Title: Retrospection
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Crossover, Science-Fiction
Summary: "It was information overload—like an impossible perpetual motion machine moving faster and faster."
Rating: T
Characters: David Webb/Jason Bourne, Pamela Landy, others.
Paradigm
Some streams of sunlight shown almost clear to the bottom of the lake. In the center, a woman clad in a black and dark gray wetsuit was floating on the surface—arms and legs stretched out. Clear, clean water flowed over and under the dark fabric, across pale skin and through long blond hair.
With a sudden blur of motion, she was moving.
Stroke-stroke-breathe, stroke-stroke-breathe. Over and over in harmonious repetition, lungs inhaled and exhaled air while arms and legs moved together in a front crawl, propelling her through the water with practiced ease. The familiar pull of muscle felt good, as did the slightly frigid water. The wetsuit Pam wore kept most of cold at bay, leaving her head, hands and feet exposed.
In the water, there was nothing to focus on but breathing and moving. The only sounds were the splashing of the water, the beating of her heart, and the measured movement of air. A well-honed rhythm that cast aside all her thoughts, questions and fears as she neared the shore.
One past time that she always found enjoyment and solace in was swimming. From the first day that she learned how to swim in a lake when she visited her Aunt and Uncle up in Wisconsin, Pam was hooked.
Every summer until she graduated high school, she always visited that lake—either floating out in the water, or laying out on the dock, and letting everything else just slip away.
Like most things in life, she excelled at it. When she entered high school, she got a spot on the swim team. They did well, moving up into the state finals her first year. It carried her through college, courtesy of a scholarship, and through her tenure in the CIA.
In an environment of politics, mistrust and sexism, she had to fight tooth and nail for her job every step of the way. From her first assignment in South America to her last years in Langley as Deputy Director, she had to put up with a lot more flack than men did.
Unless she had a job that kept her going for days, she always found time to swim.
Swimming was goal-driven and competitive; so was the CIA. But unlike the latter, there was no one to face down in the former. There was no intelligence to gather, no paperwork to fill out, and no plots to stop in their tracks. It put things into perspective—kept her grounded and sane when her job was at times anything but.
Today wasn't any different—circumstances aside—as she rose from the water and peeled off her wetsuit, revealing a black two-piece swimsuit. She had a job to do. With a businesslike confidence, she strode into the boat house, rinsed and hung the wetsuit to dry, stripped off her swimsuit and got into the shower.
The hot water warmed her extremities, leaving her energized. Her motions were economical. Shampoo and conditioner for her long hair, body wash for the rest of her body—she was in and out in fifteen minutes. Back to work.
Dried and dressed in a blue v-neck sweater, dark slacks and boots, she got into the truck and drove back to the house. Stopping briefly in the kitchen for a cup of coffee, black with cream, she headed upstairs to the library.
Nearly a week had passed since she woke up in bed and it showed. The tables in the library were now littered with notepads, books, maps and papers. What she would've had a dozen people to cover she was doing alone.
On a nearby wall were names, dates and other tidbits of information she recalled from memory. A lot of time was spent remembering as much as she could about her movements leading up to her last memories of D.C. Anything that might give her a lead.
Unfortunately, she was fresh out of suspects. Barring any new information, whoever brought her here was no one she had met before, or heard of. So, she shifted her focus to the area she was now living in.
Her best lead was still identifying the lake, and she was now spending an hour each day carefully studying every map she could lay her eyes on. But, Pam was starting to feel that it would be a dead-end too. She had taken out the motorboat to tour the lake and parts of the shoreline appeared man-made. What was there was meant mostly to prevent erosion, but the water was too clear and there was too little wildlife for it to be natural—making it very likely that the lake was artificial.
So, her new focus was on the computer network that linked all the facilities together. Somewhere was the router—which had the IP address . So far, she had confirmed that none of the locations contained the router. It was likely the router was somewhere that was not marked on the map and she did not have access to. So for the past five days, she searched—on foot, by truck and boat—the lake, the road and the hiking trails for anything that might indicate a hidden entrance, trail or road.
Given her lack of information about the land beyond the twenty-mile radius on the truck's GPS map, she did very little in the way of hiking beyond that point. Some areas were nearly impassable on foot, while other areas threatened to take her too far away from known trails and landmarks—making the danger of getting lost too great.
