Bureau of Investigative Time-Travel: Episodes 1-8

By Alydia Rackham

An office-bound agent gets one chance—one—to go out into the field and live her dream. But she may be sent right back to her desk if she fails to rein in a roguish, impulsive Ripperologist.

Agent Artful Doyle, the Bureau's expert on Reports and Regulations, has been unexpectedly given an assignment after three years doing paperwork. She's been sent to "bring to heel" their foremost Ripperologist, Agent Darrish Fox, who shows dangerous signs of going rogue. But when she finally arrives in Victorian London and discovers what Agent Fox has been investigating, she realizes that situations in the field are rarely as cut-and-dried as they are on paper. The Bureau has always used technology that simulates ghosts and haunted houses to disguise their presence in the past, but now, it seems that not all Bureau ghosts are accounted for--and a mysterious entity may be using that same technology for illegal and sinister purposes...

• Language: English
• Publisher: Alydia Rackham
• Release date: Apr 16, 2024
• ISBN: 9798223902652

Alydia Rackham

Alydia Rackham is a daughter of Jesus Christ. She has written more than thirty original novels of many genres, including fantasy, time-travel, steampunk, modern romance, historical fiction, science fiction, and allegory. She is also a singer, actress, avid traveler, artist, and animal lover. 

Book preview

Episode 1: The Ghost Division

Agent Artful Doyle

TO BRING JUSTICE IN THE PRESENT DAY

Artful Doyle sighed, tapping her pencil absent-mindedly on the folder on her desk as she stared at those words, which were embossed in gold in the dark marble wall in front of her. Those same words, for three years. Ever since the day she first arrived at the Bureau, and was given this desk right here—where dozens of smartly-clad interns had promptly built a fortress of brown file-folders all around three sides of the desk, so high that they blocked those words.

Her goal, by the end of each week, was to have reduced the stacks until she could see those words again...

...only to have them inevitably hidden again when she arrived at work the next Monday morning.

She sighed, tapping her foot in time with her pencil—only faintly realizing that it also kept rhythm with the workings of the giant clocks elsewhere in the building—monstrous, massive piles of two-ton gears clicking and grinding away in the floors above and below her. She glanced up at the small office clock that hung above the golden words. Its brass pendulum swung back and forth with a soft tick-tick-tick. Its plain face looked blank and sleepy. 

Five minutes till five. Friday evening.

She lowered her head and rubbed the bridge of her nose.

She should be finishing this file. She was almost done. But at about noon today, a knife-like pain had shafted through her left eye and into her brain. She should have gone home, complaining of an honest-to-goodness migraine. No one would have stopped her.

But she never did that. No, it was work, work, work, no matter the personal discomfort. Work until it’s done. Because if she didn’t do it, who would?

Miss Doyle?

What? Artful’s head jerked up, and she blinked to see Candra, a blonde, skinny intern, step in through the right-hand door. Candra stopped, putting her hands behind her back, and raised her eyebrows.

I’m sorry, did I scare you?

No, Artful said quickly, blinking again and trying to clear her vision. No, I was just...thinking.

Director Mansion wants to see you in his office.

Artful glanced at the clock.

What—now?

Yes, Candra nodded. He says it’s important.

Artful cleared her throat and pushed back her chair. Its wheels squeaked loudly. She stood up, tucked a strand of her short, dark red hair behind her ear, and straightened her brocaded black jacket. She smoothed her purple velvet skirt, then nodded to Candra as she strode past her toward the same door.

Her dress-boot heels clicked on the marble as she pushed through the beaten wooden door and turned right, following the long, stone hallway toward the director’s office. The yellowish lights in their cages overhead didn’t provide much useful illumination, but she knew her way by now. Other agents of the Bureau walked briskly up and down all around her, going in and out of doors and other hallways, their shoes adding to the noise of her own, as well as the sounds of the gears and the steam traveling through the pipes, and the snap of electricity.

