22 October 1962
Chicago, Illinois
Nathan squirmed in his chair. Anger boiled in his chest. What kind of sadist locked a man in a room with no bathroom? Corbett had said she'd be back. Where was she?
Footsteps clumped down the hall outside the room that had become his prison. Someone was in a hurry to get someplace. Nathan pounded on the door again. "Hey! I need to use the bathroom! Let me out of here!"
No answer.
Maybe there was someone next door behind the mirror, gloating over his agony. Nathan hammered on the glass surface with his fist. "Hey? Asshole? Anyone there? Maybe I should just pee on the floor."
A rapid-fire series of snaps rattled through the air ducts, like popcorn in a microwave. Muffled voices shouted. Nathan returned to pounding on the door. "Let me out of here. I've got to pee!"
This time the door slammed opened. Special Agent Corbett stood outside, panting, holding a gun in one hand and her paper bag wadded in the other. A strand of hair had come loose from her bun and trailed down her cheek. Beads of perspiration glinted on her brow. She snatched at his wrist and tugged. "Come on. We don't have much time."
Nathan let her lead him into the hall and then halted. Time to get stubborn. "I've got to pee."
She gaped at him, her chest rising and falling with each breath. "Really? That's what you've got say? Maybe you'd like me to just leave you here for these goons to work you over."
"The FBI aren't goons. I swear, I'm going to pull it out and pee right here if you don't let me use a bathroom."
Her upper lip curled, but she released his wrist. "Do it, then. Serve you right if it gets shot off." She turned a wary eye down the corridor. "Hurry up. I don't want to have to jump from here."
Nathan stared at her. "You're kidding, right? You want me to pee here, in the hallway?"
"I don't give a flying donut if you pee or not. I don't care what your partner in crime says, you've got about thirty seconds before I shoot you myself." She brandished her weapon in his direction and then turned back to her wary inspection of the corridor.
He shrugged, stepped back into the interrogation room and tried to relieve himself against the wall. Nothing. He'd completely frozen up. Crap. He looked around for a jug, a cup, anything to go in.
He stepped back into the hallway, his too-big slippers flopping on his feet and his beltless pants slipping on his hips. "I can't do it without something to go in."
Corbett turned wild eyes on him and pushed him back inside the room. She slammed the door shut and fished in her paper bag, while muttering, "Damned dainty men, can't go even if their lives friggin' depend on it. Here!" She pulled a Styrofoam cup from her bag, up-ended it, and coffee splattered on the floor. "Use this. Ten seconds. I'm not kidding."
He turned his back and let hydraulic pressure take over. At least he wasn't peeing on the floor like a dog.
More shouts sounded from the hallway. Corbett's jaw muscles jumped with tension, and the gun trembled in her hand. "Too late. They must be on this floor. Now we've got to jump from here. If they trace us, it'll be your fault." She tossed her weapon and the bag onto the table and fumbled with her blouse.
Nathan watched her, his mouth agape. "What the hell are you doing?" Then he noticed her weapon. It wasn't a revolver at all. "What the fuck is that? It looks like a something from a bad Outer Limits."
She reached inside her blouse and snarled at him, "God's nails, will you stop with the anachronisms already?" She pulled a golden locket hanging from a chain about her neck, opened it up, and stabbed at it with her fingers.
The ruby-red polish no longer gleamed on her fingernails. What the fuck? She'd taken time for a manicure in between tormenting prisoners?
She snarled at him, "It's bad enough that the tactical situation has fallen apart here, and in the middle of the missile crisis, no less. Now I've got to get you out of here before your presence creates a paradox—ah, there we go!" A fountain of light twisted from the center of her locket and spread out to engulf the two of them. She snatched up her bag, her gun—phaser, whatever—wrapped her arms around him in a bear hug, and growled into his ear, "Don't move. If any part of you is outside the field, it'll get lopped off."
Nathan's thoughts slogged through his brain. This was too fast, and too furious. "What are you doing? What raid? Is that thing around your neck a, a Timepiece? Are you a Timekeeper?"
She didn't quite scream. "Shut up, will you? I'll answer your questions after we jump."
Feet stomped past the door, accompanied by voices shouting orders in an unfamiliar, guttural language. Surely it wasn't Russian? Not in FBI headquarters.
Nathan squirmed in her grip, but she had the leverage to hold him in place. He muttered, "That was a Timepiece. You're like Haakon. You can't fool me. Where are you taking me?"
Her voice changed to a hiss, and her vowels turned thick, as though English were not her native tongue. "No, I'm nothing like that liar. Now hold still!"
