Chapter 33
Six Days, Five Hours, Forty Minutes
Despite all of her best efforts, Olga stood watching Ebdon Finkle as he started to surrender his fragile hold on life. The old man still controlled his breathing – one calculated breath after another – but, over the last thirty minutes, she saw him grow visibly weaker. Where he once seemed awake and alert, now he only kept his eyes half open. Where he once appeared composed, now his bottom lip twitched, signaling the gradual loss of motor control. Every few minutes, she studied his face as he closed his eyes – keeping them shut for so long that, each time, she believed in an odd form of relief that he had succumbed to the contamination, entirely surrendered, and died. Each time, though, he'd eventually open his weary eyes again. Each time, he drew in another measured breath and blinked away the sweat obviously clouding his vision.
He was a fighter, and she watched his every round with increasing desperation. There was nothing she could do. When the time came, she could ease his pain and passage from this life to the next, but, for personal reasons, she refused to believe that was necessary. This man was proud – too proud – to ask for help. She trusted that he'd inevitably close his eyes and wander of his own accord into the eternal slumber before he ever imposed on another living being for mercy.
Suddenly, he coughed – a first – and he gasped for air. Once he found his breath, he whispered, "Olga?"
"Yes, Ebdon?"
She watched as he swallowed visibly, his throat rolling from the effort.
"Are you married?"
She didn't want to talk about herself. Rather, she wanted to know more about him, but she wouldn't risk being impolite.
"No," she replied.
"Why not?"
"I haven't found ... how is it you say ... Master Right?"
"Mister Right?"
"Hmm?"
"Mister Right, my sweet," he said. "I think you meant to say 'Mister Right.' Not 'Master Right.' You're too smart, too classy, and too beautiful to ever call anyyou're your 'master.'"
He said that word as if it were a curse.
"I think it's painfully clear how I'm doing," he muttered, panting out the last few words. "So why don't you tell me how you're feeling, sweetheart?"
Fighting back tears, she reached out with the cold damp cloth and sponged it across the man's forehead. "I'm feeling fortunate, Ebdon," she told him softly, "to be in the company of a true Southern gentleman."
Slowly, he worked a smile from his tired muscles. "You're not cathin' me at my best, you know."
"I know," she said.
"I'm feelin' that chill in my bones again."
She sniffled back tears inside her protective suit. "That'll pass, Ebdon."
"Will it?"
"I promise you," she offered.
He closed his eyes again. "To tell you the truth ... I never much cared for cold feet," he confessed. A dab of spittle burped onto the corner of his mouth, and she wiped it away quickly. "That's why ... that's why I kept my family in Mississippi, right where they were all born and raised."
Somewhere behind her, she heard the massive containment door unlatching. She listened to the groan of the immense aluminum door swinging open, and she trusted that the experts from the CDC had finally arrived.
"Have you ... have you ever been to Mississippi, Olga?"
Her mind cycling through hundreds of thoughts, she tried to concentrate on the dying man's question instead of surrendering to her emotions.
"I don't believe that I have, Ebdon."
Again, he worked a grin into his stiffened face. "The only thing you're missing ... is the humidity."
She couldn't take it much longer. Her heart pounded in her chest. She wanted to do something, to do anything, to help the man, but she remained powerless. Leaning closer to him, she brought her lips to his ear and whispered: "I would gladly welcome a little bit of moisture in the air, Ebdon, because I spend most of my time in the desert."
"The desert?" he asked.
"That's right."
"Oh, Lordy," he mumbled, opening his eyes. With great effort, he turned his head slightly and glared at her. "What would ... what would the devil of a beauty like you be doing ... of all places ... in the desert?"
She could answer him, or she could face a court martial. Her allegiance to the BackStep Program required signing, literally, hundreds of oaths of celibacy, but she didn't give one damn about that oath any more.
"I work there," she compromised.
"Hmm?"
