One Second Per Second Read online

  “You’re a natural, Toad. Here’s all you need to know about it,” Zhivov says, pointing at my arm. “You won’t be using it to accelerate out. We’ll be using the main acceleration unit for that. What you need to know is that it’s preset to accelerate you back here. Press the ‘activate’ key and you’ll surf home on a wave of tachyons. Got it?” I nod. “If you’re in doubt whether or not you need to use it, then you need to use it. And after you’ve been on the ground for four hours, it’ll automatically activate and you’re home.”

  “We got it,” Gallie says, speaking for me. “We won’t take risks.” We won’t take risks? That’ll be a trick. I nod gravely.

  TWENTY-THREE

  So the fuse has been lit. I’m sitting on my hands for weeks, out of the loop, ignorant and frustrated, and now it’s instantly decided that I’m to be blown out of a tachyon cannon right through the loop, and into god knows what on the other side.

  “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 is unexpected.

  We find ourselves under a grove of trees in the gardens of large brick structure: too big to be called a house, too small for a full-on mansion, with half a dozen steps leading up to a grand portico bordered by Greek columns. Two dozen or more windows face us, including roof dormers and basement windows, all with white frames and shutters.

  The cohort is maybe twenty yards away when the leader looks back. “See what yer find yonder,” he calls, pointing to a wooden barn situated a hundred yards from the mansion. Gallie and I look at each other, and then, for want of a better idea, we set off toward it.

  “They were expecting us.”

  “With some precision,” Gallie replies. “Morales and Byrne didn’t have a chance. They knew exactly where and when.”

  “Now what?”

  “We stick to the mission.”

  “The mission didn’t involve this. Not for Morales and Byrne, it didn’t.” I’m itching all over and take off my tricorn, grateful for the cool breeze. I try to take on board that half of our team was just shot to death. It’s not real for me yet.

  “Let’s keep it together, Joad. We have a problem and we’ll work it through.” So we have no route home, our security escorts are dead, and the best plan we have is to check out the contents of a barn on the advice of a band of thugs who assaulted us violently within le
ss than a second of arriving. As we approach, I see two people in front of the barn who seem to be pumping water from a well. I squint.

  “Those are jeans,” Gallie says. We speed up. The wearers of the jeans see us and take a step backward, dropping their pail.

  “Jenn?” I call. Then louder. “Jenn!” They walk tentatively toward us.

  “Joad?” Her face is streaked with mud and her plaid shirt is ripped, hanging off her shoulder. She runs forward and hugs me, which is very much a first. The other figure is Arun Ramuhalli, a newly recruited tackychemist. I wonder how he’s enjoying the job. “Are you here to take us back?” she asks.

  “Not exactly. Not yet, at least,” I say. Jenn looks at me, confused, and then at Gallie. I make introductions and Jenn reacts as if she’s heard of Jane Galois.

  “Are the others in the barn?” Gallie asks. Jenn nods. “Is it safe in there?”

  TWENTY-FIVE

  It’s a barn from the outside and a barn from the inside, too. Daylight entering through uneven boards stripes the straw and the faces of the occupants. Some of the faces are looking down from a loft, others look asleep, and some are now directed at us. People begin to stand, descend the loft ladders and gradually cluster around us. Through grime, matted hair and unshaven faces I recognize Chen, McEwan, Jones, Wagner, Bisset, Alvarez, Kwame, Ito, Marlowe, ...

  Gallie and I exchange a glance. “Is everyone alright?” Gallie asks. “Any injuries?”

  “Alright? Bari, Holcombe and Huang are dead,” Jenn replies in a whisper. “They took out our security team.”

  “Leaving just geeks and nerds,” I say. “We’re low risk, I guess.” I look around and estimate maybe fifty faces. “More of you than I expected,” I say.

  “It’s pretty much the full complement,” Jenn says. “Both Washingtons cleaned out but for a few.” I rest against a post to steady myself.

  “How did it happen?” Gallie asks. Jenn shrugs. “It’s like nothing actually happened. One instant I’m in the big chair. Next I’m tumbling on grass. Same with everyone. It all happened at the same time for each of us on the TMA site. The others appeared seconds later.”

  “Kasper Asmus did this?” I ask. Confused looks are exchanged.

  “He’s not here,” Ramuhalli says.

  “What do you mean about Kasper Asmus?” Jenn asks.

  “Is he behind this?” I say. I get only blank stares.

  “Don’t know why he’s not here. Didn’t know why you weren’t here, either.”

  Gallie places her hand on my arm to say let’s stop with this line of questions.

  “Who’s holding you prisoner here?” she asks.

  “Prisoner?” Jenn says. “I wouldn’t call us exactly prisoners. We can come and go whenever we like. But where would we go? There’s a village called Leatown maybe a mile away so Andersen thought he’d do some reconnaissance. She points to a man with a red gash over his eye and a plaid shirt missing a sleeve. “Seems they didn’t like the way he looked.” He smiles sardonically and shakes his head.

  “How long have you been here?”

  “A month, but we’re not tracking time well. Ironic, huh?”

  “How are you surviving?” Gallie asks.

  “They feed us. Every day. It’s disgusting but they’re keeping us alive.”

  “Who is?” Gallie asks. “Who’s doing this?” Jenn shrugs.

  “All we ever see are goons with muskets.”

  “Someone lives in that house,” Ramuhalli says. “Never tried to get near it but I’m guessing if you did, you’d wind up with a lead ball in your belly.”