She took deep breaths as she kept her paces measured, fighting off that pain in her head, and smoothing her facial features. Finally, she arrived at the director’s office, turned left, and took hold of the brass knob. She twisted it, and stepped through.

She entered the carpeted anteroom, finding the director’s long-nosed, black-haired secretary behind her desk, rapping noisily on her typewriter. Towers of wooden filing cabinets stood around her, atop which stood more piles of empty folders. The light in here was better, and a brightly-burning lamp illuminated the secretary’s work. The room smelled like paper and wood polish.

Miss Able? Artful called, keeping her voice just loud enough to be heard over the keys.

Miss Able, her hair back in a severe bun, looked over her wire spectacles, and her small mouth tightened. She lifted her spidery hands off the keys.

Yes, Miss Doyle?

I was told Director Mansion wanted to see me, Artful answered, stepping in further.

I’ll buzz you in, Miss Able replied, reached over to a box that spilled wires, and pushed a black button.

A low, rattling bzzzt issued—and the tall door in the corner clicked open.

You may go in, Miss Able said, and without a second glance, started rattling away at the keys again.

Setting her jaw, Artful closed her hands, stepped around the desk, and through the door.

She took another deep breath as she entered, straightening her shoulders. This was a large room, its walls covered in dark shelves full of books. A simple rug covered the floor, and a large oak desk stood in front of her, though it faced the wall to her right. At it sat a man with thinning grey hair—though he was tall and powerfully-built, at perhaps forty-five years old. He wore a classic black suit, waistcoat and tie, and a pipe sat by a tray near his work. He busily wrote with a fountain pen on a piece of stationery—broad, clean, sure strokes. 

Director Mansion? Artful called, stopping where she was.

Yes, Miss Doyle, come in please, he said, without looking up. Sit down.

Artful ventured closer, and gingerly sank down into one of the leather chairs in front of his desk. She said nothing, listening to the deep clicking of the clocks all around—and the ticking of the director’s own antique clock that sat on his desk—as his pen finished its final flourish.

At last, his black eyes darted up and met hers.

He wasn’t a handsome man, but a striking one. He had a heavy, frowning brow, a short nose, and a straight line of a mouth, with a strong jaw. He nodded to her, put the cap on his pen and set it down, then sat back in his chair.

Thank you for coming, he said, his voice deep and sharp. I know it’s past your time to clock out.

No trouble at all, sir, Artful answered. How can I help you?

I have an assignment for you, he said. Something that’s a little different than what you’ve been doing.

Artful’s heart skipped a beat.

Oh? she sat up, squeezing her fingers together in her lap.

He eyed her for a moment, then leaned forward and folded his hands on his desk.

What do you know about the early Victorian period in England, Agent Doyle?

Um...Well, can you be more specific, sir? What year are we talking about?

1843, he replied.

Artful took a breath, her brow furrowing.

Well, Queen Victoria was twenty-four years old, Robert Peel was the Prime Minister; Edward Drummond, the Prime Minister’s secretary, was shot; the Thames Tunnel was opened; Ada Lovelace expanded and translated an algorithm for calculating a sequence of Bernoulli numbers; and A Christmas Carol by Charles Dickens was published. Artful paused with a faint smile. Among quite a few other things.

Mhm, the director murmured, still eying her acutely. My understanding was that you are far more familiar with the period than that.

Well...Yes, sir, Artful admitted. I studied the early English-Victorian period at the academy. The clothing, the hairstyles, the food, the hygiene, dialects, slang, customs, protocol, architecture, means of travel, technology... Artful took a breath. It was my goal to be assigned there, hopefully to the 1830’s. But the year I graduated from the academy, policy changed—and no one new from the States was allowed to be assigned to the British Division.

The director said nothing, just tapped his thumbs together, studying her so closely that she began to sweat.

She swallowed and straightened her shoulders.

Are you needing a report on something particular, sir? Artful prompted, levelling her tone. If you’re sending an agent into the field next week, I can have that report fully completed by five p.m. Monday.

"I am sending an agent into the field, yes, he said. I’m sending you."

