Chapter 47
Six Days, One Hour, Forty-Two Minutes
By the time Parker walked the remainder of the distance to the program's conference room, he could feel a thin layer of sweat starting to drip under his arms. The suit had a climate-control mechanism, and he quickly reached down, tapping the key, lowering the internal temperature by a few degrees.
"This isn't good," he warned Talmadge.
"What is it, Frank?"
"I know that they say 'the clothes make the man,' but this suit's heavy ... it's heavier than I thought it would be ... and I'm going to have to conserve a helluva lot of energy if I'm going to be of any use to you on this mission, Bradley."
"Don't trouble yourself with the logistics now," the director explained. "This is the first chance we've had to put the suit on trial. I know that you can make this mission a reality. Failure isn't an option." Softening his tone and sounding almost paternal, he added, "We'll take it one step at a time."
Arms crossed, Michelson stood outside the door to the conference room. By the expression on the man's face, Parker could tell he was anticipating – almost prompting – a confrontation. If he weren't trapped under the suit, he'd be happy to oblige.
"This has gone too far, Bradley," the young man said.
"This isn't open for debate."
"Well, I'm not going to stand here with my mouth shut any longer."
"This isn't your decision, Channing," the director responded firmly. "This has come down from the Committee. Frank's been requested in Washington." With a hint of cynicism in his voice, Talmadge added, "Larnord has been made aware of Frank's arrival in our timeline, and he would like very much to speak with him."
"Don't the suits in Washington realize that, by doing this, we're putting the lives of every living being at risk?" Michelson asked.
"I'm quite certain that's a variable the NSA has considered."
"What about you?"
Parker raised his hand to his chest. "What about me?"
"Are you comfortable with this?"
"It wasn't my idea, either."
Smiling, Michelson asked, "And you've a long history of following orders, is that it, Frank?"
"No," Parker replied, "but I also have a clinical history of mental instability ... so you might want to think twice about what you say around me."
"You're willing to risk the lives of all of those people?"
"I'm willing to follow orders, Channing."
"That isn't the question."
"It's the only answer I have."
"What about Olga?" Michelson asked.
"What about her?"
Leaning forward, the man tried, "Are you willing to risk her death in this whole affair, Frank?"
Smirking, Parker replied, "In case you haven't notice, Olga's a big girl. I think she can take care of herself." Before the man could continue, Parker added, "And, as I understand it, Olga is the person responsible for saving the lives of the soldiers and one civilian infected by temporal contamination. I think, if I were you, I'd give her more credit ... but maybe that's just me."
Realizing that he had already lost the argument long before it had begun, he added, "Bradley, I want you to know that I'll be filing a Formal Protest with the NSA. I do have some sway with the Committee, and, if I can do anything to see this charade ended, I'll make it so."
Talmadge released Parker's arm and took a step forward. Despite standing six inches shorter than Michelson, the director physically held his own against the man. "You do that," he agreed, his face showing a hint of anger. "Otherwise, I'd advise you not to jeopardize our friendship by continuing to block our way into the conference room. Now ... you can step aside and remain an active participant on this mission ... or I can have security confine you to your quarters."
"Is that a threat?"
"Take it however you like."
"I wouldn't be the first chrononaut you've had to make that threat to."
"No," Talmadge agreed, "but the difference between you and Frank Parker – since that appears to be what you're driving at – is that you may not continue to serve the BackStep Program if I have to make such a demand. He isn't from our timeline. I don't pull any strings for him. The last time I checked, you were." Composing himself, reaching out for Parker's arm once again, he repeated, "Step aside."
Begrudgingly, Michelson moved to his right. Politely, he reached out, grasped the metal arm, and opened the door, holding it for the two men to enter the room.
Inside, Nathan Ramsey blocked the way.
"Sir, I protest!"
"It's good to know that some things never change," Parker quipped.
Pointing an angry finger at the chrononaut, Ramsey barked, "And I'll not hear so much as one insubordinate word from you this lifetime, Parker!"
"You have my deepest apologies, Nate."
