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  Moms could only nod as the team headed out, leaving her alone in the team room. She looked down and noticed that her hands were twitching.

  **** *

  “I understand this situation is exacerbated by the pending mission,” Sin Fen said to Neeley.

  “No shit,” Neeley said. She was loading bullets into a magazine for a .45 caliber M1911 pistol. She’d chosen the venerable side arm to take along with the Naga dagger.

  They were in Neeley’s ready room, one door leading back to the team room, one door leading to the Gate through which she’d go to her bubble in time.

  Sin Fen spoke quickly, aware of the time pressure. “In a timeline there are billion of lives. The reality is that few of those lives make a significant impact on the timeline.”

  “Indira Gandhi’s did,” Neeley said.

  “Indeed she did and that is why the Shadow is trying to interfere on the day of her assassination,” Sin Fen said. “But for most people, their lives will hardly cause a ripple in the timeline if something changes.”

  Neeley cut to the chase. “You’re saying my life isn’t that important.”

  “If any of the vast majority of people in a timeline never existed, the course of history wouldn’t change. It is not a value judgment on that person or the life they live. To those who are close to them, those they love and who love them, they have a great impact.”

  “I’ve got two people I love,” Neeley said. “And—“

  Sin Fen interrupted. “You have Roland, who is here, and you have Hannah. You saved Hannah’s life and she saved yours. That is a strong bond. But you have loved more than two people in your life.”

  Neeley slid the loaded magazine into a pouch under her shirt, next to the gun. She gave Sin Fen her full attention.

  “Now,” Sin Fen said, “you have to make a choice. To be a member of the Time Patrol, one must be a person who will never use time travel to go back and change something for personal reasons.

  “Every one of us has something in our past, some point, where we wish we had chosen differently. For most it is a moment we look back on with profound regret. And that is the reason the Choice is made up front.” Sin Fen held up a long, elegant hand, the three inside fingers extended. “You must now choose one of three paths.

  “The first is to do nothing. To walk away. Go back to your old life in the Cellar. However, there is a caveat to that. If you do so, we will wipe your memory of this place, of this Team. We must do so for security reasons.”

  “Hold on,” Neeley protested. “I already knew about this place and about the Patrol.”

  “True,” Sin Fen said. “We made that exception for Hannah and you. But now you’re in further.”

  “If you wipe my knowledge of this place,” Neeley said, “doesn’t that mean you wipe my knowledge of Roland?”

  “Yes.”

  “That ship already sailed when I said yes to coming here,” Neeley said. “So forget option one.”

  “The second path,” Sin Fen said, “is to go back to a key moment in your life and change that moment. I will tell you that moment shortly.”

  “I don’t get to pick the moment?” Neeley asked.

  “No.” She smiled slightly to lessen the sting of the abrupt answer. “However, if you believe the moment I tell you is wrong, you may let me know.”

  “All right. Have you ever been wrong on it?”

  “I don’t believe so.”

  “So what is it?”

  Sin Fen explained. “If you choose to go to that moment, we will let you go. But that will the end of you in the present. You will be in the past. You will also have no memory of how you got there except for knowledge of what is going to happen very soon in that moment. Within twenty-four hours and then you will live the rest of your live from that moment forward.

  “The third path is to become a member of the Time Patrol, to accept your past completely, and go through that door to your gate and on your mission.” Sin Fen waited a few seconds. “Do you understand?”

  “Yes.”

  “There is more to your Choice than you think,” Sin Fen said.

  “When I was on the plane in Berlin and realized I’d been given a bomb?” Neeley said. “Or before that when--

  “No,” Sin Fen said.

  That gave Neeley pause. “All right. Tell me.”

  “The moment is when Gant was first diagnosed with cancer and was told it was treatable,” Sin Fen said. “But he knew if he got treatment, it would lead enemies to the two of you. So he did nothing. He didn’t tell you about the cancer until it was too late. It was months before you were even aware he was sick even though you were living together at the time.”