Artful stared at him.

Me, sir? she asked, her voice low.

Yes, he affirmed. Along with being well-versed in the practical aspects of living in that time, you’re our foremost expert on policy. You also wrote the book on how to keep accurate and ethical field journals and reports. Literally. He opened a side drawer, reached in, and pulled out a file folder. You’re the best one for this job.

I’m afraid I don’t understand, Artful confessed, frowning.

Have you ever heard of Agent Darrish Fox?

Artful blinked.

Yes, of course I have, she said. He’s an expert in the late Victorian period with an emphasis on Ripperology, and was the last American graduate to be assigned to the British Division. But the reason I know about him is because he closed the book on Jack the Ripper. He’s absolutely famous in Victorian circles.

The director nodded, clearing his throat and opening the folder. Artful looked at him sideways, her frown deepening.

What is it, sir?

"Agent Fox was supposed to report back here this afternoon at three o’clock. He failed to do so. And this comes after I’d reluctantly granted him an extension of three days to continue investigating...whatever he’s investigating."

Artful raised her eyebrows.

Whatever he’s investigating? she repeated. What was his assignment?

Locating the body of a man who drowned in the Thames Tunnel, the director answered. Which he did. Then, his communications and check-ins became erratic, short and vague.

Where’s his partner? Artful asked. He might be able to give a more detailed report.

The director shook his head.

He doesn’t have a partner.

What? But...that’s against regulations, Artful said—trying to conceal her shock. Every field agent is to be assigned a subordinate or equal partner, for the purposes of safety and accountability, if not to improve the investigation’s chances of success.

The director was still shaking his head.

We tried, he said, giving a short sigh. Three times, as a matter of fact. Two men, one woman. Some of the finest the British could come up with. They all quit within a matter of months. Said they couldn’t tolerate Fox’s methods.

Really? Artful asked incredulously. "Well, if that’s the case, why is he tolerated?"

You said it yourself, Agent Doyle, the director answered. He’s famous. And he’s also incredibly good at his job. He out-works people with twice his seniority, and produces three times the results. He’s only been out of the Academy five years and everybody knows he could be director of the Bureau within the next five—if he wanted it.

You don’t think he does? Artful wondered.

I don’t think he’d put up with a desk job, the director rubbed his forehead. He’d either drive himself crazy, or everyone around him.

Artful hesitated, gauging him.

So... she began. Are you sending me into the field to find him?

Oh, we know where he is, the director said. "And I personally don’t have a problem letting him work however and whenever he wants. But orders have come down from on high and I’ve got no choice. They want him brought to heel."

Really, Artful mused.

Yes. And if I can’t do that, they want him pulled off assignment, the director finished, raising his eyebrows pointedly.

Why is that, if he does such great work? Artful asked.

Frankly? I think he’s starting to scare people, the director admitted. They think he’ll make a mistake, throw off the continuum, change history in a way that can’t be fixed. He shrugged. I mean, I have to admit that I get their point—if he gets too careless with policy, lets something fall through the cracks... he pursed his lips. Things could get ugly. For everybody.

"And you think I’m the person to do that? To bring him to heel? Artful said skeptically, canting her head. Why would he listen to me?"

Because you’re at liberty to tell him exactly what I just told you, the director answered. "That if he doesn’t, he’s going to be sitting at your desk behind a mountain of files, while you’re in the field where he used to be."

Artful suppressed a smile.

Somehow, I don’t think he’ll be very receptive to that.

You’ll have to convince him, the director said. Because you’re not going in there under his authority. You’re to report to me. He can’t fire you, and any attempts he might make at ditching you will be followed by a formal reprimand and dock in his pay. Maybe even suspension.

So, what exactly am I supposed to be doing? Artful pressed. Am I just going in to deliver a message, or am I assisting him...?

