Rewinder (12 page)

My blood goes cold. “You’re leaving me here alone?”

“You’ve been handling everything by yourself just fine for the past several weeks. What does it matter if I’m here or not?”

“But what if something happens?”

“If something happens, you’ve done something wrong. You’re not going to do anything wrong, are you?”

“No. Of course not, but—”

“Just do the job and return to the institute. Got it?”

Reflexively I nod, while inside I’m shouting,
No, I don’t have it! I don’t have it at all!

“Good. I’ll see you when you’re finished.” He strides off, and I soon lose him among the other pedestrians on the walkway.

I’m hoping he’s only trying to fool me and isn’t really leaving, but I know in my gut that the moment he gets someplace private, he’ll be gone.

I take several deep breaths to calm down.

“Are you all right?” A man has stopped nearby and is looking at me, concerned.

“I’m fine, thank you. Just…a little winded.”

“If you’re sure.”

“I am.”

With a nod, he moves on.

I look across the street at the target house just in time to see the man I’m supposed to be following turn onto the sidewalk. I almost missed him. This realization nearly spins me into another near panic attack, but I keep my head and take up pursuit.

It turns out that our information’s correct, and at precisely 1:43 p.m. on July 2, 1893, Harold Radcliff runs into an old friend named David Wallis who introduces Harold to his sister, Elizabeth Wallis. In exactly eight months and seven days, Harold and Elizabeth would wed.

I note all the pertinent information and even snap several photographs with the camera built into my jacket—the latter strictly for institute records.

As soon as the meeting ends, I find a deserted space between two buildings and send myself home.

For two more weeks, Johnston and I repeat this pattern. We jump to our specified location together, Johnston makes sure I’m set on what to do, and then he returns to the institute while I do the work alone.

On the fifteenth day, I enter the prep room and begin pulling on the outfit that’s waiting for me. When Johnston enters several minutes later, he sits on the bench.

“Have we been canceled?” I ask.

“Not that I know of,” he says.

“Are you…going to wear that?” His clothes are distinctly twenty-first century and would definitely stand out in 1824.

He gives himself a quick look. “You don’t like this?”

“It’s fine, but—never mind.”

He snorts a laugh. “Hurry up.”

I button my shirt, pull on my shoes, and follow him out the door.

As we walk to the departure hall, Johnston quizzes me about our assignment. Like with all our projects, I’ve memorized the brief, so I answer everything quickly and correctly.

“Good,” he says as we enter the hall. From him, this is the highest of praise.

The room has eight different platforms raised a few feet above the floor. Checking the board, we see we’re assigned to platform number five. As soon as we get there, I climb on top, and then realize Johnston hasn’t joined me.

“You know what to do,” he says from below. “Get the information and get back.”

“You’re not coming?”

“You’re more than ready for a solo.”

As far as I know, none of the others from my training group have gone solo yet, so the idea of my being the first causes my stomach to flip a few times and threaten to give back my breakfast. “O-okay,” I say.

I grasp my Chaser in both hands and tell myself,
Just go through the protocol.

I check the settings and make sure the location number and date and time match those from the briefing.

I turn to the raised dais where the departure officer sits overlooking the platforms. When he turns in my direction, I give him the ready signal—flat palm forward, then curled into a fist.

Over the speaker above my platform comes the voice of Palmer’s data observer in the companion center. “Stand by.”

Several seconds pass, then the voice says, “Benson, clear.”

Trying to project an aura of confidence I don’t feel, I raise my finger and depress the button.

There is no reason to have gotten so worked up. The job is the easiest I’ve had since finishing training—a half hour spent in an abandoned graveyard and another walking through a quiet neighborhood verifying addresses—which was probably why it was chosen for my first solo mission.

Onward I go alone, day after day, each mission taken with less fear but more difficult than the last.

I’ve got this. I’m truly a Rewinder now.

I can do whatever they give me.

I can do it all.