  Neeley took a step back, exhaling as if punched in the chest. “I didn’t know.”

  “That was his intent,” Sin Fen said. “You could go back to the day he found out, but didn’t tell you. When he walked in the door of the cabin in Vermont and told you everything was fine. Perhaps you could convince him to get treatment?”

  Neeley took a deep breath. She pulled the .45 out, pulled the slide back, chambering a round. She put it back in the concealed holster.

  “Then I have to honor his intent.”

  Neeley went to the door leading to her gate.

  *****

  “You’re a tall drink of water,” Angus said as Edith Frobish approached.

  “Be polite,” Orlando warned.

  “When am I not?” Angus seemed to honestly want an answer.

  They were in the Metropolitan Museum of Art, in one of the most recent rotating exhibits. After closing, there was only the soft sound of air circulating through the large vents and Edith’s short heels clicking on the floor as she walked up.

  “I’m Edith Frobish,” she said, extending her hand.

  Instead of shaking her hand, Angus gently took it in his own and bowed, kissing the back of it. “The pleasure is all mine. I’m Angus. I’d give you my surname and my clan’s entire lineage, but a man must save some information for further conversation with a beautiful woman. You can’t be knowing all my secrets at once.”

  Edith blushed.

  “He’s a rogue,” Orlando said. “And not in the good way.”

  Angus indicated the exhibition, a series of paintings of random patterns in stark black and white. “This is art?”

  “It is,” Edith said.

  “It is beyond my ken to appreciate,” Angus said.

  Edith looked at the paintings. “To be honest, I don’t understand why some of it makes it in here, even though it’s my area of expertise. ”

  Angus indicated Orlando. “Why would a pretty lass with an interest in art be affiliated with a ruffian like this? And he be a ruffian not in the good way.”

  “Art records history,” Edith said. “Would you come with me?”

  “This is where we part ways,” Orlando said to Angus.

  “Until we meet again,” Angus said.

  “Until we meet again.” Orlando held out his hand.

  Angus shook it, but Orlando laughed. “Nice try. My flask?”

  “Ah!” Angus pulled it out and handed it over. “Upgrade your tastes, my friend.”

  “It gets the job done.” Orlando nodded at both of them and then walked off.

  “I worry about him,” Edith said. “He’s always half-drunk.”

  “Don’t be,” Angus said. “And he’s not half-drunk. He’s drunk. Think of it as his medicine.”

  “What ails him?”

  “That be his business,” Angus said. “Now where we be going?”

  Edith led the way through a door painted to look like part of a wall. They were into the back corridors of the Met. “I assume Colonel Orlando didn’t tell you why we’ve recruited you?”

  “It won’t be for art appreciation,” Angus said. “I would assume, knowing Orlando as I do, that has something to do with nefarious activities of the covert kind.”

  “You’re here to be assessed as a potential member of the Time Patrol.”
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  “You’re off your head, lass.”

  “I’m afraid not.”

  “Well, then, let’s be at it.”

  The Missions Phase I

  “By their nature, computer systems bring together a series of vulnerabilities: accidental disclosures, deliberate penetrations, and physical attack.”

  WILLIS WARE: 1967 Security Reports for Computer Systems

  ZERO DAY; ZERO YEAR

  IVAR WASN’T THERE, and then he was there, but he’d sort of always been there. It was the best way to explain how he arrived, becoming part of his current time and place without fanfare or excitement among those around him.

  The only problem was he didn’t know exactly where ‘there’ was right away, and he wasn’t sure ‘when’ this was. Is. Whatever.

  He was standing in the midst of low bushes next to a flagpole. The bushes were inside a waist-high black, metal fence, inside a park, and there was no doubt where the park was: New York City. The sound of traffic, and the towering buildings surrounding the park confirmed that since there is no place quite like the Big Apple, plus it was his designated destination.

  He looked down. The stone at the base of the flagpole read: DUANE PARK.

