The Time Travel Directorate (4 page)

The mountainous
landscape could belong to any number of locations—from Colorado to Switzerland. The wind whipped around Vin’s confused form as he identified a wooden shack several yards away. Tucking the web into the back of his pants, Vin started towards it, before hearing the sound of movement directly behind him.

W
hirling around, Vin watched as a robed figure walked towards him. His shiny bald head and prayer necklace implied his vocation. It was a monk.

Vin
blinked, wondering if he was dreaming. The monk stopped before him, studying Vin intently.

Vin
pondered the obscurity of the scene before him, belatedly realizing he must be in ancient China—the man before him a Shaolin monk.

“
I’m here for training,” Vin said, feeling a mixture of altitude and anxiety suppress his breathing.

He
could feel the blood rushing through his ears—so loud he assumed the monk could hear as well.

Without answering, the monk
gestured past him towards the shack. Vin followed, wondering if Chief Smiley made a mistake. He expected a military training center, replete with weapons, obstacle courses, rock walls—that sort of thing. There was nothing here save this pathetic shack and the relentless mountain wind.

A
s Vin followed the monk, they cleared a sloping incline, entering a courtyard strewn with odd-looking implements. The monk stopped before one of these.

The
large wooden cross stood about eye level. Two large jugs were placed on either side—each brimming with water. Hanging on the arms of the cross were two jugs. The monk gestured towards the apparatus, speaking in broken English.

“Hang from your knees. Move water
from the bottom to the top.”

Vin
stared at him incredulously, visualizing in his mind what the monk was asking him to do.

“There must be some mistake
,” he said, wondering why Chief Smiley would send him thousands of years back in time to do inverted sit-ups.

H
e pulled the web from his back pocket, tapping on the reading pane frantically.

Vin
sent a message requesting help—feeling a wave of embarrassment as the monk calmly watched his movements. Vin nervously refreshed the screen, growing more anxious as no response arrived. Chief Smiley’s words came back to haunt him. No one could travel without an endpoint. Vin was stuck there, until Chief Smiley decided to bring him back.

Swearing under his breath,
Vin tossed the web down. Not knowing how to start, he studied the water jugs with a bemused expression.

The monk
pointed to the cross.

“
Begin.”

“What am I supposed to move the water with?”
Vin asked, as the monk removed two small tea cups from his robe.

Vin
moved forward to get a better look at the two large jars of water on the ground. Move all that water? While hanging upside down? This was right out of a bad kung fu movie.

H
e lifted his legs over the arms of the cross, releasing his torso towards the ground—head inches from the grass. Wincing at the pain in his limbs, he tried to relax. From his upside-down vantage point, the monk handed him the teacups.

“
Take these,” he directed, lifting Vin halfway up and dipping the teacups into the jugs of water.

“Draw water,
” the monk said, “sit up,” he continued, pulling Vin to where his knees were shaking uncontrollably. “Throw out,” he finished—pouring the water into the hanging basins.

As the monk stepped back,
Vin let his head fall back to the ground. Grunting with effort, he sat up, filling the cups before sitting up further and dumping them into the hanging basins. After several minutes, his torso was on fire.

“This is going to take forever,”
Vin intoned, feeling the blood rush to his head as he hung limply.

“
Time is not important,” the monk responded, “now continue.”

Kanon’s
last meal consisted of stale bread, tasting more of stones than flour. After picking out the edible bits, she heard sounds coming from the other end of the cell door. As it eased open, one of the guards entered, roughly lifting her up and out.

Blinking at the torch light after being enshrouded in darkness for what seemed like days,
Kanon saw the Duchess outside her cell. Looking dirty and scared, Kanon whispered reassurances as they were led out of the dungeons and into the gated courtyard from the previous day.

Blinking in the daylight,
Kanon identified several guards from their abduction. They stood huddled together at one end of the courtyard, swearing and telling jokes. Kanon studied their red caps and loose-fitting breeches—all items associated with revolutionaries. However, there was one man she did not recognize. He stood apart from the others, and while he was similarly dressed, he was significantly taller—nearly six feet at least.

He must be in charge
,
Kanon thought, studying his cool, detached demeanor.

Once he saw them
, he gestured to the other guards. They seized the Duchess first, pulling her towards a lone wooden bench. Kanon watched in horror as they slashed her hair—the plumes soundlessly drifting to the ground.

When
the Duchess realized what was happening, she began squirming.

“Stop!
Don’t you know me?” she cried, fighting against them.

The guards held her steady, cutting the back of her gown to expose her snow-white neck.

S
tunned, she sat silently. One burly guard removed her shackles. Throwing them aside, he tied her hands with a bit of cording. He then brought her roughly to her feet, moving with intention towards Kanon. Before he reached her, the tall guard straightened.