Light swirled, sonics screeched, and gravity swarmed, just like they had before. When the hooks prickled at Nathan's skin, he wanted to scream but no sound came out. The room around them faded almost to invisibility as the brassy glow grew in intensity.
The door slammed open. Haakon stood in the hall, shirtless, barefoot, his lip bloodied and bruised, and one eye blackened and swollen shut. He shouted something, but the shriek of the Timepiece deadened his words. He reached out toward Nathan just as the light pulsed one more time and the world disappeared. Pain tore at Nathan's body, but not as bad as a few hours ago. The nano-docs? Maybe.
Corbett's arms pressed harder and squeezed the air from his lungs. Then a burst of light dazzled him.
In a flicker of time, it was over. The light vanished, leaving behind black swirls in his vision. Deafening silence echoed in his ears, and the pinpricks faded to slender threads of pain.
Corbett released Nathan. He gasped, hands on his knees, and fought to catch his breath. The interrogation room with its institutional, Brutalist furnishings had vanished. Straw now covered a bare timber floor. Candles guttered in clay bowls sitting on a rough-hewn table. More straw extruded from the wattle walls, and smoke burned his eyes. The room stank of burning animal fat, manure, and dust.
Great. Obviously this wasn't the FBI headquarters in Chicago. "Where are we?" At least he wasn't sick, like he'd been after the last jump.
Corbett seemed to relax, though she still pointed her gun at him with one hand. But with the other, she reached behind her head and undid her bun. "Jorvik. York, to you. Don't you want to know when we are, smartass?" She shook her head and luxuriant ebony waves of hair flowed below her shoulders.
Nathan rolled his eyes. "I suppose you're going to tell me we've travelled in time. When is it now? Ten thousand BC? If so, I've seen the movie. It sucked."
"Smartass. Do that here, and Hardrada's Thanes will cut your tongue out. We're in Viking England, in Jorvik, the former capital of the Danelaw. It's 1066 in the year of our Lord." She licked her lips and smiled at him. He thought of serpents and apples. "You have an appointment with Seigneur Claude Bourbaki. I think you know him."
Nathan's back arched, and he caught his breath. What was his ex-boyfriend from 2018 doing here?
****
Haakon froze in the doorway to the interrogation room, scarcely able to believe what he was seeing. A scintillating glow surrounded Nathan and Corbett. She gripped her timepiece in one hand, a needle gun in the other, and she'd wrapped her arms around Nathan. What the hell was she doing? And where was she taking Nathan? Haakon reached out to seize the young man, to wrench him free if necessary, but the temporal bubble had already formed. Footfalls pounded from around the corner of the corridor and a voice shouted. He stepped into the room, slammed the door shut, and put the gun he'd taken from the dead Magruder close at hand on the interrogation table, before snatching his timepiece from his pocket. His fingers raced across the surface. He had to get a reading on their destination.
Puzzlement twisted his features when the answer scrolled across the screen: they were headed to 1066, just like she'd said, but to the Great Minster at Jorvik. Why had she jumped without him?
Footsteps thudded past in the corridor. A hoarse voice shouted, "Etazh obespechennyye." Russian. What were Russians doing securing a floor in the FBI regional headquarters in Chicago? That couldn't be right, not in the middle of the Cuban Missile Crisis. It must be some kind of raid, but he was sure that hadn't happened.
He had to admit the tactical situation was crap. Russians and dead FBI agents everywhere. Maybe she'd had to improvise. The only thing to do was follow her and Nathan.
He flattened himself against the wall while punching his timepiece. He needed to get out of here, and the fastest way was to use the settings he'd just displayed. Except the Minster was too dangerous. After Scarborough, the Bishop of York had cut a deal with Hardrada and his thugs, just like he'd do later with Duke William after the Battle of Hastings. Best arrive outside the village. Haakon offset the spatial coordinates to a hundred meters west and set the elevation to automatic.
Before he could press start, the door slammed open and a blond-haired giant of a man swarmed into the room. He held a pistol in both fists. His eyes bugged at the sight of Haakon and he shouted in a heavy, Russian accent, "Don't move!"
Haakon kicked out and the side of his foot cracked against the man's right wrist. The gun clattered to the floor. A rapid-fire karate chop to the man's throat sent him reeling, gasping for breath. His heart pounding, Haakon caught his balance on the door frame, only to stare into the snub barrel of an Uzi machine pistol.
The man holding the weapon spoke in perfect English, complete with a flat, Midwestern twang. "Move and you will die, American."