"You’re assigned to him, Agent Doyle, the director stated. He is your assignment. You’re to be his walking, talking policy manual. You’re to make certain everything he does is by the book, well-documented, and punctual. The director looked at her, suddenly a bit weary, and sighed again. Like I said, three other experienced agents couldn’t stand working with him. But if you know going in that he’s going to be difficult—and that he’s got no authority to take you off assignment—and that you don’t even have to like him, I think you can do this job. Make the reports yourself if you have to. Just line everything up and get my superiors off my back. I don’t want to take Darrish Fox off of field work. And I’d really like to get you out from behind that desk so you can work in an area you worked so hard to qualify yourself for."

Artful’s face heated.

Yes, sir, she nodded. Thank you, sir. I really do appreciate that.

The director pushed back his chair and stood up, straightening to his towering height. Artful straightened her skirt and got to her feet too, feeling just as tiny as she always did when she stood next to him.

Your hair is obviously too short, the director observed, putting his hands in his pockets. I’ll call wardrobe and have them get some extensions ready. But you’re certainly pale enough for the time-period. Do you ever get any sun, Doyle?

Artful smiled briefly.

I burn in the sun, sir.

You look like you would, he agreed. But like I said, that’s a feature that’s perfect for the time—same with your big blue eyes and red hair. I imagine you’ll actually turn a few heads.

Again, Artful glanced at the floor and tried not to smile.

I’ll try not to draw too much attention to myself.

Do whatever you like—I trust you, he said. You’ve done stellar work the three years you’ve been here, and before that, you were top of your class. I’ve been itching to give you a better assignment, and when this came up, I jumped at the chance. He looked at her. I hope you will, too.

Absolutely, sir, she nodded. I’m looking forward to it.

Good, he nodded back, picked up the file folder and handed it to her. Then, he gestured to the door. Go head down to wardrobe. They’ll have everything you need. As soon as you’re finished there, report to D3M3. You and Agent Fox now have yet another three day extension to wrap up this investigation. You’ll leave immediately. 

The Wardrobe Department

ARTFUL IMMEDIATELY returned to her desk, took a painkilling pill with a glass of water to hopefully abate her headache, then hurried to the elevators.

Now, her heart pounding, she stepped through the creaking elevator doors and into the Wardrobe Department, clutching the file folder to her chest. A unique smell immediately hit her: a mix of tanned leather, wool, and distressing chemicals, as well as a whiff of fire.

This entire floor had a high, industrial ceiling, with large downward-pointing lamps hanging from wires that poured illumination down into the aisles: thousands of aisles of clothing on hangers. The rows of shelves themselves marched away to either side of Artful as she strode down the wide center aisle, which had a wooden floor. The humming of sewing machines, the bark of leather hammers, and the clatter of metal pieces, all filled the vast space, coming from places Artful couldn’t glimpse. But as she strode onward, glancing into these aisles, she caught sight of dozens of Wardrobe Specialists rifling through the shelves, some on rolling ladders, plucking bolts of fabric and stacking them on carts. Others shoved through forests of hanging garments, frowning at the sleeves, feeling the texture of the buttons...

Her heels clicking on the wood, Artful began to notice the signs posted at the ends of aisles to her right:

1400 ad: AFRICA - EGYPT

1400 ad: AFRICA – WEST COAST

And to her left:

1400 ad: ROMANIA, Bucharest

1400 ad: ROME

Here, she stopped—for a repetitive clanging had captured her attention. She peered down the ROME aisle, all the way to the shadowed end...

To see the fires of a stone forge burning, and a leather-clad blacksmith painstakingly hammering out a shining piece of medieval armor upon a shaped anvil.

Can I help you, agent?

Artful jumped and whipped around to face front—

A towheaded young man with thick spectacles stood there: he wore a tan jumpsuit, with the end of a tape measure hanging out of his pocket.

Hi! Um... Artful took a breath to gather herself, and managed a smile. I’m Agent Artful Doyle, I’m being assigned to London, 1843 by Director Mansion.

Oh, you’re at the complete wrong end of history, the youth chuckled, then waved to her. You need Earstwhile’s department. I’m Agent Smith Weston. Come with me.

