
Frank Parker.
Of course, Talmadge knew that working with Project BackStep almost guaranteed not only re-inventing the wheel every day but also remembering where to spin it. He had long ago grown used to going back to the drawing board with each and every mission. The unpredictability of time travel - and the various reasons behind it - was an occupational hazard he had grown accustomed to appreciating. It was almost as if each day posed a new challenge - one he had no probable means to foretell - and the endless string of challenges drove him, as director, to be a better leader than the one he was the day before.
But . Frank Parker? Here? Now?
What would it all mean?
He turned his security vehicle down a narrow alleyway and pulled to a stop in front of a massive steel door with visible latching mechanisms - twelve- inch thick titanium rods - circling the door. He stood and walked toward the gleaming wall, approaching the guardpost. Immediately, an armed soldier stood, saluting. "Sir!" the clean-shaven man barked.
Talmadge smiled. "At ease, Adams," he cautioned. "I know that this facility is on the highest alert status possible, but you're about to throw your back out."
"Sir," the soldier replied more softly. "Yes, sir."
"Has he arrived?"
"The captive has been taken inside, sir."
"Captive?"
Raising an eyebrow, Talmadge considered the man. The soldier stared straight ahead, unflinching in his posture and protocol.
"Did you get a look at him, Adams?"
"Yes, sir," the man replied. "The captive -"
". has a name, Adams," the director interrupted.
Talmadge watched as the soldier's throat bobbed as the man swallowed - a minor indication of the nervousness so deftly captured inside.
"Sir, I watched as Mr. Parker was taken inside Containment."
"And?"
"Sir?"
"And what did you see?"
Confused, the soldier relaxed a bit. "Director, I already told you. I saw him. He was in one of the isolation tubes."
"Yes, I know what you saw, Adams," Talmadge tried softly. "But I want to know what you think of what you saw."
"Begging the director's pardon-"
"You can speak freely, Adams," Talmadge offered. "I'm only asking your opinion."
The guard studied the director's face for a moment. After a pause, he finally said, "Sir, it looked like Parker. If I didn't know any better, then I would have to swear on my oath as an officer in this man's Army that he was Parker."
"Really?"
"Without a doubt, sir."
Cracking a sly smile, Talmadge offered up his thumb for the guard's keypad. "Thank you, Adams." He pressed his thumb to the dark plate. Seconds later, the plate turned a bright green, and Talmadge heard the titanium bars unlatching, clacking loudly away from the sealed entrance. "My father always told me to trust in the opinion of enlisted men."
The latches cleared, the massive door swung upward, and Talmadge turned to enter the sealed facility.
"Sir?" Adams replied as the director walked away. "Your father was a smart man."
*****
Inside, Talmadge again thumbed an identification plate - as per facility protocol - and waited for the massive door to close behind him. Once it did, once he heard the tumblers lock into place, he walked down the short, white hallway and turned into the first open doorway.
"Dr. Welles?"
Arms crossed, she glanced away from the wall of monitors and into the eyes of Bradley Talmadge.
"Director," she said.
"I didn't mean to startle you," he apologized.
Relaxing, she ran one hand through her disheveled hair. "Given the circumstances, I'm not sure that's possible, sir."
"Drop the formalities, Nina," Talmadge replied. "We're all under a lot of pressure right now."
Smiling, she nodded. "Thank you, Bradley. I'm really . well . I'm really not up to professional courtesy at the moment."
Ignoring the various screens, he stepped up to her and took a chair, gesturing for her to do the same. Easily, she sat down opposite the older man, her entire body finally free of the weight she had sensed since her arrival. He noticed her fatigue, and he held up a hand.
"Before I begin, let me offer you a few moments to compose your thoughts, if you need them," he said. "Let's face it: we've dealt with temporal anomalies before, but I think you'll agree that we've never encountered anything of this . variety."
Her eyes fixed on him, she smirked. "I think you just made the understatement of next century, Bradley." Casually, she waved a hand back at him. "No. I'm fine. Really. A bit of jet lag. Nothing a good night's sleep won't cure . once we can put all of this behind us."