"This place? Where we are? We've brought you to ... well ... you can call it a special hospital ... of sorts." Again, she heard the rustling of protective boots hissing across the shielded floor. "That's what you can call it. A hospital. It serves many people, both near and far, for many possible illnesses. When we can, we take what's wrong, and we make it right. We fix things. We ... cure things." Again, she sniffled, blinking the tears away from her eyelashes. "It's been around for many years, but it wasn't until the last few years that it was equipped to deal with people suffering ... well, suffering as you are, Ebdon."
"Why's that?"
She smiled, shaking her head. "We didn't have the tools."
Feeling the pressure of a firm hand on her shoulder, Olga glanced up.
Dr. Nina Welles stood, her eyes fixed with determination behind her protective faceplate, her mouth drawn into a thin line of purpose. In her outstretched hand, she held up a syringe, the instrument filled with a swirling, fluorescent, blue liquid. On the secure communications channel between the protective suits, she explained, "I'm giving you the tool you need, Dr. Vukavitch."
Surprised, Olga stood bolt upright.
"Take it," she ordered.
"Is that the serum?" Olga quickly toggled on the private comm switch. "Dr. Welles, is that what I think it is?"
"I wouldn't be offering it to you otherwise." She moved the needle closer to her counterpart. "It's Chronoticin," she explained. Smirking, she added, "100 proof. It just arrived along with a support medical team from my office at the CDC."
Olga winced. She knew that the NSA would never authorize the administration of an untested, unclassified, and unproven antidote on a civilian. As it stood, Chronoticin was available in only extraordinarily limited supply. It was developed in total secrecy, only intended to be used on senior staff – the highest echelon of government – in the event of a temporal catastrophe of unprecedented proportions, and this – a frail old gentleman – certainly didn't apply. In fact, the clandestine clinical trials of the drug had only just begun. So far as Olga knew, the serum had yet to be tested on a victim suffering full exposure. She couldn't imagine what it would do to a man as weak as Ebdon Finkle, but she did know what it could mean for her career with the BackStep Program if something went so horribly wrong with an unauthorized test.
"Nina," she tried, "I can't take that."
"Take it."
"I can't," she insisted.
"Olga," the woman began, "if you don't administer it, I will."
The two women locked eyes.
"I've already lost someone I would like to have called a very dear friend," Nina confessed. "I met Alberto Ruiz two years ago. He was assigned briefly to the CDC not long after we discussed the phenomenon of temporal contamination." Olga saw the sparkle of tears forming at the corner of Nina's right eye. "We trained together for three weeks, and then he was gone ... sent into the field for what now only God knows was active duty." She shrugged. "Our paths crossed seven or eight times as we worked Temporal Ops in support of your Project BackStep." She glanced at the needle, and Olga knew that the physician was wondering what power could be unleashed with only a single dose. "I trained with Alberto. I worked with him. I barely knew him, Olga, but I stood there watching him die, and I cursed every lesson in science I had ever learned. Do you know why? It's because nothing I did to help had even a remote chance of saving him." Holding up the syringe, she stated emphatically, "I'll be damned if I'm going to stand here helpless and watch this man die ... not if this serum can stop it."
"Nina, you know about the protocols ..."
"Uncle Sam isn't in this room dictating protocols to either of us," Nina argued. "If he were, you'd have someone to argue with. I refuse. So, if it must come to this, then I'm ordering you to take this serum, and I'm ordering you to give it to this man."
"You don't have any authority here."
With conviction, she said, "The fact that I have a soul gives me the authority."
"Nina, we don't even know if the antidote will work."
"So what does he have to lose?"
Finally, Olga realized that Nina was right. Arguing would only delay the inevitable: she was taking that syringe, and she was going to administer it to Ebdon Finkle, career and government and temporal contamination be damned.
Reaching out, she took the syringe in her gloved hand and turned back to the table.
Toggling off the intersuit communications link, she tried, "Ebdon?"
"Yes, Olga?"
Placing two fingers on his neck, she pinched his skin in order to bring a vein to the surface. In a moment, one appeared, filled with blood, and she pressed the needle's tip to the man's leathery flesh. She took a deep breath before she ordered, "Ebdon, I'm going to ask that you lie perfectly still ..."