Artful followed Weston to a place where the main aisle crossed another main aisle, and Weston escorted her onto an open metal platform with railings and an arched bar that looked like the handle of a basket. He shut the gate behind him and threw the switch, and the platform lifted up by a wire attached to the basket handle, into the air, and began whizzing along a cable over the tops of all the shelves. Artful caught hold of the metal handle and fought to keep her balance.

They raced over the Wardrobe Department, Artful’s hair fluttering in her face as she peered down, marveling at all the different divisions. She could see, in circular spaces between the shelves, the wood-fired forges and wool looms used to construct the clothing of the European dark ages; the dyeing baths and embroidery hoops for Asian costume; the tanning and furs employed in building the garb of the Russians, the Mongols, the Vikings, and the Huns. Each station was busy with dozens of experts working the fabric, either very roughly or very delicately, to recreate each piece with absolutely-authentic detail.

As they sped by overhead, Artful watched the colors and types of fabric, as well as their methods of construction, change from earthy to more colorful, rudimentary to relatively sophisticated. She passed over mechanical looms and large spinning wheels, and pedal sewing machines, which all buzzed busily at the hands of their capable operators.

Other carts like the one on which Artful stood also whizzed back and forth through the room, carrying people or piles of clothes, or both, from one end to the other.

Here we are, Weston declared, flipping another switch, and the flying cart lowered to the ground with a great deal of buzzing and groaning, and clanked to the floor. Weston opened the noisy gate for her, and she stepped out. He followed.

Artful now found herself right in front of a large, circular open space filled with sewing machines, and encompassed by large looms. Beyond them in every direction waited more and more loaded shelves. People of all ages worked the machines, and many of them wore eccentric articles of clothing that wouldn’t seem out of place in the Victorian era.

Doctor Earstwhile, Weston called, striding forward between two sewing tables. Agent Doyle here to see you.

The next moment, a woman darted out from between two of the shelves, and stared at Artful.

Artful blinked.

The woman was hunched, with a huge bush of straw-colored hair, and goggle-like glasses that made her eyes appear enormous. She wore long, tangling drapes of all kinds of antique fabrics, and Artful couldn’t tell how exactly they stayed on her body.

Agent who? Dr. Earstwhile demanded, winding a long strand of yellow yarn around and around her left hand.

Agent Artful Doyle, Weston said again. She’s been sent down by Mansion. Needs to head to...? he turned to Artful.

London, 1843, she finished.

What’s the date, dearie, what’s the date? Dr. Earstwhile said impatiently, bustling up to her. We don’t deal with ridiculous generalities here!

Looks like... Artful opened the file and quickly glanced through the first page. November 10th, 1843.

Let me see that, give it to me, Dr. Earstwhile held out a spindly hand, and Artful passed the whole folder to her.

With five quick steps, Earstwhile had swept past Artful and found a table covered with scraps. She flipped the folder open and slapped it onto a stretch of corduroy, tapping her thin lips with one hand and rifling through the papers with the other.

Mhm. Mhm, she muttered. Practical...middle class, twenty-five years old...travel shoes...luggage...winter in London...carries a weapon... Dr. Earstwhile looked sharply at Weston. Sounds a lot like Virginia Clotpole to me.

Artful raised her eyebrows.

Clotpole?

She already exists, we made her, Dr. Earstwhile shut the folder and pushed it back at Artful. Every detail, everything she likes to wear, down to her undies, jewelry and silk stockings. Because you, dearie, don’t exist out there. But our Ginny does.

Should I go get Virginia? Weston asked.

Just three sets from the winter wardrobe, Wes, Dr. Earstwhile waved a hand. And a hat.

Aye, aye, Weston grinned, grabbed a wheeled cart and shoved it ahead of him, then hopped on its rail and rode it as it coasted down an aisle.

All right, before he brings her back—Listen! Dr. Earstwhile snapped her fingers, drawing Artful’s attention back to her goggle eyes. 

Yes, I’m sorry, Artful, said, her face heating.

