The Bureau of Time (14 page)

They walked side-by-side in silence. They were both too exhausted to talk anymore, but Shaun took comfort in her presence beside him, her hand inches from his own, her signature burning bright in his mind. He wanted to say more to her, wanted to sit and
talk,
for the first time in his life. To have somebody
listen
to him, to understand. He opened his mouth, about to say something, but his courage suddenly deserted him, and he abandoned the idea.

“I should go,” Cassie said, when they had stopped just outside the girls’ dormitory. She lingered beside Shaun, her lips apart, hesitant. He sucked in a deep breath, and before his mind could convince him to do otherwise, he blurted out:

“I was wrong about you.”

His tongue felt swollen in his mouth, but he went on anyway, fumbling the words like an embarrassed schoolgirl, “I – I hope you know that I’m sorry. For what I said.”

“I know,” she said, flashing him a coy smile. Over her shoulder, through the open door, Shaun saw another agent watching them both with a knowing smirk on her face. He took a step around Cassie to block the agent’s sight.

“Listen, if you ever need anything – even if you just want to talk, let me know, okay? We’re in this together, you and I.”

Then Cassie did something completely unexpected – she stepped forward and hugged Shaun, her hair damp against his chin. Heat surged through his cheeks, and his heart did a strange skip. His arms hung awkwardly by his side, and far too late, he made a move to return the embrace.

Then the moment was over, and they had separated again. The awkwardness between them was worse than anything else he’d experienced that day.

“Good night,” Cassie mumbled, not meeting his gaze. She slipped through into the dorm and shut the door. Shaun stood, shocked, mentally berating himself while her warmth still lingered against his chest.

He stood there for a long while, hoping – but for what, he wasn’t sure.

THE SOLDIER

Cassie took a deep breath, her chest expanding, her blood absorbing fresh oxygen and strengthening her arms. She exhaled, her heart slowing and her aim steadying, her concentration focused on the iron-sights of the handgun. The paper target stared back at her, freshly attached and mocking her with its blank expression. The earmuffs silenced the noise of the firing range until she could only hear her own pulse, thumping rhythmically like a drumbeat.

She squeezed the trigger, relaxing her shoulders at the last second.

The gun rocked back with a fiery explosion, heat and gunpowder residue blasting across her hands; the muzzle climbed but she fought the urge to yank it back. She lowered the gun and pulled. Bullets cracked across the range and the paper target twisted like a leaf in the wind.

She counted every shot and anticipated the sixteenth bullet leaving the magazine. The slide racked back, the chamber empty and the magazine depleted. She pressed a button beside her stall and the paper target raced toward her. The silhouette was tattered and barely holding together – her shots had clustered around the chest, hitting the second ring outside of the bullseye.

“Nice work!” Ryan mouthed, clapping her on the shoulder. She twisted one earmuff off, wincing as the roar of the firing range returned in full force. The older teenager let out a low whistle, admiring the target. “That’s incredible. A few more weeks, and you’ll be making
me
look bad.”

Cassie glanced at Ryan’s target, one stall over from hers. His rounds had perfectly punched through the targets’ heart, with one in the head for good measure. She couldn’t tell if he was trying to compliment her, or make fun of her.

“It’s only a paper target,” she said, her voice tight. Ryan’s expression softened and he took the gun from her hand, laying it on the small bench in front of her. She avoided his gaze, heat rushing into her cheeks – embarrassment, frustration, and something else she couldn’t name. She left her thought unsaid:
It’s not a real Adjuster.

“It’s what the target
represents,
” he countered. “You’re improving quickly – what more could you want?”

“You don’t
get
it.” She shook her head, raising her voice above the gunfire. “You weren’t there. You didn’t see how I – I just
froze.
”

It all came rushing back to her – the dark room, the bright flashes of gunfire, Shaun screaming at her,
pleading
for her to pull the trigger. She could hear the Adjusters snarling, and now the blood pounding in her head was getting louder and louder. The gunshots of the firing range were an ocean crashing against the rocks of her consciousness.

