Tempus Clausuris (7)

Part Seven:  Another truth installed by the machine.


"I can't believe how empty this train is," said Sara, looking up and down the carriage from her aisle seat.  "Did you check those other reservation tickets?"  Dikas shook his head, taking advantage of the free Wi-Fi and firing up her Mac.  "Well, I did, and they were all booked from King's Cross.  But look," she held up a hand, "There's nobody else here."
     "It's a matter of perception," said Dikas, "And what some might call a greater good."  He paused, taking in her blank expression.  "Put it this way, we're alone here - now - because we need to be, not because thirty eight other people apparently missed their train."
     Sara studied him.
     "I still haven't thanked you for dinner."
     "Not necessary."
     "Well, I knew you'd say that, but all the same, thank you.  You're a good cook."
     Dikas appeared to wince at the compliment, making her smile.
     "Assembly, combination, and treatment, Miss Ryland."
     "Whoa," she laughed, "Easy on the descriptive passion, there."  He frowned, not getting her intentional irony.  "If you ever write a recipe book, make sure you get a good editor."
     Even as she said it, she realised her unconscious error.  Hamlet without the Prince, she thought.  Damn it, that's what this is.
     "Something, someone we both know who could fulfil that role," sighed Dikas.  They shared a glance before he resumed typing.
     "Except that's the wrong tense, isn't it?  Present when it should be past."  Sara looked out at the suburban scenery, trying to make sense of the numerous conflicts going through her mind.  "Doing what he does.  When you and I first met, I was not in a good place."
     Dikas stopped typing and stared at her.
     "You doubted my reality?"
     "Well, yeah.  Initially.  I was on some pretty hardcore meds, and the connection was just so...random.  I mean, what are the odds?  And hitting me with that massive paradigm shift, and telling me that he'd changed..."
     Dikas was holding out a handkerchief to her.
     "You're crying, Miss Ryland."
     "I am?"  She reached up, suddenly aware of the moisture on her face.  "I am.  Well, there goes the fucking mascara."  She laughed, accepting the handkerchief.  "I'm sorry.  Sometimes the focus goes a little wonky, you know?  What the Hell are you working on, anyway?"
     Dikas flipped the Mac around to show her the screen.
     "I've been compiling notes on AktionHive's plans regarding the AV.  I don't think David Cutter will be significant, but I can see why our associate might want some leverage there."
     Sara raised an eyebrow.
     "Our...associate?  Is that what we're calling him?"
     "I didn't want to..."
     "It's okay, really.  Christ, until you showed up I thought he might be dead."
     "A more common shared belief than you might imagine," said Dikas, turning her laptop back around and resuming work.
     Wherever he is, thought Sara, I hope he's dealing with all this better than I am.


To be continued...
      

Tempus Clausuris (6)

Part Six:  Grains of sand is all we are.


David Cutter didn't look happy, but there were at least two good reasons for that, one of which Bernie recognised as soon as he entered Cutter's office.  It was four minutes to ten.
     "Sasha Marx," he said, taking in the gun, the designer-military gear, and her new hair colour, but choosing - for the moment - to focus on the latter detail.  "You look good blonde, it really suits you."
     "You know this bitch?" asked Cutter.  Hans whacked him on the cheek with his Glock G22, making Cutter yelp.
     "Yeah," said Bernie Taylor, "But only socially.  And, by the way, I've no idea what's going on here."  He looked up at Sasha.  "Are you and Mick back together?"
     Sasha shook her head.
     "No, Bernie.  Well, only geographically.  He's in the van downstairs."
     "And fucking fired!" shouted Cutter.
     "Unconscious," added Hans, staring at Cutter and clearly debating whether or not to hit him again.  "You're being unnecessarily harsh, Mister Cutter.  Mister Routledge has been anything but a willing participant in this endeavour."  He glanced at Bernie, inclining his head slightly.  "Hans Ollen.  Pleased to meet you, Mister Taylor."
     "Er, likewise.  Look, I'm only here to do my job, yeah?  If Mick's got himself into some kind of nonsense with you lot, then that's really nothing to do with me."
     Sasha laughed, slipping her gun back into its holster and jumping down off Cutter's desk.
     "Opportunity should be the watchword of the vigilant, Bernie!  And I doubt your definition of nonsense would truly apply here.  Right now, you - and your job - represent a means to an end, for all of us.  You're no slouch when it comes to specificity, that much I remember about you."  She stared at him.  "We need everything you can dig up on Sara Ryland.  Forget the trivial, we've already checked her home address and come up with an empty flat.  Lots of books, and an appalling amount of unwashed underwear, but zip in terms of either the here and now, or her connections."
     Cutter frowned.
     "Look," he said, "We get twenty or thirty applications for the paid internship every year and sure, I was impressed with hers, but what the fuck is your interest in all of this?"
     Bernie frowned.  How pseudo-clever was his boss being here?
     "David, normally in circumstances like these, not that we've ever really been in circumstances quite like these, I admit, I'd give you the look, and request a quick word in your office.  But we're in your office and, sorry for being boring, but I'm only here because you texted me to come in and do a data-scramble on Sara Ryland.  Oh, and by the way, that thousand pound bonus will be greatly appreciated."
     David Cutter shook his head.
     "No.  You must be out of your fucking mind, Bernie.  I most certainly did not send you a text, and you can fucking well forget any kind of bonus for this fucking nightmare."  He glanced at Hans and his Glock G22.  "Look at this fucking stormtrooper.  You think I want an audience for this shit?"
     "Oh, that's interesting," said Sasha.  She glanced at Bernie.  "Still got that text?"
     "Yeah, sure," said Bernie, handing over his 'phone.  "It's the most recent one there."
     Sasha did some scrolling, laughed at the reference in the text to Mick Routledge being AWOL, and then tossed the 'phone to Hans.  "The rabbit hole just got a lot deeper.  By design."
     "Agreed," said Hans, copying the text and trans-locating the source on his own 'phone.  "And, if Cade's truly running the show, then we're all players now whether we like it or not."
     Bernie almost involuntarily raised his hand.
     "Can I suggest getting Mick out of the van now?"