End of Chapter 33
Six Days, Five Hours, Forty Minutes
Despite all of her best efforts, Olga stood watching Ebdon Finkle as he started to surrender his fragile hold on life. The old man still controlled his breathing – one calculated breath after another – but, over the last thirty minutes, she saw him grow visibly weaker. Where he once seemed awake and alert, now he only kept his eyes half open. Where he once appeared composed, now his bottom lip twitched, signaling the gradual loss of motor control. Every few minutes, she studied his face as he closed his eyes – keeping them shut for so long that, each time, she believed in an odd form of relief that he had succumbed to the contamination, entirely surrendered, and died. Each time, though, he'd eventually open his weary eyes again. Each time, he drew in another measured breath and blinked away the sweat obviously clouding his vision.
He was a fighter, and she watched his every round with increasing desperation. There was nothing she could do. When the time came, she could ease his pain and passage from this life to the next, but, for personal reasons, she refused to believe that was necessary. This man was proud – too proud – to ask for help. She trusted that he'd inevitably close his eyes and wander of his own accord into the eternal slumber before he ever imposed on another living being for mercy.
Suddenly, he coughed – a first – and he gasped for air. Once he found his breath, he whispered, "Olga?"
"Yes, Ebdon?"
She watched as he swallowed visibly, his throat rolling from the effort.
"Are you married?"
She didn't want to talk about herself. Rather, she wanted to know more about him, but she wouldn't risk being impolite.
"No," she replied.
"Why not?"
"I haven't found ... how is it you say ... Master Right?"
"Mister Right?"
"Hmm?"
"Mister Right, my sweet," he said. "I think you meant to say 'Mister Right.' Not 'Master Right.' You're too smart, too classy, and too beautiful to ever call anyyou're your 'master.'"
He said that word as if it were a curse.
"I think it's painfully clear how I'm doing," he muttered, panting out the last few words. "So why don't you tell me how you're feeling, sweetheart?"
Fighting back tears, she reached out with the cold damp cloth and sponged it across the man's forehead. "I'm feeling fortunate, Ebdon," she told him softly, "to be in the company of a true Southern gentleman."
Slowly, he worked a smile from his tired muscles. "You're not cathin' me at my best, you know."
"I know," she said.
"I'm feelin' that chill in my bones again."
She sniffled back tears inside her protective suit. "That'll pass, Ebdon."
"Will it?"
"I promise you," she offered.
He closed his eyes again. "To tell you the truth ... I never much cared for cold feet," he confessed. A dab of spittle burped onto the corner of his mouth, and she wiped it away quickly. "That's why ... that's why I kept my family in Mississippi, right where they were all born and raised."
Somewhere behind her, she heard the massive containment door unlatching. She listened to the groan of the immense aluminum door swinging open, and she trusted that the experts from the CDC had finally arrived.
"Have you ... have you ever been to Mississippi, Olga?"
Her mind cycling through hundreds of thoughts, she tried to concentrate on the dying man's question instead of surrendering to her emotions.
"I don't believe that I have, Ebdon."
Again, he worked a grin into his stiffened face. "The only thing you're missing ... is the humidity."
She couldn't take it much longer. Her heart pounded in her chest. She wanted to do something, to do anything, to help the man, but she remained powerless. Leaning closer to him, she brought her lips to his ear and whispered: "I would gladly welcome a little bit of moisture in the air, Ebdon, because I spend most of my time in the desert."
"The desert?" he asked.
"That's right."
"Oh, Lordy," he mumbled, opening his eyes. With great effort, he turned his head slightly and glared at her. "What would ... what would the devil of a beauty like you be doing ... of all places ... in the desert?"
She could answer him, or she could face a court martial. Her allegiance to the BackStep Program required signing, literally, hundreds of oaths of celibacy, but she didn't give one damn about that oath any more.
"I work there," she compromised.
"Hmm?"