  I begin to notice the smell. It’s stale food and stale human. I step back outside the barn and look across to the house. The musketeers are milling around it, talking, laughing and spitting. Jenn was right. These are goons and not disciplined soldiers. Ramuhalli follows me out.

  “If I say ‘arms trafficking’ would you know what I’m talking about?” I say. He stares at me. “Are you seeing any modern weapons?” He looks bemused and shakes his head. It’s looking like all our theories could be bullshit.

  TWENTY-SIX

  The food served to the barn-dwellers was not Michelin. Two vats of bones and fat floating beneath a protective layer of grease, with a barrel of turning apples to cleanse the palate, all delivered by armed waiters so contemptuous that even a Parisian restaurant would have fired them. Tuck-in, I think I heard one of them say. I ordered fries someone had shouted from the loft, safe in their anonymity, but it could only have been McEwan because it wasn’t me. Jenn had handed me a tin bowl and spoon. I had declined.

  Gallie and I return to the grove of trees under which we’d appeared. “So, on a positive note,” she says, “we achieved our mission.” Her smile isn’t real.

  “They were pretty useless,” I say. “They don’t have a clue what’s going on.”

  “Yup. I did expect more.”

  “And they’re free to roam. Didn’t you think they’d be confined somehow?”

  “They are. A time prison is pretty airtight. And if they do summon the guts to wander off, they can only screw up the timeline even more. A good strategy for a time vandal, right?” We look at the mansion and the gaggle of guards surrounding it.

  “I think the answers are in there,” I say. Gallie pulls off her ribboned hat, her hair falls onto her shoulders, and she scratches her forehead.

  “Even if the answers aren’t in there,” she says, “I’ll be willing to bet that our accelerators are.”

  “I’m not a violent man,” I say, “but what I’d give for one of those handguns right now.”

  “You’d go in blazing?” She’s smirking. I motion you have a better plan?

  “The town. Maybe we can learn something about who’s in the house.”

  “Did you see Andersen?”

  “He walked into eighteenth century Leatown wearing twenty-first century clothing, talking with a weird accent and saying God knows what. Hell, I’d beat him up.” Gallie lifts her skirt, rips something, and coins fall to the ground. I raise my eyebrows.

  “What else do you have in there?”

  “You’ll find out,” she replies.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  After sunset Gallie and I walk down the wagon-rutted track toward Leatown. Looking around us at the meadows and trees in the twilight we could be in any era, any year. A few buildings–maybe farmhouses–come into view. We walk on, cross a ridge and Leatown comes into view. It’s a disappointment. Maybe I was expecting historic Williamsburg, but what I got was a ramshackle collection of small, slapdash buildings, positioned without logic and composed mainly of vertical wooden planks. There’s one brick building that may be a church and there’s no outside lighting other than what spills from windows onto the uneven, dusty ground. There are people walking between buildings, stopping to talk, laughing. A knot of soldiers in bright red uniforms and carrying muskets are standing around a water pump as one of them stoops to drink from it. The red makes them British if the movies are accurate. We pause to take a breath, then with the agreement of a glance, we descend the slope to the town. The details of our plan stop here, except for finding someone who can inform us and doing it without being maimed or killed.

  A woman in a billowing, dirty white dress and tight bodice approaches us. “Hello darlin’. Haven’t seen you before,” she says to me through speckled teeth, ignoring Gallie. “You look like someone who could ‘andle two of us, me cocksparrer.” Gallie pulls me away.

  “She did have a solid point,” I say.

  “Maybe you two can hook up later,” she says and then nods toward one of buildings. There are men gathered outside its open door, smoke is billowing from its windows, and it’s where the singing is coming from. “An ale house? Looks to me like a good start. You ready for this?”

  We walk over and slip sideways past the men in the doorway, smelling their beery breath and feeling their eyes burning laser-like into me. Inside it’s a riot of smoke, smells, noise and sardine-packed humanity. Woman
are circulating, squeezing through the throng to pour ale from stoneware pitchers into the awaiting tankards. The tables are packed with men shouting, laughing, puffing on pipes, breaking into song, and stopping only to guzzle. In the corner there’s a table of British soldiers, of low rank I’d guess seeing their disheveled uniforms, who are laughing and shouting no less loudly than anyone else. Other than the servers, I can see maybe a handful of women in the entire place, probably colleagues of the lady we had just encountered. We find the one empty table and sit. A beer maiden walks up and surveys us with some suspicion. Are we doing something wrong?

  “Two ales,” I say and put coins on the table. She stares. We’re already busted, I think. I guess no one says ‘two ales’ and puts coins on a table. That’s a clear sign of a twenty-first century visitor is it? But then she picks up two of the coins, briefly disappears and returns to slam down two tankards in front of us. I take a mouthful and wince. Gallie is scanning the place and I look behind me. We’re next to a table of rowdy young guys, each outshouting the other. Then the shouting mutates seamlessly into song.

  A lusty young smith at his vice stood afilling

  His hammer laid by but his forge still aglow

  When to him a buxom young damsel came smiling ...

  I don’t know this song but I swing my tankard and mouth random words as if I do. Gallie grins. After a couple of verses, I feel I’m fitting in. I laugh when they laugh. I shout when they shout. I disapprove when they disapprove. Then in a moment of relative quiet the reveler closest to me leans in. This is it, I think.

  “Ain’t seen you before,” he says. His skin is sun-browned and pocked, and his eyes are cold blue.