“As you were,” he commanded.

The man stopped, looking at Kanon queerly as the guard who was surely their leader walked towards her.

“Time for la toilette, Countess
,” he said, removing her shackles and replacing them with a thin cord.

He didn’t tie it very well, and
Kanon realized he had given her a few inches of space in-between her hands. He had only uttered a few words, but did she detect a foreign accent? Perhaps Julius had these men brought in from overlying areas. Why else would they act against two women of preeminent social status?

With a gentle hand, he guided her to the wooden bench the Duchess had vacated.
Kanon sat down heavily, hearing the sound of the shears as her hair floated to the ground. She took a deep breath, steadying herself as the guard dutifully snipped her gown down the back.

What happened next took her by surprise, as
he put his hands on her shoulders, squeezing them as he drew her up from the bench.

Turning to face him,
Kanon looked into his velvety brown eyes—why had he appealed to her in this way. Could this be a sign?

“Merci,” s
he said, her voice wavering.

The
tall guard made no answer, as he turned and barked out an order. With the Duchess in tow, he walked her through the iron gates of the courtyard, greeted by a
gendarmerie
—a heavy wooden tumbrel.

Kanon
knew this would transport them to the guillotine, and seemingly so did the Duchess. She began fighting with the guards—making it as difficult as possible to get her inside.

The
large, burly guard swiftly lost patience, moving to strike her.

Kanon
lurched forward to assist, feeling a hand grip her tightly.

“
Don’t!” her escort whispered under his breath.

Kanon
watched helplessly as the guard struck the Duchess, knocking her down and placing her prostrate form in the cart. Kanon whirled around.

“Who are you?” she asked accusingly.

The man met her intense stare, his face devoid of emotion. Had he, in fact, spoken? Or was Kanon’s mind playing tricks on her?

“All will be revealed Countess,” he
finally murmured in response, directing her into the tumbrel.

Kanon
obediently climbed inside, moving to console the Duchess as best she could.

“Not long now,”
she whispered, unsure of what else to say.

T
he cart groaned forward, which seemed to stir the anxieties of the Duchess. She whimpered loudly as they continued across the Quai du Louvre and into the rue St. Honoré. At this juncture, they turned towards the Palace de la Revolution where the guillotine awaited them. Kanon noted a few people milling around, but once they turned towards the square, they were greeted by a veritable mob.

Kanon
heard whistling sounds, realizing they were throwing things at the cart. She bent down as a rock flew past. It was too much for the Duchess, who suddenly shrieked out at them.

“Whatever they said about me
are lies! My only crime is to shed tears!”

“
Quiet!” Kanon hissed. “Leave the rabble alone.”

This outbreak proved to be too exciting
for the mob, which continued throwing things at the cart as they progressed into the Palace de la Revolution.

Kanon
bent over the Duchess as missiles whizzed past them. Suddenly, the cart halted. Kanon tentatively looked up, the scene before her filling her body with adrenaline.

T
he guillotine loomed before them in hideous, raw simplicity—the blade glittering in the sunlight. The air was thick with excitement, as storm clouds loomed ominously to the north, a sharp breeze hinting at a break in the acrid heat.

Searching the
square for any assistance, Kanon narrowed in on a commotion under one balcony facing the square. Situated upon it was a lone figure, enthusiastically throwing items to the mob. Judging from his height and mop of greying hair, Kanon easily identified him as Julius Arnold.

She
recognized a delicate pillow as it cascaded through the air, realizing he had taken the loot from the Duchesses’ carriage and was throwing it into the crowd. It caused a frenzy, the mob ripped and tore their fine fabrics and cushions to pieces.

When he saw the stalled
tumbrel, he straightened. Clapping his hands, he ordered silence. Standing on his balcony, he gave the signal to the wiry executioner standing next to the guillotine.

Kanon’s
mind raced, if Julius was able to bring about her death, what would become of Standard D? The Directorate? Her thoughts were interrupted as the executioner raised the guillotine blade. With the Duchess huddled behind her, Kanon watched as he swiftly pulled a cord, the blade slicing a cabbage on the plank below. The crowd erupted in glee as the executioner picked up the remains, showing it to the crowd.

The Duchess fainted at the sigh
t—and though her hands were still tied, Kanon did her best to revive her.

“Duchess, ple
ase don’t lose hope!” she cried.

“Oh!” the Duchess cried, coming to. “I have already felt the pain of a thousand deaths.”

The words broke whatever spell Kanon was under, stiffening her resolve. She would not go quietly to the guillotine to be butchered! Nor would she retreat into the anxiety consuming the Duchess. Kanon was an inspector, it was high time she acted like one.

