The Map Master issued a barrage of instructions. ‘Connor – isolate Area 4b. Magnify. More . . . more . . . Hennessy, slave the replica to the original. I want a moment-by-moment track. Khouri – set up a series of replicas. I want forward projections. And a specific location. Above all, I want to know if it looks like it’s deviating from its normal path. All of you – move.’
Techs swept the debris from their workstations and began to fire up additional screens, shouting to each other. Above them, the Song of the Time Map faltered.
The Map Master’s voice rose above the clamour. ‘Don’t just stand there. Someone get me the duty officer. Move.’
In a considerably less stressed part of the building, Captain Farenden was frowning at a report from one of the clean-up crews that would lead anyone not actually acquainted with a clean-up crew to assume they had the literary levels of a haystack, when Major Ellis entered.
There was no preamble. ‘Sorry, Charlie, I need to speak to Commander Hay immediately.’
‘She has the Principal Management Team with her.’
‘Chuck them out.’
Some people might wait for anything from thirty minutes to thirty days to see Commander Hay. Major Ellis was not one of those people.
Captain Farenden got to his feet and limped to the door. Tapping, he entered.
‘Ma’am, your urgent attention is required.’
Commander Hay and Captain Farenden had worked together for a long time. They’d been field officers in the Time Wars. Over the years they’d developed a code. Certain phrases said more than the actual words. She rose to her feet. ‘My apologies, everyone. I’m afraid we’ll have to postpone the rest of this meeting. Charlie will reschedule.’
They filed out.
Major Ellis stood aside for the PMT – frequently described by Commander Hay as something unpleasant and unavoidable that happened every month – to file past him, then strode into her office, saying, ‘You might want to come in as well, Charlie. We have a problem.’
Commander Hay was closing down her data stack. ‘Well, Major?’
‘I’m duty officer today, ma’am. I’ve just received this from the Map Master.’ He passed over his scratchpad. ‘Time-slip at Versailles.’
‘Again?’ She flicked through the scratchpad and looked up, saying sharply, ‘It says here that Farrell was involved. Tell me he didn’t initiate it.’
A trifle defensively, Major Ellis informed her that no, Trainee Farrell had discovered the anomaly, not caused it.
‘I thought he was banned from the Map Room.’
‘I believe the Map Master has relented, ma’am. Somewhat.’
‘Really? I didn’t know she had it in her. Not where her precious Map’s concerned.’
He pointed at the scratchpad. ‘As the Map Master herself admits, ma’am, Farrell was able to identify and isolate this anomaly long before anyone else even had a whiff of it.’
‘Good to see his old skills haven’t deserted him.’ She passed him back his scratchpad. ‘Now you’re no longer signed off, I want you on this one, Major. Time-slips are always tricky and we need to shut it down as soon as possible. Who do we have available at the moment?’
‘There’s my team, ma’am, Lt Chigozie’s team and Lt Grint’s team. Ten people altogether, plus any Hunters Major Callen can spare.’
‘Is it spreading?’
‘Unknown as yet, ma’am. The Map Master has two teams monitoring the time-slip, but it is moving. One end appears relatively stable in 1901. The other end, in 1789, for some reason, is not.’
‘Because . . . ?’
‘Unknown as yet, ma’am. It could be anything.’
She drummed her fingers. ‘Something must be different this time. Something perhaps trying to send events down a different course. I don’t need to tell you how serious that could be, Major. Take whoever and whatever you need and check it out immediately. You’ll need to be quick, but most of all, you’ll need to be discreet. There are contemporaries involved. No one must be aware of your presence. Whatever you do – get it shut down. Charlie, can you designate a replacement duty officer, please.’
Team 236 were yanked out of the dining room. At least one third of them was not happy about this.
‘How can we be having an emergency?’ complained Parrish. ‘They keep telling us – it’s not when you depart, it’s when you arrive, and we can arrive at any time we like.’
Jane and Matthew pushed him, alternately chewing and protesting, out of the dining room.
On his way to the briefing, Ellis encountered Officer North.
‘Are you on this one, Celia?’
She fell in beside him. ‘I’ve been asked to provide an historical briefing, sir.’
‘Excellent. I’ve been meaning to ask – how are you enjoying Hunter Division?’
‘Quite a lot, actually.’
‘Are you working alone these days?’
‘Mostly. Although Lt Bower roped me in on Project Bluebird.’
‘Yes, I hear that was very successfully concluded.’
‘He went in the front – I was waiting around the back . . .’
‘Dressed as a homeless person, I hear.’
‘Yes,’ she said briefly.
‘And you got both of them as they climbed out of the window.’
‘The clothes were uncomfortable and smelled so I was anxious to conclude the mission as quickly as possible.’
Already present in Briefing Room 2 were Lt Grint and his team, consisting of Trainees Hansen, Kohl and Rossi – Team 235. Team 236 arranged themselves untidily behind them. No one looked at anyone else.
An uninformed observer would find it hard to believe these two teams had done their basic training together. Since then they had gone their separate ways. Team 235 had followed the traditional Time Police path – a strong team of four officers, well-disciplined and integrated. Their views of the slightly more unconventional Team 236 were well known and inter-team relations had been poor, culminating in the recent unfortunate incident in the Pod Bay when former 235 member Alek Anders had been shot dead. An event never mentioned by anyone. And now Team 235 was down to three men as well. Hostile glances were exchanged.
‘I’m surprised to see you here,’ said Luke chattily to Grint, still seemingly unaware of the respect due to higher-ranking officers. ‘This must be your last mission before your transfer out to BeeBOC.’
Grint wasn’t the world’s fastest learner but in his book only an idiot engaged Parrish in conversation. He busied himself, meaty fingers bashing away at his scratchpad and ignored him.