During this time, she also developed a very careful schedule. In the mornings, she'd alternate between jogging to the lake and back and swimming. Some mornings, she'd stay in, have breakfast, and exercise in the evenings. One afternoon, she laid out on the deck and sunbathed. Since whoever put her here expected her to relax, she put on the facade of a woman on vacation.
But, she varied her daily routine—partly for her safety and partly in the hope that she'd catch something or someone in the act. The cluttered state of the library that held her notes and hand-drawn maps was deliberate; she was neat and meticulous. As were the small pieces of clear scotch tape and flour carefully placed at the various doorways and drawers.
Unless someone was carefully watching her and avoiding her markers, no one had gone inside the house while she was gone. None of her notes and materials were missing or tampered with. A careful inspection of the crawl spaces, outlets, lights, and various nooks and crannies that someone could hide a bug revealed nothing. Logically, rationally, she found no evidence that anyone was watching her. Yet the feeling lingered—she just couldn't shake it.
But, she had to ignore it if she wanted to stay sane.
In a survival situation, panic, frustration, anger, fear and despair were her worst enemies. Her one major break was that she had everything she needed and she took full advantage.
Last night, she slept in the loft after soaking for a few hours in the hot springs. Today, she was going to lay out on the deck again after spending a few hours reviewing her notes for any new clues. That afternoon, she planned to stay in and watch some television, then have dinner up on the outdoor balcony.
Familiarity was another feeling she couldn't shake. The place felt familiar, yet she was absolutely certain she had never been here before. All she knew was that whoever put her here knew her. Intimately.
That scared her for the mere fact that she hadn't been intimate with anyone for years, and no one, not even her best friend and former assistant Tom Cronin, knew her that well. Some things just didn't show up in a file no matter how thorough it was.
Pam set her coffee cup down on the table and did a once-over of the room. Everything was still exactly where it was. From a pile of papers, she pulled out a hand-drawn network diagram.
The House, Boat House, Water Plant, and Power Plant were scrawled with their corresponding IP addresses, which overlaid her original sketch of the map from the truck's GPS. She had studied it over and over. Originally, she assumed that the house contained the router, but through a trial-and-error process of disconnecting each site from their network cabinet and pinging the address, she had eliminated each one.
The house, the boat house, water plant, power plant... Diesel fuel and unleaded gasoline are kept in underground storage tanks at both houses. All the appliances are electric, along with the heating, so no natural gas.
Where could it be? What am I missing? We've got a a boat house, power and water treatment plants, hiking trails, a lake, hot spr--
"Hot springs," she uttered aloud. It has electricity, she reasoned. It has electricity, and it's close to the power plant. She let out a breath. It's the only place that is marked on the map that has no computer equipment—that I noticed.
The hot springs were in a cave, underground, with water and humidity. Water and electricity didn't mix, so naturally, she assumed that there was nothing there. But she never searched the cave—the cave passage just lead to the springs and, oddly enough, nowhere else.
Caves usually have multiple passages. Some close up, but others open up over time.
At the very least, it was a possibility she'd need to check out. To avoid any possible suspicion, she'd slowly make her way back there tomorrow instead of tonight. If the network hub was there, the doorway may be hidden...
...which made it slow-going as she carefully inspected both sides of the cave wall and floor for signs of a hatch or doorway, hitting the stone with the heel of her hand every few feet for signs that it was not stone.
It was early evening by the time she got back there. She started her day swimming, and stayed at the boat house all day, laying out in the sun or using the motor boat to perform another tour of the lake. Then, after a light dinner up in the loft, she drove out to the hot springs.
It had taken much longer than usual to get to the room itself, and now standing in front of the pool, her search had turned up nothing so far. Her neck and back ached from craning her head around and bending down; the cave passage was at least two hundred feet in length. The aches and pains made the pool look very inviting. Oh, what the hell, it's not like I've been in a hurry. So, she shut off her flashlight, set it down on one of the storage crates, shed her clothes and immersed herself in the naturally heated water.
As the tension melted away, her eyes wondered around, taking in the soft lighting, the stone, the storage crates stacked neatly against the wall—
The crates. I only searched the crates, not what was behind them. She kept her eyes wandering before finally closing them and willing herself to relax. Patience. Save your strength. Don't rush into this.