__________

O
NE MORNING, AFTER
I’ve been taking trips on my own for about three weeks, Johnston says, “How are you feeling?”

“Fine,” I say.

“Not your health, jackass,” he says. “I mean about the job.”

I give him the same answer.

“Administration wants to know if you’re ready to be cut free,” he informs me. “What do
you
think?”

I have to catch myself from blurting out, “Yes, absolutely,” and instead ask, “What did you tell them?”

“That you’re close. Another week should do it.”

I feel a smile grow on my face before I can stop it. That’s still a whole three months before my supervised period is supposed to last. “Yeah, a week sounds right.”

“You ready for today’s mission?”

“Yes.” The job today will be challenging—there will be following over physical distance and observation of several locations. It should be interesting, though, because unlike most of our missions, it revolves around a tiny bit of history.

“Then let’s get to it.”

We walk side by side to the departure hall. As always, several of the platforms are in use. We are on number seven this time. As I take the short staircase up, I spot Lidia on platform one with her supervisor. Though I’ve seen her several times since the conversation we had in the dining hall months ago, we’ve never talked again. When she notices I’m standing on my platform alone, she gawks for a moment before turning away, tight lipped, then she and her supervisor, Bernard Swanson, disappear into the past. I can’t deny her annoyance gives me pleasure, but I unfortunately don’t have any time to enjoy it.

I take my position, check the settings, and give the departure officer the signal. When I receive the “clear” announcement, I press the button.

Since I’m going nearly two hundred and fifty years back, I’m using the hop method. For most of the journey, everything seems fine—2015 fades, the gray mist appears, and 1963 winks in for a second before the next jump initiates. Back I go, through the early twentieth century and across the nineteenth. Every time I’m in the gray mist, I feel the connection with Palmer and sense the same hint of jealousy I’ve picked up each time since I started going solo.

It’s on the final hop, though, when everything changes. As I leave 1839, the gray once more surrounds me, but then suddenly it’s like someone has started flipping a switch back and forth, the gray turning black then gray then black before settling on gray again. And that’s not the only weirdness. I don’t feel Palmer at all.

Finally, I’m deposited into the dark of night as a splitting headache doubles me over.

Nearly thirty minutes pass before I feel well enough to function again. I check my Chaser screen first to verify I’ve arrived in 1775. I then take a look around and find that I am, as planned, in a farm field, standing between rows of some kind of grain.

I’ve made it, and now it’s time to go to work.

I reset my Chaser for sixteen hours in the future and jump.

CHAPTER
THIRTEEN

I
DO WHAT
I was trained to do.

First, I witness the event from afar, in this case from a copse of trees across the dusty road from the Three Swans Tavern near Cambridge, Massachusetts. Tied to the rail in front of the establishment are several horses, while in the field next to the building two wagons sit waiting. Lantern light flickers in the windows and I can hear voices now and then. Calls for more drink and food, I assume.

Carefully, I record arrivals and departures, describing each man—they’re all men—by the clothes they wear, their height, and whatever else makes them stand out. At fourteen minutes and fifty-three seconds after eight p.m., I watch myself walk into the tavern. This I also enter into the log as I make a mental note that I could use a haircut.

The person I’m most interested in arrives six minutes later. Young Richard Cahill. I know it’s him because I’ve seen him when he’s older, on the trip I made the day before. He’s considerably thinner here but the eyes and nose and mouth are the same.

I celebrate the moment by drawing a box around his name and time of arrival. My job isn’t done, though. It’s only beginning. I remain where I am until Cahill leaves the tavern at 8:47 p.m. and 21 seconds. After I witness my own departure at 8:51 and 11 seconds, there’s no more reason for me to stay.

The hop I make is not a long one, merely thirty minutes back in time and a half mile east into the woods where no one else is. There I refresh myself with a food bar from my satchel as I study my notes. When I’ve committed all the necessary times and descriptions to memory, I hop forward again, arriving near the empty wagons beside the Three Swans. I reach the tavern’s door at 8:14 and 53 seconds.