"Thank you."
She smiled. "Don't mention it."
Still ignoring the monitors, he asked her, "Then, in your own words, tell me what it is you think we're dealing with here."
He read her expression, and he knew she wasn't prepared to make much more than an educated guess. "It could be some sort of . I don't know . temporal inversion? Perhaps something like a time travel on top of another time travel within too close a parameter having ripped the fabric of reality and . well . honestly, Bradley, I just don't know. That's not my specialty." She closed her eyes tightly for a moment. "Ballard was the ubermensch, if you don't mind my saying. Mentnor, too. As for Ballard . well . I don't know what he'd have to say on the subject. Mentnor? He'd probably wax on about the ethics over the inevitability of our inducing a temporal paradox or some other such pet theory of his . no insult intended." She opened her eyes and nodded at the director. "You know I hold both of their opinions in the highest regard. Sure, I might not always agree with them, but I never discount the value they brought to the project."
Talmadge nodded back at her. "Of course," he agreed, "but those are other souls from another time, another place . as is so much of the work that we do around here." He held up his hands to his left. "Ballard believed in the hard science. He believed in the numbers. He did the math. Everything had an absolute value, and that value could be calculated to the nth degree." Slowly, he moved his hands over to his right. "Mentnor, on the other hand, often spent time talking about the dangers, the possibilities of what we do. He wasn't as interested in the numbers - he understood as well as any of us how data figured into Ballard's equations - but he appreciated the human element on a vastly more complex level." He dropped his hands to his lap. "As they say, reality is probably somewhere in between."
Smartly, she eyed the director. "What do you think?"
"Me?" He sighed. "I'm the one tasked with making the decisions. Thankfully, I have people like you providing me with good information. It's your opinion that's more important right now."
Slowly, she nodded.
"Then I think you need to speak to him."
Talmadge felt a chill. He knew that - eventually - he would have to speak with the chrononaut. That wasn't chance. That was required. He hadn't expected it so soon. In fact, he hadn't even thought about it. He knew that Frank Parker would be in the Containment Center. He knew that Parker would be in his own chamber only yards away. He knew that, were he so inclined, he could look up at the monitors and stare at his old friend's face . but Talmadge wasn't ready for it.
"Is it him?" he asked.
Nina tilted her head back, lost in thought for several moments. "There's really only one person who knows the answer to that."
"And you think that person is me?"
"No," she replied quickly. "I think you're avoiding looking that person in the eye, Bradley."
The man remained silent.
"Bradley," she whispered, "what happened in the past no longer matters."
"Nina, please-"
"Bradley," she said louder, reaching out and placing a gentle hand on his knee, "no. I can't. I won't sit here and allow you to second guess decisions made in the line of duty. Whatever happened has longer happened."
"But it did," Talmadge insisted.
"If that were the case," she challenged, "then tell me what Frank Parker is doing lying on the bed in isolation."
He didn't answer. He didn't know what to say.
"Listen to me, Bradley," she said firmly. "Whatever happened didn't happen. What we need to deal with is the present, and the present is going to get much messier unless you go in there and find out for yourself just who it is we're holding under lock and key."
Talmadge stared into her eyes. He knew she was right. He knew there was only one person's opinion that mattered. In his dealings with the NSA, Bradley knew how much the Committee respected his judgment. Now, he couldn't second guess his abilities as a leader, as a commander of people who put their lives on the line with every mission. Now, he had to be assertive.
"If you don't, Bradley," she hinted, a heavy weight in her voice, "you know what they'll have scientists do to him." She tightened her grip on his knee. "That man in there needs you. This project needs you. As a matter of fact, I would be remiss if I didn't point out that, right now, every single person alive on the face of God's green Earth needs you more than they ever have and, quite possibly, more than they ever will."
Politely, he smiled.
"I appreciate the pep talk, Nina."
Sitting back in her chair, she laughed. "You never needed me for a pep talk, Bradley."