"This place? Where we are? We've brought you to ... well ... you can call it a special hospital ... of sorts." Again, she heard the rustling of protective boots hissing across the shielded floor. "That's what you can call it. A hospital. It serves many people, both near and far, for many possible illnesses. When we can, we take what's wrong, and we make it right. We fix things. We ... cure things." Again, she sniffled, blinking the tears away from her eyelashes. "It's been around for many years, but it wasn't until the last few years that it was equipped to deal with people suffering ... well, suffering as you are, Ebdon."
"Why's that?"
She smiled, shaking her head. "We didn't have the tools."
Feeling the pressure of a firm hand on her shoulder, Olga glanced up.
Dr. Nina Welles stood, her eyes fixed with determination behind her protective faceplate, her mouth drawn into a thin line of purpose. In her outstretched hand, she held up a syringe, the instrument filled with a swirling, fluorescent, blue liquid. On the secure communications channel between the protective suits, she explained, "I'm giving you the tool you need, Dr. Vukavitch."
Surprised, Olga stood bolt upright.
"Take it," she ordered.
"Is that the serum?" Olga quickly toggled on the private comm switch. "Dr. Welles, is that what I think it is?"
"I wouldn't be offering it to you otherwise." She moved the needle closer to her counterpart. "It's Chronoticin," she explained. Smirking, she added, "100 proof. It just arrived along with a support medical team from my office at the CDC."
Olga winced. She knew that the NSA would never authorize the administration of an untested, unclassified, and unproven antidote on a civilian. As it stood, Chronoticin was available in only extraordinarily limited supply. It was developed in total secrecy, only intended to be used on senior staff – the highest echelon of government – in the event of a temporal catastrophe of unprecedented proportions, and this – a frail old gentleman – certainly didn't apply. In fact, the clandestine clinical trials of the drug had only just begun. So far as Olga knew, the serum had yet to be tested on a victim suffering full exposure. She couldn't imagine what it would do to a man as weak as Ebdon Finkle, but she did know what it could mean for her career with the BackStep Program if something went so horribly wrong with an unauthorized test.
"Nina," she tried, "I can't take that."
"Take it."
"I can't," she insisted.
"Olga," the woman began, "if you don't administer it, I will."
The two women locked eyes.
"I've already lost someone I would like to have called a very dear friend," Nina confessed. "I met Alberto Ruiz two years ago. He was assigned briefly to the CDC not long after we discussed the phenomenon of temporal contamination." Olga saw the sparkle of tears forming at the corner of Nina's right eye. "We trained together for three weeks, and then he was gone ... sent into the field for what now only God knows was active duty." She shrugged. "Our paths crossed seven or eight times as we worked Temporal Ops in support of your Project BackStep." She glanced at the needle, and Olga knew that the physician was wondering what power could be unleashed with only a single dose. "I trained with Alberto. I worked with him. I barely knew him, Olga, but I stood there watching him die, and I cursed every lesson in science I had ever learned. Do you know why? It's because nothing I did to help had even a remote chance of saving him." Holding up the syringe, she stated emphatically, "I'll be damned if I'm going to stand here helpless and watch this man die ... not if this serum can stop it."
"Nina, you know about the protocols ..."
"Uncle Sam isn't in this room dictating protocols to either of us," Nina argued. "If he were, you'd have someone to argue with. I refuse. So, if it must come to this, then I'm ordering you to take this serum, and I'm ordering you to give it to this man."
"You don't have any authority here."
With conviction, she said, "The fact that I have a soul gives me the authority."
"Nina, we don't even know if the antidote will work."
"So what does he have to lose?"
Finally, Olga realized that Nina was right. Arguing would only delay the inevitable: she was taking that syringe, and she was going to administer it to Ebdon Finkle, career and government and temporal contamination be damned.
Reaching out, she took the syringe in her gloved hand and turned back to the table.
Toggling off the intersuit communications link, she tried, "Ebdon?"
"Yes, Olga?"
Placing two fingers on his neck, she pinched his skin in order to bring a vein to the surface. In a moment, one appeared, filled with blood, and she pressed the needle's tip to the man's leathery flesh. She took a deep breath before she ordered, "Ebdon, I'm going to ask that you lie perfectly still ..."
End of Chapter 33