“Been saving the best ‘til last,” Zhivov says. Aided by Bruce, he lifts a large cardboard box from the floor and drops it on the table. Bruce lifts the flaps and inside there’s clothing. “Gotta fit in and not get noticed.” He flings items at each of us. It’s time to get all dressed-up, and Gallie leaves the room with what looks like an armful of rags.
Loose cotton shirt, a woolen waistcoat with a partial complement of buttons, breeches, stockings, leather shoes with buckles and a black tricorn hat. I struggle into them and Prasad rolls over a mirror. Good grief. Could be worse. Could be 1970s costume. Byrne and Morales look just as absurd. When Gallie returns, she’s wearing a bulky, wrinkled brown dress that almost touches the floor. It’s made of what looks like coarse wool, and over it is a white apron. A frilly white hat tied with pink ribbon is the finishing touch. We’re not going as aristocrats it seems.
“A good look, all of you,” Zhivov says. “But don’t ask to keep the clothes.”
“Shut up, Boris,” Prasad says. “So, to be clear, you have four hours on the ground. After that, your accelerator brings you home.”
Bruce opens the meeting room door and adds “Or if there’s even a whiff of danger, you press ‘activate’. Got it?” We follow him into the cavernous space and toward the central cylinder.
“So what’s our cover,” I ask Gallie.
“Cover?”
“Our story. Who are we?”
Zhivov sniggers. “Well, you’re a Prussian diplomat negotiating a lasting peace with the French. Your sister is a touring opera diva with the–”
“Dickhead,” Gallie says. Our chortles stop as we enter the accelerator cylinder. I look up and around. The inner surface of the cylinder is lined with a metal mesh that extends over the domed roof, and I’m guessing runs under the concrete floor also.
“Tachyon absorber sleeve?” I ask.
Prasad nods. “Yes. We’re very pleased with it. Virtually zero flux outside the cylinder.”
Zhivov adds with a smile “And being tachyons, they’re actually absorbed before they’re emitted.” Faster than light travel does have its quirks.
“How does it work?” I ask.
“The mesh is made of microtubes that circulate–” Zhivov begins to answer.
“There’ll be time for that later,” Prasad says. “Not a priority right now.”
I see several tanks curving around the base of the cylinder which I assume to be super-sized chemical vessels and the reaction chamber. There are yellow concentric circles painted in the middle of the cylinder floor, from about a six foot to a twenty foot radius. The uneven, amateur paint job seems funnily at odds with the hyper-tech environment.
“Leatown, Pennsylvania is where we’re going,” Gallie says. “September 12, 1777. Should be daylight.”
“And what will the arrival space be? Rural? Town?” I ask.
“No clue,” Gallie replies. “Wherever it is, it’s where your team landed.”
“So maybe six feet underground in an airtight box?” I say.
“That would be a reason to hit ‘activate’,” Zhivov says. “Gallie, Toad, center circle. Back-to-back.”
“Why back-to-back?” I ask.
“So if there’s something to be seen,” Gallie replies, “at least one of us will see it quickly.” Morales and Byrne stand on the circumference of the next circle out, facing opposite directions and at right angles to us. They each take out a handgun, rack the slide, and hold it with both hands at arms’ length. Really? Gallie pats my thigh. “You good?” she asks.
“I’m good.”
Zhivov smiles. “Wish I were going with you.”
“Good luck,“ Prasad says, then he, Zhivov and Abioye exit the cylinder. The door slams closed.
“The lighting will turn red,” Gallie says, “then count five seconds and we’re off.”
TWENTY-FOUR
Several things happen almost simultaneously. I’m bathed in bright light, there’s a volley of deafening explosions, I’m knocked off my feet by something heavy, and someone grabs my arm. I look down and see Morales’ looking back at me, crumpled on my legs. Someone is pulling the accelerator off my arm, and the air is thick with acrid smoke. I see blood on my clothes but feel no pain. Maybe there’s a delay and I’ll be racked with agony any moment now. I look back and see Gallie is also laid out. I hear her voice but I can’t tell what she’s saying. We’re surrounded by what seems like a dozen men in grimy, colonial garb, each carrying a musket.
“Up yer get,” one of them says. “Yer alright.” He pulls me to my feet. His teeth are black and he’s unshaven with wisps of gray, greasy hair falling from his tricorn hat. I look over and see Gallie is being pulled to her feet. “It’s a real pleasure to ‘ave you ‘ere,” he says and his cohort laugh. “You as well, good lady.” His accent seems more English than anything else. I look down and Morales is staring upwards, glassy-eyed. Byrne’s face and chest are covered with blood and he’s motionless. “Oh don’t yer worry about them,” the grimy man says, getting closer and misting me in his foul breath. “They were looking for trouble, weren’t they?” he says, consulting his team. “We don’t want no trouble ‘ere.” Gallie seems okay and no one prevents her from approaching me.
“You okay?” she asks.
“Yeah. Are you?”
“Yeah.”
The chief goon grins at language he’s not quite following as he puts our accelerators and the two semi-automatic handguns into a cloth sack. “And don’t worry, we’ll see to these two for yer,” he says, nodding toward our fallen security team. Then the two men are lifted by their hands and feet and our assailants begin to walk away. Gallie and I just look at each other when we realize that we’re simply being left. This