"No," he agreed, "but, every now and then, it helps to have a colleague put time travel in perspective." He frowned. "I've missed that since Ballard's death," he admitted, "and I think you're the first person to ever hear me say that."
"What about Mentnor?"
Talmadge grimaced. "The accident was my fault, Nina. Isaac Mentnor left the project because he lost faith in me, not in the work we do."
"The work we do needs Isaac Mentnor," she added.
"Right."
Slowly, the director rose. For the first time, he turned to the monitors. All of the screens showed Frank Parker, asleep, from a variety of angles.
"How deep is his sleep?"
"It's Parker," she slipped. "One rap on the glass, and he'll be awake."
"Right."
Nervously, Talmadge tapped his foot on the floor.
"Nina," he began, "see what you can do about getting me an update on when Frank's sphere will arrive at the facility. Who knows? It might provide more answers than Sleeping Beauty in there." He shrugged. "I want our best men and women to go over every inch of that sphere with a fine tooth comb."
"You have only the best people in this business, sir."
"Yes," he agreed.
As he turned and activated the automatic sliding door into the Containment's inner rooms, he added, "And see what you can do about getting Isaac Mentnor on the phone. The last I hard, he was somewhere out East. Massachusetts, I believe. I heard he was lecturing with some regularity at MIT." With a smile, he finished, "I think I'd like the opinion of an old friend about this affair."
END of Chapter 13
Six Days, Eighteen Hours, Thirteen minutes
Despite all of the miracles he witnessed throughout his tenure as Director of Operations for Project BackStep, Bradley Talmadge didn't know what to think.
He had arrived at work early this morning, much earlier than usual. Yesterday, the NSA had provided him with an uncharacteristic wealth of intelligence briefings, and he wanted to review all of them. It seemed that terrorist activity - much to his dismay - was on the rise. "Call it 'job security,'" he remembered Parker once cajoling him. Setting aside all of the possible good he and his team could ever do, Talmadge would gladly give up BackStep if it meant living in a world free from terror. The latest briefs were only so much of the same: insurgent activity in Iraq, several hinted high level assassinations against United States' interests abroad, etc. A drug lord - Marachez? - ran loose in Cuba with hopes of securing an international distributor for 'Sanity,' the newest designer drug. A splinter faction of a militia group calling themselves the 'Blood Berets' were rumored to be plotting the release of a major [unnamed] biochemical agent into Huston, Texas's water supply if the U.S. government didn't sever all ties with Israel. A Syrian national was apparently responsible for the beating death of a U.S. senator's daughter. Talmadge shook his head in disgust, taking only a moment to wonder what the world - and how - had become.
In the blink of an eye, all of his fears - all of the Security briefings about all of the most dangerous events in the world's possible near future - were shelved as, now, one man was unexpectedly here.
Frank Parker.
Of course, Talmadge knew that working with Project BackStep almost guaranteed not only re-inventing the wheel every day but also remembering where to spin it. He had long ago grown used to going back to the drawing board with each and every mission. The unpredictability of time travel - and the various reasons behind it - was an occupational hazard he had grown accustomed to appreciating. It was almost as if each day posed a new challenge - one he had no probable means to foretell - and the endless string of challenges drove him, as director, to be a better leader than the one he was the day before.
But . Frank Parker? Here? Now?
What would it all mean?
He turned his security vehicle down a narrow alleyway and pulled to a stop in front of a massive steel door with visible latching mechanisms - twelve- inch thick titanium rods - circling the door. He stood and walked toward the gleaming wall, approaching the guardpost. Immediately, an armed soldier stood, saluting. "Sir!" the clean-shaven man barked.
Talmadge smiled. "At ease, Adams," he cautioned. "I know that this facility is on the highest alert status possible, but you're about to throw your back out."
"Sir," the soldier replied more softly. "Yes, sir."
"Has he arrived?"
"The captive has been taken inside, sir."
"Captive?"
Raising an eyebrow, Talmadge considered the man. The soldier stared straight ahead, unflinching in his posture and protocol.
"Did you get a look at him, Adams?"