Ignoring the crack, Ramsey exclaimed, "If I do, you can be damn sure that your personnel file will be reactivated, and I'll log from memory every single incident of condescension, of insult, of rule-breaking, of NSA violation, of alcohol abuse ..."
"That's enough, Nate," Talmadge interrupted.
Stepping up face-to-helmet with the younger man, Ramsey seethed, "Respectfully, sir, I'm not finished."
"Say what it is you have to say, Ramsey," Parker challenged. "We have work to do, and I, for one, would like to get to it."
Twisting his face into an expression of contempt, the director of security let loose a tirade that even Parker hadn't expected: "Parker, you've been through a BackStep recently in order to get here, so you may not be thinking clearly. I'd like to remind you that, during the time you served this program in your previous life, you were nothing but an unruly drunk. Yes. That's my professional opinion. Sure, you might've saved life as we know it once or twice so far as the NSA is concerned, but don't think for a second that they weren't made aware of your insubordination or your recklessness. So, all of that said, do you know what really pisses me off? Do you really wanna know what really yanks my chain? Well, I'll tell you. What I'm upset about is that, despite all good evidence proving that you're a rouge with a bad attitude, the NSA has decided to put you in a suit – an untested, unproven suit – and they're completely comfortable with letting you out of that cage in the basement to go around and bump into only God knows how many other fine Americans and risk contamination! I can't believe this! We're almost guaranteeing our own extinction! So far as we know, that suit is just a ruse! It's nothing more than one big placebo! How are we supposed to know that you won't infect the very first person you touch?"
"Is that it?" Parker asked.
"That's it!" Ramsey barked.
Reaching out with his free arm, Parker slapped Ramsey on the shoulder and gripped him tight for a second.
"There you go, Nate," Parker said. "Now you'll definitely be the first to know."
Pale, mumbling to himself, the director of security shook off the chrononaut's hand and staggered more than stepped away.
Released from Talmadge's hold, Parker stepped forward to the conference table, and he glanced at the faces of the staff seated around it. He saw Mentnor, who was smiling pleasantly over his shuffled papers. He saw Ebdon Finkle, a curious look in his eyes as he stared down at whatever it was the scientist was calculating. He saw Dr. Nina Welles, whom he remembered from the field, from his arrival in this timeline. And he saw Olga ...
Sweet Olga.
"Well," he began, "I guess it's safe to say that the rumors of my demise were premature."
A polite laughter erupted from around the table, and Parker pulled back a chair and sat down.
"Hello, buddy."
Glancing up in the direction of the voice, Parker found the wall monitor active, and he saw the smiling face of Craig Donovan staring back at him.
"Hello, buddy," he said in response.
The two men had served together for so long – first in the military and then with BackStep – that they had developed a kinship that grew beyond ordinary friendship. Together, they had seen the best and worst that life had to offer, through combat and through reward for service to their country. They had an unspoken understanding of one another. They didn't need to waste words communicating unnecessary weight. They could almost finish one another sentences.
"How are you feeling?" Donovan asked.
"About forty pounds heavier than usual," Parker admitted.
"You don't exactly look svelte."
"Thanks for noticing. I was telling Bradley that this suit not exactly linen."
"Linen?" Donovan tried. "Since when would the infamous Frank Parker ever be caught dead wearing linen?"
"I know, I know," the chrononaut replied. "The way I live my life, I'm more likely to be caught dead wearing nothing at all."
"Now that's the most honest thing you've said since you entered the room."
Parker cocked his head, showing his curiosity. "Just where the hell are you?"
"I'm in D.C.," the black man replied.
"Uh-huh," Parker said.
"Why do I not like what you're thinking?"
"Because, if you were in my position," Parker explained, "You'd be thinking the same thing. Would you mind my asking why you're no longer with the program?"
He could tell by the expression on his partner's face that he wasn't exactly comfortable discussing it in front of the others. "Another time, another place," Donovan told him, "and you can ask me that question again."
"You can count on it."
"I'll be ready."
The room fell silent.
After the pause, Talmadge stepped to the head of the table, sliding his chair out and taking a seat. "All right," he announced, "now that the pleasantries, greetings, and salutations are out of the way, I think it's time this briefing got underway."