Haakon held up his hands, hiding his timepiece in his palm. It would take just a second or two for the temporal field to form after he pressed the start icon and he'd be out of here. But it would take far less for a stream of bullets from the Uzi to rip him in half. Play for time. "Tovarishch, ya rada videt' vas." Thank bog for the lingual implant.
The other's eyes narrowed and his face flushed. "Don't 'comrade' me. Speak English. My Russian is rusty."
He must be a deep cover agent. Haakon had read about such things, but didn't know until now if they were real or fiction. Maybe he could fool them into thinking he was one of them. "We should hurry. I overheard the G-men say they were planning to raid the consulate." With luck, he'd fall for it. Any change in the tactical situation had to be an improvement.
The man sneered. "Which consulate would that be, American? The one in San Francisco? There is no Soviet consulate in Chicago." More hard-faced men in suits tumbled into the room. One knelt to help the goon that Haakon's karate chop had flattened. Another turned on him, his face contorted with rage, and punched Haakon in the stomach. "Kapitalisticheskoy svin'yey."
Haakon folded and fell to his knees. Pain flared through his shoulder and blackness swirled in his vision. Two of the men in suits snatched him under his armpits and dragged him to the chair behind the interrogation table. Sweat drizzled down his forehead and burned his eyes. At least his hand still gripped his Timepiece.
The man with gun turned the inquisitor's chair around and sat in it, his arms resting on the back. He contemplated Haakon for a couple of moments. "I should just shoot you now, but you might know something. Finding an American who speaks perfect Russian tonight, in FBI headquarters, is too much of a coincidence." He turned to his compatriots. "Sergei, stay here with me. Ivan, you're in command of the rest."
The one called Ivan jerked to attention and saluted. "Da, Tovarishch Kutzenov."
Kutzenov pulled out a bulky pocket watch. "In exactly eighteen minutes, Spetznatzgruppa Trinadtsat' will take out the Pilsen power plant, and this part of Chicago will go dark. Be prepared. Now go!"
They stomped out of the room. Kutzenov leaned back and gazed at Haakon through hooded eyes. "So, my American friend. How much does the FBI know about us?"
Haakon shook his head while pushing the chair slightly back and placing his hands on his knees under the table. "They know a lot." He flicked a finger across his timepiece and the screen lit.
"I think they know nothing. Seizing this building was as easy as taking over a kindergarten." He leaned forward. "Americans can't hide anything. We knew all about your government's so-called secret plans to place missiles in Portugal. If your President LeMay doesn't withdraw, there will be nuclear war."
Haakon blinked. "President who?" His thumb hovered over the start icon. One little push and he'd be safe, but he had to follow up on what this crazy Russian said. He'd need to report any details back to Control so they could fix this mess. Missiles in Portugal, for Bog's sake. The Americans never put missiles in Portugal. The missile crisis was because the Russians had put missiles in Cuba.
"Prescott LeMay, of course. Crazy Americans, planting missiles so close to our borders and in violation of the Malenkov-Nixon Treaty. What were you thinking we'd do? Now, tell me what you know about our Chicago operations or Sergei here will dislocate both your shoulders." He smiled and lit a cigarette. The blue smoke filled the room as he exhaled from his nose and examined the coal. "I've heard that is quite painful."
Sergei grinned and cracked his knuckles.
That was enough. Something was horribly wrong. This was an emergency. A Deviation had already occurred, turning the Cuban Missile Crisis on its head. Haakon had to report back to Control. He smiled and pressed the button on his timepiece. In seconds the temporal field formed around him. Sergei leapt back and shielded his face with his arms. "Kakogo khrena?"
The other man grabbed Sergei's pistol and fired, point-blank, at Haakon's head. The temporal field pulsed and crackled, but there had been enough time for it to solidify and absorb the energy of the bullets.
Haakon let a broad smile ease across his lips and gave the man the finger. "Hope you can see that, mudak."
The Russian agent threw the pistol to the floor and again pulled out his pocket watch. His fingers flew across the face. It lit up, and its glow reflected in Kutzenov's features.
Adrenaline pumped through Haakon's body. The man held a Timepiece. He must be reading Haakon's destination, just as Haakon had read Corbett's.
Needles tingled across Haakon's flesh as the field gained power and the sonics keened. In moments of subjective time, the foul-smelling interrogation room vanished. Haakon staggered in the darkness on the uneven ground and stumbled in the furrow between rows of rye. The moon hovered at the horizon and silhouetted the spire of the great Minster at Jorvik. He was back in 1066.