  The download dumped data, orienting him and momentarily overwhelming: the first public space acquired by the City for a park, starting in 1797, yada, yada, Ivar cut off the download, happy to at least know where exactly he was. It made sense, because when he turned to the northeast, diagonally across, there was 60 Hudson Street.

  “Close enough,” Ivar muttered. He carefully stepped on several walking stones and made it to the sidewalk. It was night, actually early morning, but New York is the City That Never Sleeps, and there was the occasional cab or car zipping by.

  Ivar counted floors on 60 Hudson. The ninth floor was dimly lit, but that was because the windows were mostly shuttered on the inside, to bolster the cooling needed for the machinery. There was no night or day inside that floor as it connected to the entire world.

  Ivar froze as he felt something prod into his lower back. “Frak me,” he muttered.

  “How are the Alps in May?” a low voice asked.

  “I’m sure they’re fine,” Ivar said.

  “Tsk-tsk. Wrong answer.”

  “I’m just out for a walk,” Ivar said. “You can have my wallet. My watch. Whatever you want.” He knew the man wasn’t holding a gun on him for his wallet; plus he didn’t have one. Or a watch. He realized the question had been a form of bona fides, where he was supposed to supply the right answer. Except he hadn’t been briefed on any bona fides or that someone was waiting for him.

  “Most interesting,” the person holding the gun said. “If we had not been watching with thermals, I don’t think we would have picked you up.

  Ivar slowly looked over his shoulder. A man wearing a nice suit was behind him. His skin was well tanned, skull shaved, but his eyes were black, and had the look Ivar had seen too many times: a killer.

  The man took a step back. “You may not be my contact, but you are someone arriving most uniquely, so I must pursue this further. Let us be professionals, shall we not?”

  “We shall,” Ivar said, running that through his head for a second, belatedly trying to figure out if he’d just agreed or disagreed.

  “This is a bit public,” the man said. “Shall we discuss this in a place more private?”

  “I like public,” Ivar said.

  The gun indicated for him to move. “What you like is not significant under the circumstances.”

  It is Now. Zero Day in Zero Year. How we got to be here via the computer timeline ?

  1937: Professor Atanasoff of Iowa State University tries to build a computer without gears, cams, belts or shafts.

  1941: Atanasoff designs a computer that can solve 29 equations simultaneously, which is also the first time a computer can store information in a memory.

  1943-1944: Two University of Pennsylvania Professors build the Electronic Numerical Integrator and Calculator (ENIAC), but it takes six women (ENIAC Six) to figure out how to program and maintain its over 18,000 vacuum tubes and they survive to do that (thanks to Moms savings their lives).

  1946: The same two professors build UNIVAC for the Census Bureau, the first commercial computer (previous ones had been military).

  1947: William Shockley and two other invent the transistor, allowing vacuum tubes to be replaced by a solid electric switch.

  1953: Grace Hopper invents COBOL, the first computer language.

  1954: FORTRAN is invented for programming.

  1958: The first computer chip is invented.

  1964: Douglas Engelbart unveils a prototype of the modern computer using a mouse and a graphical use interface.

  1969: Bell Labs releases UNIX, an operating system that makes computers compatible.

  1969: The first Internet message is sent from UCLA to Stanford consisting of two letters before the system crashes, but it was sent (thanks to Scout).

  Ivar allowed himself to directed toward a Fedex Home Delivery van parked on Hudson Street. As they came up to it, the back door swung open and he was shoved in.

  “What do we have?” the man who opened the door asked. He was fat, dressed in a Fedex uniform with food stains on the front, and had a thin sheen of hair desperately combed over his balding scalp. “That the person you’re supposed to meet?”

  “Sit in the corner, on the floor,” the gunman ordered Ivar.

  Ivar did so, wondering why his missions always started out under threat. He’d heard the debriefs. The others always didn’t start that way, although they always ended up under threat.

  Some things change; some don’t.

  “You just appeared out of nothing,” the gunman said. “One second there is no one in the park, then there is you. That is most strange. Would you not agree?”