Ryan was speaking, concern written across his face. Her heart was racing and she couldn’t breathe – the walls were coming closer, the paper targets multiplying, morphing into sinister Adjusters, their mouths stretched wide—

Cassie turn and ran, slamming through the soundproof doors.

The underground hallways of Brightwood Ranch offered little relief. The recycled air was stale, unwelcoming, crowding in on her. She started pushing past agents and operators alike, her thoughts tumbling through her mind in a dozen different voices, shouting, begging, mocking:
You couldn’t do it—He almost died—You’re not like them, you never will be—You’re not good enough!

Her cheeks were wet, her vision blurry. She couldn’t read the overhead signs, didn’t know where she was in the base. She struggled away from the main corridor and into a bathroom. White light shone overhead, and she leaned against a stainless steel basin, her whole body shaking. She felt nauseous and her stomach churned uneasily; she slid down onto the floor, the tiles cold beneath her.

The roar in her mind quieted enough to allow the noise of the ranch back in. The tears stopped, but the voices didn’t. Rising above them all came another, deeper and more powerful, the words haunting:
“There are some things best left unknown.”

The Bureau of Time couldn’t tell her where she had disappeared to. They didn’t know or even believe that she had somehow been taken to that world of ash and snow; she had told them everything she remembered, and been left with the hollow promise,
“We’ll look into it.”

A loud rush of water startled Cassie, and she realized she wasn’t alone in the bathroom. A stall door opened and Natalie Hunt emerged, an apologetic look on her face that quickly changed to concern.

“Are you okay?” she asked, washing her hands at the sink. Cassie stayed on the floor, her knees under her chin. The voices quieted at the question, grumbling and muttering, and then faded into disgruntled whispers. Even those fell away when Natalie crouched down in front of her and placed a supportive hand on her knee, squeezing gently.

Cassie let out a long, shaky sigh.

“I am now,” she whispered. She didn’t say anything else, and Natalie didn’t ask. She helped Cassie to her feet; Cassie managed a weak smile, her hands finally stilling as she followed Natalie out of the bathroom.

As the door closed, she could have sworn she heard a faint whisper – perhaps it was just another cruel trick of her own mind, but she heard the words,
“The tower must fall.”

*     *     *

The next day, Director Anderson requested Cassie’s presence in his office. The order came at lunchtime, delivered by a young man from her own training company. She glanced up from her food, and shared a worried look with the rest of Clockwork Unit sitting around her.

“I already told him everything I know,” she said aloud. “What could he want to talk about?”

“Don’t know,” Tallon said, with his usual ambivalence. He glanced once at the messenger, then returned to his pasta salad with unusual vigor. “You’d best not keep the Director of Time waiting. He’s an impatient man.”

Cassie swallowed past a thick lump in her throat that had nothing to do with the carb-loaded lunch.

“You’ll be fine,” Shaun said, patting her on the arm. An electric thrill went through her body and she twitched, her heart fluttering nervously.

“It’s probably just a checkup,” Ryan said, offering her a confident smile.

“Timewalker Wright,” the messenger snapped out, keeping his eyes a foot above her head. “Please follow me.”

She stood up and brushed down her fatigue bottoms, wondering if she had time to change into something more formal – the agency had dress uniforms for some of the more pompous exercises of discipline, but the messenger appeared to be in a hurry. She hastily pulled her hair into a knot, then gave Shaun and Ryan one last nervous look before following the duty officer out of the mess hall.

The young man didn’t say another word, and refused to explain why Anderson had summoned her. She was taken through the base, past the gymnasium and armory, around the dormitories and deeper into Sector 7, where the senior agents, unit captains, and directorate personnel had their offices.

She had never been to Anderson’s office before. There was a small vestibule with a reception desk, and a glass door with a golden plaque that read
DIRECTOR OF TIME.
The solider spoke briefly to the receptionist – an older lady with round glasses and a severe bun of gray hair – then left with a respectful head-nod toward Cassie.

She wiped her sweating palms on her pants. Her eyes darted over several picture frames on the wall. The faces of various men looked down on her, their years of service marked beneath their names. In its twenty-five year history, the Bureau had apparently had eleven separate Directors of Time; she wondered how many people had been cycled through the other Directorates, like Intelligence and Monitoring, or Temporal Operations.