"Virginia Clotpole—which is you, now—is the daughter of a bookseller somewhere in Surrey, Dr. Earstwhile said quickly. She has no brothers or sisters, and no mother. She helps with her father’s work, and does the traveling for him now, since he has a bad back. The shop is not to be mentioned by name, as it doesn’t exist. She held up a pointed finger. She is not married. She is practical and fastidious about her clothes. She is in London to buy books for her father’s shop. She will not be there long. Dr. Earstwhile’s already huge eyes grew bigger. Any questions?"

No, not yet, Artful quickly shook her head.

Here she is, Weston wheeled the cart back, now covered with three day dresses, undergarments, shoes, a hat, a purse, a coat, a nightdress, and a medium-sized suitcase.

Here, Dr. Earstwhile scooped up a dark, high-collared, navy blue dress, along with its undergarments and the shoes, and hefted them into Artful’s arms.

There is a dressing room there, she pointed to a large booth at the end of one of the shelves. If you were upper-class, I’d send in one of the girls with you, but you won’t have a maid, so you’ll have to dress yourself.

That’s not a problem. Thank you, Artful smiled a little, then started toward the dressing room. She stepped into the booth and turned the light on, then shut the door behind her. It was a very plain room, with a bench and a full-length mirror. Quickly, she stripped off her jacket, blouse, skirt, slip, shoes, hose, and underthings, and—shivering slightly—found the chemise and pulled it on over her head. Then, she stepped into the open-legged drawers and tied them in the back. After that, she sat down and pulled on the silk stockings and tied them in place with silk garters, below her knee.

Next came the corset, the stays of which she adjusted in the back, and then she wrapped it around herself and was mercifully able to hook it together in the front with only two tries.

Stand up straight, Art, she whispered wryly to herself. It had been a while since she’d worn one of these...

Next, she found a little bustle that went on over the corset, to lift the outer skirts in the back, and she tied that on as well.

After that came the petticoats—two of them, which she pulled on over her head and tied. At last, somewhat out of breath, she unbuttoned the front of the dress all the way down to the waist, and pulled it over her head. She worked her arms into the fitted sleeves and tossed the skirt until it fell over the petticoats without getting hung up. Then, she buttoned up the front, all the way to her throat. She turned and looked at herself in the mirror...

Director Mansion was right, she was certainly pale enough, and this color of dress brought out her vivid blue eyes. But...

Too short, she muttered, reaching up and touching the edge of her hair. Then—

Oh, no, she groaned, squeezing her eyes shut.

She had forgotten. She had forgotten completely.

Wanting to swear, she snatched up the shoes—well-made walking shoes with laces—and sat heavily down on the bench.

She had forgotten to put her shoes on before the corset.

Forced to sit ramrod straight, Artful was only able to tilt forward, and lift her right foot up onto her left knee. She worked the shoe onto that foot and tied it, grunting as the corset pressed against her ribs, then did the same with the other foot. At last, she could stand up again, irritated at herself, and picked up her other clothes. She stepped out of the dressing room to find Dr. Earstwhile waiting there, arms crossed, tapping her toe.

Does it all fit? Dr. Earstwhile demanded, peering at her.

I think so, Artful nodded.

Put those down and turn around, Dr. Earstwhile motioned with her finger. Artful set her old clothes on the table and took a careful turn, while the doctor eyed her up and down.

Mhm...That’ll do well enough, she decided. Then, she suddenly raised her voice. Come on. We’ll have to do something with that awful hair.

The Time Machine

IMPOSSIBLE HEAT BLASTED Artful’s face this time as the elevator doors opened. She flinched back, blinking, then forced her eyes open.

A grated walkway led away from her, with railings. To either side stood large, gleaming tanks bristling with dials and brightly-blinking lights, and steam rose in trails from their exhaust ports. Wires and tubes linked them to each other, and to the high ceiling and the dark floor.