To be continued...

Tempus Clausuris (5)

Part Five:  Miracles will happen as we speak.


Bernie Taylor arrived home feeling annoyed, and his mood didn't improve when his sister called.
     "Yeah?"
     "Oh wow, you sound pissed off."
     "I am," said Bernie, opening the 'fridge door and looking for something - anything - with a use-by date within the last calendar month.  "A bit, anyway.  What do you want?"  Beef stew and dumplings.  He had some issues with the 'British Classic' by-line, but it fell into his 3-day zone of safety, so into the microwave it went.
     "Nothing spectacular, but Deralyn wanted you to know that she thought your shorts were very funky."
     Bernie frowned, trying to remember who the Hell Deralyn was.  Then it hit him - the pseudo-date his sister had arranged last weekend.
     "Y'know, she's got my number.  She could've told me herself."
     Silence on the line.  Never good.
     "Bernie..."
     "Look," he said, watching the countdown timer on the microwave and grabbing a fork from the draining board, "I know your world view barely functions without everyone in it being in a soul-destroying, so-called stable relationship, but I've got to tell you, I couldn't care less.  Three years since I parted company with Jess, and I really haven't looked back.  At all.  I'm okay, sis, I truly am.  Thanks for your efforts, but you've got to stop with this ersatz matchmaking bullshit, okay?"
     More silence.  Guaranteed shitstorm.
     "She likes you, but you freaked her out talking about Nietzsche, and being overwhelmed by the tribe.  Her ex-boyfriend is a neo-Nazi, for fuck's sake!"
     "Well, I had no way of knowing that, did I?"  Ping.  Beep, beep beep, beep, beep.  "I gotta go.  Dinner's ready."
     He pressed the hang-up rounded square on his 'phone before she could get into that familiar diatribe about their mother being 'right' all along.
     Sitting on the sofa, prodding at his unappetising dinner with his fork, he scrambled through his 'phone for Deralyn's number.  As he did so, a text came in from his boss, David Cutter:
     "Sorry to bother you on downtime, but this is BIG.  Routledge is AWOL.  I need you to data-scramble Sara Ryland, all bases.  Meet me back at office 22:00.  Bonus if you need it.  1K."
     Bernie poked at a lump of what once might've been beef, and stared at it.
     "A thousand pounds for doing what I do best, but off the books?  Fuck, yeah.  I'll see you as something else in the Chicken Shack, Sloane Square, covered in BBQ sauce, baby."


Less than a mile away, at that exact moment, Dikas froze at the keyboard.
     "They're coming, Miss Ryland.  Many forms, many directions.  Many purposes."
     She looked up from her back-up Mac, surprised.
     "What?"
     "For you, for him, for us."
     Sara slammed down the lid of her Mac.
     "Could you be a little more...specific?"
     Dikas leaned back, seemingly taking in his surroundings for the first time.
     "This is a bad place, Miss Ryland.  Hard to defend.  Not what Fate would like."
     She glanced at her Ikea shelf units and rugs from the Warehouse.
     "Right now, I feel like telling Fate to go fuck itself."
     Dikas grimaced, and shut down the laptop.
     "This is never easy.  It never gets easier.  This, I have noticed.  It's the burden of impromptu physicality in a digital world, but no less intimidating.  We need to go."
     Sara Ryland stood up, shoving her Mac back into its bag.
     "Go where?  Do I need to pack anything?"
     "Essentials," said Dikas, "However you define them.  As for where we should go, I have some options."  He hesitated, taking in her expression.  "Most of them you'll hate, but one is totally off their..." He paused again.
     "Radar?  That's the expression.  'Off their radar.'"
     "Such old technology!" laughed Dikas, clapping his hands.
     "Yeah, sure," said Sara, "Now you're up to date with all the whiz-bang horrors of the twenty-first century."
     He widened his eyes.
     "Excellent point.  Best leave your 'phone behind."
     She busied herself around the flat, grabbing bits and bobs and shoving them into an old Spirit of St. Louis holdall.  By the time she'd finished, Dikas was standing at the door.
     "So where are we going?" she asked, checking that her Oyster card was still in her pocket.
     "You won't like it."
     "Try me."
     "Kilburn."
     "Well," she said, "That could be worse."
     Dikas looked sheepish.
     "Kilburn, North Yorkshire.  I have access to a cottage."  He produced a set of keys, jangling them in front of her as she let out a resigned sigh.


To be continued...