Turning towards the balcony,
she fixed her attention on the person waving to the crowd. As the mob grew quiet once again, his slightly accented voice boomed through the square.

“These
women concocted a vile plan to overthrow the King of France!” he began, the roar of the crowd almost drowning out his words.

When
Kanon could hear him again, he was reading off vague pronouncements of their guilt, mostly having to do with criticizing the King at the Duchess’s masquerade ball. As she strained to hear, the Duchess, fully revived, threw herself at Kanon.

“But this is unjust
, Cécile—these charges are without merit!” she cried.

Kanon
whispered assurances, as she turned her attention to freeing her hands from the bindings. The guard had given her several vital inches—she could almost slip her wrists from them.

“But we have done nothing wrong,” the Duchess cried to herself as Kanon continued fighting her restraints. As she did, Julius was reading the final verdict for their crimes—pronouncing the sentence of death.

“
And now let us begin, with the Duchess du Lac!” he finished to the roar of the crowd.

The
Duchess fell down in terror, and Kanon cried out in anguish. It was all happening too fast. With a wave to the executioner, Julius sat down to watch.

T
he tumbrel moved forward, coming to a halt as it reached the scaffolding. They were now directly in front of the guillotine—eye-level with the basket that would soon hold their heads.

The
Duchess started crying as the executioner advanced on the tumbrel, lifting her from the cart. Kanon watched helplessly as he tied her wriggling body onto the plank.

“
My only crime is to shed tears!” the Duchess cried, the familiar refrain cutting through Kanon’s heart.

Throwing herself to the front of the tumbrel, she cried out in the loudest voice she could muster.

“Stop!” Kanon cried, directing her outburst to Julius, who looked mildly amused.

“I demand a trial to witness my denunciation of these charges.”

Julius smiled, shifting his weight and watching the reaction of the
crowd.

“
A trial which you manipulate, Countess de la Motte? How very provincial,” he said, clearing his throat. “Boldness such as yours is characteristic of crime—calm is the manner of innocence.”

“When I am so unjustly accused how can you expect me to restrain myself? Let someone who has evidence of my collusion step forward,” Kanon cried, her reason holding sway with the mob.

The Duchess,
realizing what was occurring, called to her friend.

“
Cécile, do not wager with these animals!” she cried, as Kanon winced at the words.

Momentarily transfixed by
the exchange, the mob had now turned on the Duchess in vile cries.

Julius appeared delighted with the turn of events, signaling for the executioner to proceed.
He moved the plank forward, situating the Duchess’ head through a round opening. As the crowd roared with anticipation, Kanon frantically shook the cart, screaming at the top of her lungs.

When
the cries of the bloodthirsty mob reached a fever pitch, Julius gave the signal. The executioner swiftly pulled the cord, watching the giant blade fall with the blasé of a cat.

Kanon
shrank down, hearing the reverberating cry of the crowd as the blade made a heaving sound. Staring at the bottom of the wooden cart, she closed her eyes, saying a short and demanding prayer.

Lifting her head, s
he watched as the executioner took the lifeless body of the Duchess off the plank. He bent down, collecting her head from the basket before turning to show it to the crowd.

It was then t
he clouds opened, the raindrops quickly turning into a veritable downpour. The shower seemed to rile the mob even more. Kanon drew in a smooth breath as she watched the guillotine blade, now streaked with blood, rise once more.

Pushing against
her restraints, she slipped one wrist out, and then the other. This act seemed to melt her fears away, she was no longer afraid.

“And now!” cried Julius, pointing at the
cart with excitement, “Bring the citizens justice by taking the head of Countess . . . ”

“Julius
Arnold!” Kanon’s cried, speaking in English in a loud, clear voice.

Julius flinched, momentarily stunned.

Kanon smiled. It would be hard for him to explain to his fellow revolutionaries what this exchange was about.

Clearing her throat, she continued.

“You are in violation of the time travel code, 15c subsection 4. Travel to restricted areas of historical significance in threat of altering the Standard Deviation of time travel continuums.”

A wicked grin
appeared on Julius’ face as Kanon continued.

“
As an inspector of the Time Travel Directorate, I am authorized to eliminate you immediately.”

This annoyed him
. He leaned across the balcony.

“And how is that
working out for you, Inspector Hay?” Julius shot back, raising his voice above the rolling thunder. “From my vantage point, it is you who will suffer an untimely death. Imagine what fun we will have in this world once each inspector is erased from it.”

“You are living on borrowed time
,” Kanon snapped back. “So enjoy it while it lasts.”

“We shall see,
” Julius said succinctly, calling to the guards in French. “Bring the Countess onto the scaffold.”