"Yes, sir," the man replied. "The captive -"
". has a name, Adams," the director interrupted.
Talmadge watched as the soldier's throat bobbed as the man swallowed - a minor indication of the nervousness so deftly captured inside.
"Sir, I watched as Mr. Parker was taken inside Containment."
"And?"
"Sir?"
"And what did you see?"
Confused, the soldier relaxed a bit. "Director, I already told you. I saw him. He was in one of the isolation tubes."
"Yes, I know what you saw, Adams," Talmadge tried softly. "But I want to know what you think of what you saw."
"Begging the director's pardon-"
"You can speak freely, Adams," Talmadge offered. "I'm only asking your opinion."
The guard studied the director's face for a moment. After a pause, he finally said, "Sir, it looked like Parker. If I didn't know any better, then I would have to swear on my oath as an officer in this man's Army that he was Parker."
"Really?"
"Without a doubt, sir."
Cracking a sly smile, Talmadge offered up his thumb for the guard's keypad. "Thank you, Adams." He pressed his thumb to the dark plate. Seconds later, the plate turned a bright green, and Talmadge heard the titanium bars unlatching, clacking loudly away from the sealed entrance. "My father always told me to trust in the opinion of enlisted men."
The latches cleared, the massive door swung upward, and Talmadge turned to enter the sealed facility.
"Sir?" Adams replied as the director walked away. "Your father was a smart man."
*****
Inside, Talmadge again thumbed an identification plate - as per facility protocol - and waited for the massive door to close behind him. Once it did, once he heard the tumblers lock into place, he walked down the short, white hallway and turned into the first open doorway.
"Dr. Welles?"
Arms crossed, she glanced away from the wall of monitors and into the eyes of Bradley Talmadge.
"Director," she said.
"I didn't mean to startle you," he apologized.
Relaxing, she ran one hand through her disheveled hair. "Given the circumstances, I'm not sure that's possible, sir."
"Drop the formalities, Nina," Talmadge replied. "We're all under a lot of pressure right now."
Smiling, she nodded. "Thank you, Bradley. I'm really . well . I'm really not up to professional courtesy at the moment."
Ignoring the various screens, he stepped up to her and took a chair, gesturing for her to do the same. Easily, she sat down opposite the older man, her entire body finally free of the weight she had sensed since her arrival. He noticed her fatigue, and he held up a hand.
"Before I begin, let me offer you a few moments to compose your thoughts, if you need them," he said. "Let's face it: we've dealt with temporal anomalies before, but I think you'll agree that we've never encountered anything of this . variety."
Her eyes fixed on him, she smirked. "I think you just made the understatement of next century, Bradley." Casually, she waved a hand back at him. "No. I'm fine. Really. A bit of jet lag. Nothing a good night's sleep won't cure . once we can put all of this behind us."
"Thank you."
She smiled. "Don't mention it."
Still ignoring the monitors, he asked her, "Then, in your own words, tell me what it is you think we're dealing with here."
He read her expression, and he knew she wasn't prepared to make much more than an educated guess. "It could be some sort of . I don't know . temporal inversion? Perhaps something like a time travel on top of another time travel within too close a parameter having ripped the fabric of reality and . well . honestly, Bradley, I just don't know. That's not my specialty." She closed her eyes tightly for a moment. "Ballard was the ubermensch, if you don't mind my saying. Mentnor, too. As for Ballard . well . I don't know what he'd have to say on the subject. Mentnor? He'd probably wax on about the ethics over the inevitability of our inducing a temporal paradox or some other such pet theory of his . no insult intended." She opened her eyes and nodded at the director. "You know I hold both of their opinions in the highest regard. Sure, I might not always agree with them, but I never discount the value they brought to the project."
Talmadge nodded back at her. "Of course," he agreed, "but those are other souls from another time, another place . as is so much of the work that we do around here." He held up his hands to his left. "Ballard believed in the hard science. He believed in the numbers. He did the math. Everything had an absolute value, and that value could be calculated to the nth degree." Slowly, he moved his hands over to his right. "Mentnor, on the other hand, often spent time talking about the dangers, the possibilities of what we do. He wasn't as interested in the numbers - he understood as well as any of us how data figured into Ballard's equations - but he appreciated the human element on a vastly more complex level." He dropped his hands to his lap. "As they say, reality is probably somewhere in between."