  “You mean would I agree?” Ivar was getting tired of the twisted language .

  “Indeed.”

  “I was just out for a walk,” Ivar said.

  “Are you not a professional?” the man asked.

  The Fedex guy had a large pizza box open on a console facing an array of displays. They were showing ambient light, thermal and night vision images of the surrounding area, but mostly 60 Hudson. Some of them were scrolling data; very quickly.

  “Are you the mob?” Ivar asked, figuring the odds, his odds at least, were good on that account.

  Gunman looked at Fedex man. “Are we the mob?”

  “Can I be Tony Soprano?” Fedex guy asked.

  “You may not,” Gunman said. “You might though, be Big Pussy Bonpensiero.”

  Fedex guy laughed. “What’s that make you?”

  Gunman pondered the question. “I do not believe I would fit in that show. I’m a professional.” He shifted his attention back to Ivar. “Your inexperience and your questions indicate you are not the person I was supposed to meet.

  Fedex guy turned serious. “What are we gonna do with him?” He had a New York accent.

  But Ivar couldn’t place Gunman’s accent.

  “I’m afraid we’re not going to do anything with him,” Gunman said.

  “Huh?” Fedex guy grunted as he picked up another slice of pizza.

  Gunman fired, the suppressed pistol making a rather loud noise in the confines of the van. The bullet hit Fedex in left eye. There was no exit wound as the modified .22 caliber shell spread shards through his brain, shredding it.

  The slice hit the floor with a splat. Fedex man slumped in the seat.

  “No double-tap?” Ivar asked, trying to remain calm.

  “No need, as you can clearly see.”

  “Right. I was taught double-tap.”

  “You were taught correctly,” Gunman said, “but situations differ.” He waggled the gun, which was now pointed, more or less, but more, at Ivar. “Twenty-two High Standard. A classic. One shot, eyeball, is enough. But you must be very accurate. The eye socket is a small target.”

  “Right.” Ivar s
wallowed. “And now? ”

  “’And now’?” He seemed to realize something. “Excuse me. I have failed to introduce myself. I am Victor.”

  “’Victor’?” Ivar nodded. “Sure. Victor. I’m Ivar.”

  “You are not my contact, but I strongly suspect you are involved in this matter,” Victor said.

  “What matter is that?” Ivar asked.

  “We had an incident a while back. In the Negev.”

  This was worse than the mob, Ivar realized. The fraking Israelis .

  “Someone appeared. Like you did. Caused great damage. I read the report and watched the surveillance tapes.” He pointed the pistol with the stubby suppressor directly at Ivar’s left eye. “Who are you and how did you get here?”

  “I need no bodyguard at all, for even the bravest men who approach me get weak at the knees and their hearts turn to water.” Shaka Zulu

  Zululand, Africa, 31 October 1828 A.D.

  EAGLE WASN’T THERE, and then he was there, but he’d sort of always been there. It was the best way to explain how he arrived, becoming part of his current time and place without fanfare or excitement among those around him. But not without notice, as there was another person on top of the small knoll. However that person expressed, as noted, no fanfare or excitement. He was seated on a makeshift throne overlooking the surrounding jungle.

  “I did not believe the witch,” Shaka Zulu said, “but I thought it best to humor her, because there are times when the demons do line up behind a witch’s prophecies.”

  It was night, the clearing on top of the knoll was about thirty feet wide, surrounded by—Eagle blinked, realizing it wasn’t trees all about, but tall stakes, roughly fifteen feet high. And a person was impaled on each. They were so many and so close together, it was easy to mistake for jungle in the dark.

  The odor in the air was of blood, voided bowels and the unmistakable stench of death with the impaled in various stages of decomposition. There was an occasional moan, indicating not all the victims were dead. As his eyes adjusted, Eagle could make out more detail. Two in the closest row, a man and woman, had their hands clasped in the space between their stakes. She was dead, but his chest was moving, very slightly, and he still gripped her hand.