End of Chapter 47
Six Days, One Hour, Forty-Two Minutes
By the time Parker walked the remainder of the distance to the program's conference room, he could feel a thin layer of sweat starting to drip under his arms. The suit had a climate-control mechanism, and he quickly reached down, tapping the key, lowering the internal temperature by a few degrees.
"This isn't good," he warned Talmadge.
"What is it, Frank?"
"I know that they say 'the clothes make the man,' but this suit's heavy ... it's heavier than I thought it would be ... and I'm going to have to conserve a helluva lot of energy if I'm going to be of any use to you on this mission, Bradley."
"Don't trouble yourself with the logistics now," the director explained. "This is the first chance we've had to put the suit on trial. I know that you can make this mission a reality. Failure isn't an option." Softening his tone and sounding almost paternal, he added, "We'll take it one step at a time."
Arms crossed, Michelson stood outside the door to the conference room. By the expression on the man's face, Parker could tell he was anticipating – almost prompting – a confrontation. If he weren't trapped under the suit, he'd be happy to oblige.
"This has gone too far, Bradley," the young man said.
"This isn't open for debate."
"Well, I'm not going to stand here with my mouth shut any longer."
"This isn't your decision, Channing," the director responded firmly. "This has come down from the Committee. Frank's been requested in Washington." With a hint of cynicism in his voice, Talmadge added, "Larnord has been made aware of Frank's arrival in our timeline, and he would like very much to speak with him."
"Don't the suits in Washington realize that, by doing this, we're putting the lives of every living being at risk?" Michelson asked.
"I'm quite certain that's a variable the NSA has considered."
"What about you?"
Parker raised his hand to his chest. "What about me?"
"Are you comfortable with this?"
"It wasn't my idea, either."
Smiling, Michelson asked, "And you've a long history of following orders, is that it, Frank?"
"No," Parker replied, "but I also have a clinical history of mental instability ... so you might want to think twice about what you say around me."
"You're willing to risk the lives of all of those people?"
"I'm willing to follow orders, Channing."
"That isn't the question."
"It's the only answer I have."
"What about Olga?" Michelson asked.
"What about her?"
Leaning forward, the man tried, "Are you willing to risk her death in this whole affair, Frank?"
Smirking, Parker replied, "In case you haven't notice, Olga's a big girl. I think she can take care of herself." Before the man could continue, Parker added, "And, as I understand it, Olga is the person responsible for saving the lives of the soldiers and one civilian infected by temporal contamination. I think, if I were you, I'd give her more credit ... but maybe that's just me."
Realizing that he had already lost the argument long before it had begun, he added, "Bradley, I want you to know that I'll be filing a Formal Protest with the NSA. I do have some sway with the Committee, and, if I can do anything to see this charade ended, I'll make it so."
Talmadge released Parker's arm and took a step forward. Despite standing six inches shorter than Michelson, the director physically held his own against the man. "You do that," he agreed, his face showing a hint of anger. "Otherwise, I'd advise you not to jeopardize our friendship by continuing to block our way into the conference room. Now ... you can step aside and remain an active participant on this mission ... or I can have security confine you to your quarters."
"Is that a threat?"
"Take it however you like."
"I wouldn't be the first chrononaut you've had to make that threat to."
"No," Talmadge agreed, "but the difference between you and Frank Parker – since that appears to be what you're driving at – is that you may not continue to serve the BackStep Program if I have to make such a demand. He isn't from our timeline. I don't pull any strings for him. The last time I checked, you were." Composing himself, reaching out for Parker's arm once again, he repeated, "Step aside."
Begrudgingly, Michelson moved to his right. Politely, he reached out, grasped the metal arm, and opened the door, holding it for the two men to enter the room.
Inside, Nathan Ramsey blocked the way.
"Sir, I protest!"
"It's good to know that some things never change," Parker quipped.
Pointing an angry finger at the chrononaut, Ramsey barked, "And I'll not hear so much as one insubordinate word from you this lifetime, Parker!"
"You have my deepest apologies, Nate."
