“So it is a transporter?”
Orange was finding these questions a strain. “After a fashion. I’m upgrading your clearance. Open my folder on the network. The password is HGWELLS. One word, all caps. Those files will tell you all you need to know.”
Chevie was halfway upstairs to her computer when she remembered why the password seemed familiar.
H. G. Wells. The Time Machine.
A time machine? she thought. That’s insane.
But then, no more insane than a monkey arm and yellow blood.
Chevie called in the hazmat team request to the London office and was given the runaround for nearly fifteen minutes until she invoked Agent Orange’s name; after that she was put straight through to the hazardous materials’ section and was assured that a team would be on site in less than an hour. No sooner had she put the phone down than a brigade of London’s finest firefighters burst through what was left of the front door, determined to hack their way through the building with large axes. They were politely but firmly turned away by a dozen black-clad Fed musclemen who had arrived considerably earlier than the hazmat team and proceeded to set up a perimeter around the house on Bedford Square.
Once Chevie was sure that the perimeter was secure, she told the chief muscleman’s mirrored sunglasses that she was taking ten minutes in the operations center.
Just enough time for me to find out what the blazes is going on here. Chevie was surprised to find that she was handling the day’s events pretty well. She had always been cool under pressure, but this was different. Something sci-fi was going on here. It seemed that the world as she knew it was not the world as it was.
Hold it together , she told herself. And read the file.
Orange’s folder had been sitting on the local network’s shared folders list since she’d arrived in Bedford Square, but she had never been able to access it until now. Chevie felt a little nervous even floating the cursor across the icon.
What am I going to find out? If there is time travel, then why not aliens? Why not vampires? I really don’t want to turn into one of those movie FBI gals who hunt freaks of nature. Those gals always end up with a limp.
Chevie opened the folder and was dismayed to find over two hundred files lined up alphabetically inside. Chevie changed the view so that the files were listed in order of date and picked one with the title “Project Orange Overview.” She began to read, forcing herself to go slowly and absorb every word. After twenty minutes of absolute concentration, she leaned back in her office chair and covered her mouth with one hand in case a hysterical giggle leaked out.
You have got to be kidding me, she thought, then removed her hand and shouted toward the door, “You have got to be kidding me!”
Orange was downstairs in the small medical room. He had wrestled his dead father from the pod’s interior and laid him out on a steel gurney, covering all but his head with a white sheet. When Chevie entered the room, he was gently sponging the old man’s forehead.
“Why do you think that kid killed your father?” “I don’t know. The Timekey video doesn’t show much. One second the boy is not there, and the next he is. More than likely he’s a thief.”
“A thief from the past. What are we going to do with him?”
Orange wrung the sponge till his knuckles were white. “Again, I don’t know. No one has ever brought back a local before. We could shoot him—I have a gun.”
“Shoot him, good one. Are you okay, Orange? Maybe I should take over as agent in charge?”
Orange smiled wryly, and Chevie thought, not for the first time, that her partner had a wide variety of smiles, none of them very happy.
“No need for that, Agent, I am perfectly fine.”
“But that’s your father.”
“In name only. I haven’t seen this man for a long time. The Bureau is my family.”
“Wow. I think that’s the saddest thing I’ve ever heard.”
Another smile, this one rueful. “I think you may be right.”
“Do I still have to call you Agent Orange?”
“No. Professor Smart will be fine. Or just Felix.”
“Professor Felix Smart. Son of missing Scottish quantum physicist Charles Smart. You have the same nose.”
“But not the same blood, thank goodness. Yellow blood sets off the scanner at airports.”
Chevie ignored the feeble attempt at humor. “So what happened to your father? I didn’t get that far in the files.”
Felix Smart gazed at his father’s face as he spoke. “My father discovered that Einstein’s quantum theory was essentially correct and that he could stabilize a transversable wormhole through space-time using exotic matter with negative energy density.”