“Director Anderson is ready for you,” the receptionist said, her shrill voice startling Cassie.

Her heart beating somewhere in her throat, Cassie pushed the glass door open.

The office was more homely than she had expected – she had been prepared for steel and glass, but instead Anderson had laid a thick rug on the floor, and his desk was mahogany. Display cabinets on either side of the room displayed his military commendations, and on the desk itself sat a photo of a young boy no older than three, with a big cheesy grin on his face.

“Cassie, please, sit down,” Anderson called out from behind his desk. His dark suit was perfectly pressed, the edges so crisp they looked almost deadly. She crossed the open office, feeling more nervous with every step. She was uncomfortably reminded of all the times she’d done something like this before – all the times she had sat at the principal’s office with her parents, or in the later years, just her mother, to discuss her ‘problems’ at school. Everything from the older girls bullying her, to screaming at her teachers that she was being followed by men without faces.

All before I learned to keep quiet. Better to say nothing at all.
She had seen the inside of too many police stations, visited every psychiatrist in New York – she was well-accustomed to dealing with adults’ skepticism and snide questioning.

This was, she realized, as she sank down into a leather armchair, the first time she had ever sat with someone who actually
believed
her – someone who knew she was telling the truth and wasn’t trying to blame some nonexistent condition they could medicate. She didn’t feel as relieved as she’d hoped.

“So,” Anderson said, steepling his hands, and looking at her as though they were old friends, “how have you been?”

The question took her by surprise. “I’m – sorry?”

“How have you been? This place,” Anderson said, with an open gesture, “the agency, is not always the easiest place to assimilate into. We haven’t had a proper chance to talk, you and I. Debriefing doesn’t count.”

Anderson hadn’t spent long with her after the incident at the factory. Only twenty minutes – he had, apparently, spent much longer with Shaun.

“How have you been settling in?” Anderson asked. His face was wrinkled and lined, weathered but kind. He had a grandfatherly look about him, and she wondered if the little boy in the photograph was his grandson.

“It’s been fine,” she lied.
I’m terrified of this new world; I’m terrified of going on another mission; terrified of what they’ll turn me into.

“Natalie tells me you wanted to contact your parents.”

Nothing gets past the Director of Time.
She repressed a shiver. “I did. But…I decided not to.”

In truth, she hadn’t even thought about writing to her father since the Bureau had redacted her letter. The rigorous routine, coupled with her field deployment, had chased those thoughts away. Now they swarmed back to her and she felt heat behind her eyes. She looked down at her lap, unable to meet Anderson’s piercing gaze.

“Why not?”

“I – I don’t know,” she answered, her voice thick. “It’s…easier, I think. I don’t want them to worry, and if I can’t tell them what I’m doing here, then maybe it’s better they don’t know anything at all.”

The words physically hurt, and a tight knot formed in her chest. She balled her hands into fists, forcing the emotion away, locking it in a dark place where it couldn’t hurt her.

“Sir,” she ventured, her voice timid. “What did you want to see me about?”

“Hm?” Anderson said, as though he had completely forgotten about summoning her. “Oh yes, yes,” he said, unfolding his hands. “Two things. Firstly, Doctor Sharma said you had been asking a lot of questions about Temporal Strike 405a.”

405a – the codename for the cement factory.
Her gaze shot up suddenly. She wasn’t surprised that Anderson knew about
that
too, that she had been asking Amita almost daily if Eaglepoint Station knew anything more about
wherever
she and Shaun had been transported to.

Anderson’s expression told her everything she needed to know, and her heart sank.

“Unfortunately,” Anderson said, his words flat and muted, “we have exhausted all of our considerable resources, and we can’t tell you anything more about that incident than you can. Simply put, we have no idea
where
you went, or if that place was even real.”

“It
was
real,” Cassie said, a fierce flame igniting in her stomach. A thousand soul-crushing memories flooded back to her, her voice rising. “Don’t tell me I imagined things! I know where I want, what I saw and felt. Shaun was there too – I pulled him out of the snow, I saved his
life!
”