Ignoring the crack, Ramsey exclaimed, "If I do, you can be damn sure that your personnel file will be reactivated, and I'll log from memory every single incident of condescension, of insult, of rule-breaking, of NSA violation, of alcohol abuse ..."
"That's enough, Nate," Talmadge interrupted.
Stepping up face-to-helmet with the younger man, Ramsey seethed, "Respectfully, sir, I'm not finished."
"Say what it is you have to say, Ramsey," Parker challenged. "We have work to do, and I, for one, would like to get to it."
Twisting his face into an expression of contempt, the director of security let loose a tirade that even Parker hadn't expected: "Parker, you've been through a BackStep recently in order to get here, so you may not be thinking clearly. I'd like to remind you that, during the time you served this program in your previous life, you were nothing but an unruly drunk. Yes. That's my professional opinion. Sure, you might've saved life as we know it once or twice so far as the NSA is concerned, but don't think for a second that they weren't made aware of your insubordination or your recklessness. So, all of that said, do you know what really pisses me off? Do you really wanna know what really yanks my chain? Well, I'll tell you. What I'm upset about is that, despite all good evidence proving that you're a rouge with a bad attitude, the NSA has decided to put you in a suit – an untested, unproven suit – and they're completely comfortable with letting you out of that cage in the basement to go around and bump into only God knows how many other fine Americans and risk contamination! I can't believe this! We're almost guaranteeing our own extinction! So far as we know, that suit is just a ruse! It's nothing more than one big placebo! How are we supposed to know that you won't infect the very first person you touch?"
"Is that it?" Parker asked.
"That's it!" Ramsey barked.
Reaching out with his free arm, Parker slapped Ramsey on the shoulder and gripped him tight for a second.
"There you go, Nate," Parker said. "Now you'll definitely be the first to know."
Pale, mumbling to himself, the director of security shook off the chrononaut's hand and staggered more than stepped away.
Released from Talmadge's hold, Parker stepped forward to the conference table, and he glanced at the faces of the staff seated around it. He saw Mentnor, who was smiling pleasantly over his shuffled papers. He saw Ebdon Finkle, a curious look in his eyes as he stared down at whatever it was the scientist was calculating. He saw Dr. Nina Welles, whom he remembered from the field, from his arrival in this timeline. And he saw Olga ...
Sweet Olga.
"Well," he began, "I guess it's safe to say that the rumors of my demise were premature."
A polite laughter erupted from around the table, and Parker pulled back a chair and sat down.
"Hello, buddy."
Glancing up in the direction of the voice, Parker found the wall monitor active, and he saw the smiling face of Craig Donovan staring back at him.
"Hello, buddy," he said in response.
The two men had served together for so long – first in the military and then with BackStep – that they had developed a kinship that grew beyond ordinary friendship. Together, they had seen the best and worst that life had to offer, through combat and through reward for service to their country. They had an unspoken understanding of one another. They didn't need to waste words communicating unnecessary weight. They could almost finish one another sentences.
"How are you feeling?" Donovan asked.
"About forty pounds heavier than usual," Parker admitted.
"You don't exactly look svelte."
"Thanks for noticing. I was telling Bradley that this suit not exactly linen."
"Linen?" Donovan tried. "Since when would the infamous Frank Parker ever be caught dead wearing linen?"
"I know, I know," the chrononaut replied. "The way I live my life, I'm more likely to be caught dead wearing nothing at all."
"Now that's the most honest thing you've said since you entered the room."
Parker cocked his head, showing his curiosity. "Just where the hell are you?"
"I'm in D.C.," the black man replied.
"Uh-huh," Parker said.
"Why do I not like what you're thinking?"
"Because, if you were in my position," Parker explained, "You'd be thinking the same thing. Would you mind my asking why you're no longer with the program?"
He could tell by the expression on his partner's face that he wasn't exactly comfortable discussing it in front of the others. "Another time, another place," Donovan told him, "and you can ask me that question again."
"You can count on it."
"I'll be ready."
The room fell silent.
After the pause, Talmadge stepped to the head of the table, sliding his chair out and taking a seat. "All right," he announced, "now that the pleasantries, greetings, and salutations are out of the way, I think it's time this briefing got underway."
End of Chapter 47