“I knew someone would get around to that eventually,” said Chevie with a straight face, then wished that she could activate the WARP pod so that she could go back five seconds and not crack a funny when her partner’s father was lying dead and mutated on the table. “Can we talk about this outside?”
“Of course.” Felix Smart led her into the corridor, talking as he walked. “The university in Edinburgh funded my father for a few years, then he moved to a larger facility in London in conjunction with Harvard Research. By this time I was already with the FBI in Washington. Once it became clear that to me that Father was getting somewhere, I persuaded my section chief to take a look. You wouldn’t know it to listen to my accent, but I lived in Washington with my mother after my parents divorced. The Bureau consultants loved the concept and threw money at Father, and I was appointed as project liaison. We saw real results, really quickly. We sent through cameras first, and animals. Then death-row prisoners.”
Chevie was not shocked. She knew that it had been common practice for government departments to offer testing deals to condemned prisoners in the last millennium. The government had tested everything from rubber bullets to telepathy pills on convicts.
“The tests were pretty successful. There was a small number of aberrations, usually on the return trip, but less than one percent, so acceptable in a scientific sense. Then some bright spark had the idea that we could stash valuable witnesses in the past.”
Chevie raised a finger. “Just say that last part again. I want to nail it down in the real world.”
“Even John Gotti couldn’t have put a hit on someone in the nineteenth century, right? We sent the witnesses back into the past with a handler and then we would bring them home to testify.”
“So, the FBI does witness protection in the past?”
“Yes. Would you like me to say it one more time?”
“No. I got it.”
“Of course it’s incredibly expensive, and the power needed for a single jaunt is enough to light a small country, so witnesses were always huge security risks and involved in trials that were tied up for a few years. In the ten years that WARP actually functioned, we only sent four witnesses back to various periods. Certain high-ranking intelligence officers felt the government was being short-changed, and so it was strongly suggested by a Colonel Clayton Box, a very enthusiastic specialforces type, that the tech be used for black ops.”
“Wet work? Assassinations?”
“Exactly. Imagine if we could go back and take out terrorists while they were still in high school. My father did not like that idea and, no matter how much I tried to reassure him, he grew more and more paranoid. He saw conspiracies everywhere and was convinced that his research was being stolen, so one morning he simply disappeared into the past, taking all programmed Timekeys and the access codes with him. Father could come back if he wante
d to, but we couldn’t go after him. Not without the precise algorithms and codes that my father kept in his brain. He invented the language that the pods speak, so without him WARP was finished. My father was the key, and even after all this time we haven’t been able to hack his machines. We lost Terrence Carter, the key witness in a huge corruption case. And his bodyguard was stranded with him. Not to mention the fact that there are millions of dollars’ worth of WARP pods lying around wormhole hotspots like so much scrap. The irony was that Colonel Box and his entire team disappeared during an operation a few weeks later, so the threat to WARP was neutralized.”
Chevie took a long moment to absorb this deluge of information, then asked a sensitive question. “So the yellow blood and the simian arm were two of your aberrations?”
Felix Smart answered calmly, as though having a dead father with ape parts were an everyday occurrence. “The odds against two aberrations were steep. Wormhole mutations happened a few times with some of the prisoners. Father’s theory was that the time tunnels had memory, and sometimes the quantum foam got muddled. Molecules were mixed up. Our test subjects made it through without any significant mutations over ninety-nine percent of the time. But we saw extra limbs, extrasensory perception, a dinosaur head once.”
Chevie found it a struggle to keep a straight face. “A dinosaur head?”
“I know—insane, isn’t it? Velociraptor, I think. We never found out for sure.”
“The dinosaur died?”
Felix Smart frowned. “Technically the velociraptor committed suicide. There was enough of the scientist still inside there to realize what had happened, so he grabbed a gun and shot himself in the head. Terrible mess.”
Chevie felt a sensation something like jet lag settling around her mind.
It’s mild shock, she realized. My brain doesn’t believe a word it’s hearing. Still, might as well play along; it will all be over soon.
“So, what’s next, Orange . . . Professor?”