Smartly, she eyed the director. "What do you think?"
"Me?" He sighed. "I'm the one tasked with making the decisions. Thankfully, I have people like you providing me with good information. It's your opinion that's more important right now."
Slowly, she nodded.
"Then I think you need to speak to him."
Talmadge felt a chill. He knew that - eventually - he would have to speak with the chrononaut. That wasn't chance. That was required. He hadn't expected it so soon. In fact, he hadn't even thought about it. He knew that Frank Parker would be in the Containment Center. He knew that Parker would be in his own chamber only yards away. He knew that, were he so inclined, he could look up at the monitors and stare at his old friend's face . but Talmadge wasn't ready for it.
"Is it him?" he asked.
Nina tilted her head back, lost in thought for several moments. "There's really only one person who knows the answer to that."
"And you think that person is me?"
"No," she replied quickly. "I think you're avoiding looking that person in the eye, Bradley."
The man remained silent.
"Bradley," she whispered, "what happened in the past no longer matters."
"Nina, please-"
"Bradley," she said louder, reaching out and placing a gentle hand on his knee, "no. I can't. I won't sit here and allow you to second guess decisions made in the line of duty. Whatever happened has longer happened."
"But it did," Talmadge insisted.
"If that were the case," she challenged, "then tell me what Frank Parker is doing lying on the bed in isolation."
He didn't answer. He didn't know what to say.
"Listen to me, Bradley," she said firmly. "Whatever happened didn't happen. What we need to deal with is the present, and the present is going to get much messier unless you go in there and find out for yourself just who it is we're holding under lock and key."
Talmadge stared into her eyes. He knew she was right. He knew there was only one person's opinion that mattered. In his dealings with the NSA, Bradley knew how much the Committee respected his judgment. Now, he couldn't second guess his abilities as a leader, as a commander of people who put their lives on the line with every mission. Now, he had to be assertive.
"If you don't, Bradley," she hinted, a heavy weight in her voice, "you know what they'll have scientists do to him." She tightened her grip on his knee. "That man in there needs you. This project needs you. As a matter of fact, I would be remiss if I didn't point out that, right now, every single person alive on the face of God's green Earth needs you more than they ever have and, quite possibly, more than they ever will."
Politely, he smiled.
"I appreciate the pep talk, Nina."
Sitting back in her chair, she laughed. "You never needed me for a pep talk, Bradley."
"No," he agreed, "but, every now and then, it helps to have a colleague put time travel in perspective." He frowned. "I've missed that since Ballard's death," he admitted, "and I think you're the first person to ever hear me say that."
"What about Mentnor?"
Talmadge grimaced. "The accident was my fault, Nina. Isaac Mentnor left the project because he lost faith in me, not in the work we do."
"The work we do needs Isaac Mentnor," she added.
"Right."
Slowly, the director rose. For the first time, he turned to the monitors. All of the screens showed Frank Parker, asleep, from a variety of angles.
"How deep is his sleep?"
"It's Parker," she slipped. "One rap on the glass, and he'll be awake."
"Right."
Nervously, Talmadge tapped his foot on the floor.
"Nina," he began, "see what you can do about getting me an update on when Frank's sphere will arrive at the facility. Who knows? It might provide more answers than Sleeping Beauty in there." He shrugged. "I want our best men and women to go over every inch of that sphere with a fine tooth comb."
"You have only the best people in this business, sir."
"Yes," he agreed.
As he turned and activated the automatic sliding door into the Containment's inner rooms, he added, "And see what you can do about getting Isaac Mentnor on the phone. The last I hard, he was somewhere out East. Massachusetts, I believe. I heard he was lecturing with some regularity at MIT." With a smile, he finished, "I think I'd like the opinion of an old friend about this affair."
END of Chapter 13