Dried and dressed, she examined the stack of crates. One stack of three was against a corner of the room at shoulder level. That looks like a good place to start. The area it covered was tall and wide enough for a person to get through.
Okay.
She lifted the topmost crate and placed it on the floor, nothing but stone greeted her. Then she saw it.
A seam, almost invisible, stood out against the dark stone.
With the remaining two crates out of the way, she hit the area with her hand, it felt different. Knocking on it, there was a hollow sound. Ah ha. She looked for a latch or some kind of release mechanism. Flashlight in hand, she carefully examined the seam, which revealed a rectangular outline. It was definitely large enough for a person to get through.
She pressed and pried against the false stone. One of the protrusions yielded her to hand, a latch. Bingo. It opened inward to reveal another passageway, lit by the same soft lighting that lit the rest of the cave.
Down the rabbit hole.
Like with the main cave passage, it twisted and turned, only upward instead of downward, and soon opened up to a height that she could comfortably stand up in. After walking what felt like at least a good quarter mile, the passageway ended at a steel door with the same commercial BiLock lock that she'd seen on the other facilities.
She tried the knob, which was cool to the touch, and predictably didn't budge. She fished a ring of keys out of her pocket—the one with the electrical symbol. On the ring were a set of keys that corresponded to the various locks; doors and network cabinet. Unlike the other sets, there was a second BiLock key that was cut differently from the other. It didn't fit any of the locks in the power plant or anywhere else.
Her pulse quickened. Someone or something was behind this door. She pressed an ear against the metal surface; nothing but silence. Willing herself to take deep breaths, she slid the key into the lock, and turned—the key fit the lock. Pam slowly turned the knob, and pushed the door open.
A long hallway painted a functional white and lit with harsh white fluorescent lighting greeted her eyes. Electrical conduits lined the ceiling, a breaker panel was on the wall next to the door she just came through. Along one side, on an exposed cable tray, she saw the telltale thick black plastic and orange woven insulation of fiber optic cabling.
Her soft-soled sneakers made little sound as she walked to another door, which was unlocked, and opened it.
The familiar hum of cooling fans and hard disks greeted her ears. It was a server room, filled with rack-mounted network equipment; switches, servers, and uninterruptible power supplies. One side had a bank of network cabinets that were locked. The opposite wall had breaker panels and conduits which lined the ceiling. At the other end of the room was yet another door.
This is getting old.
This door lead into a comfortable office-like room with a workstation, desk and computer chair. With the door shut, she was once again cloaked in silence.
There were windows that showed a spectacular view of the countryside, along with a runway and helipad connected by a short paved road. The workstation monitor was currently in power saving mode. There were two other doors; one lead to a bathroom and one led outside. Once outside, she realized that this room was located on the other side of the hill near the power plant, maybe a half mile or so away.
She mentally kicked herself. It was here all this time.
A brief hike revealed a hangar devoid of aircraft, but plenty of equipment to handle the servicing and refueling of various types. There was power and everything appeared to be in good condition. She went back to the office, sat down at the chair and moved the mouse. Unlike the other computers, this one displayed a weather map and radar.
Now we're getting somewhere.
She bought up a terminal window, checked the clock and made a classic double-take.
ctrl-twrastrip:~$date
Sun June 20 18:36:20 GMT 2094
The following words out of her mouth expressed the shock and surprise she felt. "What the fuck?" Pam swore.
Two-thousand ninety-four? That's not... no way. "No way."
In a fit of frustration, she bolted from her chair and ran outside. "I've had enough! Show yourselves right now! Do you hear me?! Are you listening to me?! I'm not playing your game anymore!"
Silence answered. No one was there. She closed her eyes and took several deep, calming breaths. Stupid stupid stupid. An obviously mis-set clock wasn't going to rattle her, and finding this place was a victory. There's a runway and a hangar, and that means aircraft have landed and taken off from here. There must be a radio. Find it and I can call for a ride out of here.
"Pam?"
A quiet voice uttered her name, leaving her momentarily frozen with recognition. Somehow, she knew that he was involved. She could feel his presence behind her. He walked up and stood in front of her. Steeling herself for the possibility that it was an illusion, she opened her eyes.
It was David Webb, whom she had once known as Jason Bourne.