The room is lit by several lanterns and large enough for three long tables but not much else. Seven men are scattered around, most with enough space between them to indicate they’re alone. Only two men are obviously together. They sit opposite one another and are leaning forward so they can talk in low voices.

I have a quick choice to make. Somewhere in this room is the person Cahill will meet with, and though I’ll be using my directional recorder to pick up the conversation, I’d like to be close enough to hear it for myself. It’s the way Marie taught me.

The patrons are largely weary farmers or businessmen who only want to eat their meal and be on their way. So, after writing most of them off, I settle on two possibilities for the person Cahill will meet—the man who’s looked at me twice as if wondering whether or not I’m someone he should know, or one of the two men who are together.

Not wanting to narrow it down further, I take a spot midway between my targets. Moments after I sit, the back door opens and a thin woman who looks older than she probably is enters carrying two bowls of something steaming. She acknowledges my presence with the barest of nods before setting the bowls in front of the two men who are together.

“You’re eating,” she says to me a moment later.

“Yes, please.”

Without another word, she turns and exits the way she came in.

The things that always surprise me when I travel are the smells. It doesn’t matter how far I go back—a decade, a century, or the nearly two and a half I went this time—the smells are unique. Spices and sweat and sewage and perfumes and God only knows what else.  Some make me cock my head in wonder, while others cause the bile in my stomach to rise to my throat.

Unfortunately, the smells in the tavern are much closer to the latter than the former, so I reach into my pocket and pull out my tiny savior. Pretending to cough, I cover my nose with my hand and break the capsule, releasing the chemical blend that will dull my sense of smell for the next several hours. I should’ve taken it before coming in but I always forget.

As I’m slipping the spent capsule back into my pocket, the outer door opens and in walks Richard Cahill, exactly on time. He stands just inside the room, much like I did, and surveys those present. When he spots the two men sitting together, he walks toward them.

My mission today is to confirm the small part Cahill plays in the history of the empire, giving his descendants in House Cahill the official certification they seek.

One would not think upon first seeing Richard Cahill at this time that he’d be so important. He’s nineteen and rail thin, and while he seems to be putting on a brave face, I can tell from where I sit that he’s nervous. But if the history we’ve learned is correct, he’s a linchpin—albeit a minor one—in the development of the North American portion of the empire. His actions on this very night will put a quick end to a nuisance that might have otherwise troubled the kingdom for a few more years.

At first Cahill sits quietly, far enough way from the duo to give the illusion he’s alone. While he waits for the serving woman, he looks around the room. When his gaze turns in my direction, I make sure I’m looking down so I don’t come off as a threat.

Once I sense his attention’s no longer on me, I remove a worn-looking wooden box from my pocket. If anyone were to open the top they would find tobacco and a pipe. I leave the top down, however, and instead touch the edge that activates the built-in recorder, then I position the box so that the microphone is pointing at Cahill and his friends.

It’s not until after the woman returns with my stew and leaves to get Cahill his that the larger of the two men says, “Now is not the time for nerves.”

“I’m not nervous,” Cahill answers, his voice shaky. “But this is all—”

“Calm yourself,” the big man’s partner says.

Their voices are so low that I strain to hear every word. Their caution is understandable. They are, after all, in territory largely infiltrated by the rebels. If they’re caught, they’d likely be dragged into the woods and shot. I know that won’t happen but they don’t. For them this is real, this is now. For me, it’s like the first time seeing a performance of a play I’ve read many times. Cahill is destined to die at the ripe old age of fifty-four, after being gifted land and title for his service to the king. I’ve seen this already. Today I’m seeing the making of the man.

I lift a spoonful of stew to my lips but am careful to not ingest any. I’ve received all the inoculations to protect me from parasites, but to be safe, I seldom eat anything other than food I’ve brought with me. Instead of putting the spoon back in the bowl, I move it under the table and let the contents dribble onto the floor.