Artful took a deep breath, her fingers quivering on the handle of her suitcase, and she stepped out—hoping that the gust of air hadn’t skewed her short-brimmed black hat. The three feet of extensions in her hair—done up artfully in a braided bun—made her head feel heavy. She hadn’t had such long hair since she was a little girl...

Workers in blue jumpsuits and flat caps climbed ladders, studying the dials through goggles, twisting wrenches or pushing buttons. Artful’s new shoes clanked on the metal walkway as she made herself walk faster, eying the occasional yellow lighted signs that hung from the metal rafters.

LEVEL D – STATION 1

LEVEL D – STATION 2

There it is, she muttered as she spotted it up ahead.

LEVEL D – STATION 3

She made her way that direction, following several winding walkways around more of the tanks, until she came to Station 3. And she slowed to a stop, her pulse racing.

Two long rows of machines, facing each other, with a walkway between. Brass cylinders, each with a door in the front, bearing a porthole. Twelve dials marked the right side of each door, and another larger dial marked the left side of each. All of them spewed wires, hoses and pipes that connected to many others, creating a tangled, multi-colored weaving all around them.

And at the far end of this line of machines, right in the middle of the walkway, stood a stunning twenty-foot-tall replica of the beautiful Westminster clock tower, with its glowing clock face showing exactly what time it was now: 6:45 p.m.

You Agent Artful Doyle?

Artful turned toward the voice, to see a good-looking, thirty-something red-headed young man in dirty coveralls and a day’s worth of beard, grinning at her, holding a toothpick in his mouth.

Yes, that’s me, Artful nodded.

Good, you’re right on schedule, he said, his blue eyes bright. I’m Eddie Carmine, head technician for the time machines on this level. Can I see your file?

Artful handed it to him and he opened it. He scanned it quickly, following his progress with a grease-covered finger.

All right, looks like everything’s up to date, including your vaccinations...November 10th, 1843, London...Oh, you’re going to Agent Fox’s location! He looked up at her, eyebrows raised. You his new partner?

In a manner of speaking, Artful answered ruefully.

Well, good luck with that, he chuckled, shutting the file and setting it on the desk that stood nearby. Then, he snatched up a clipboard and pencil and faced her. Now, I know that you have this memorized, Agent, but I need you to recite the first fourteen Restrictions and Regulations to me, in order, verbatim. I’ll check them off as you go.

Of course. Artful set down her suitcase, then straightened back up, her heart swelling with pride. She had helped write the revised manual in which the RR’s now appeared, and she had endlessly discussed, recited and typed them more times than she could count. Number One: The lives of the NTP’s, or Natives of the Time Period, are sacred. In the event of physical conflict, if a choice must be made between my own life and the life of an NTP, I am to surrender my own life. This also applies to the life of my partners or colleagues, or anyone from the present day traveling to the past. Number Two: If an NTP, according to history, is known to have died at a certain point, I am forbidden from interfering to preserve his or her life. Number Three: I am not to carry any definitively identifying objects whatsoever; nothing containing my true name or alias’ name is ever to be found upon my person, save for a ticket for passage whilst aboard transportation and my SABI badge. Number Four: Under no circumstances am I to step within a one-mile radius of any of my KDA’s, or Known Direct Ancestors. Number Five: Under no circumstances am I to make any kind of contact with any of my KDA’s. Number Six: Under no circumstances am I to come within a one-mile radius of myself, known as a Prior Time-Travel Identity—or PTI—who has traveled at another time to this same time, nor shall I make any contact with my PTI, or my partner or colleague’s PTI, for any reason. Number Seven: Under no circumstances am I to form a friendship or romantic relationship with an NTP. Number Eight: If I must make inquiries, and identification is demanded from me by an NTP, I am to present my allocated badge designating me as a member of the SABI: the Secret American Bureau of Investigation, all records of which, in Time Period, will summarily be eliminated by the Records Department. Number Nine: I will perform a Check-In with Headquarters every twenty-four hours, unless extenuating circumstances forbid it. If they do, an explanation will be included in the following Check-In. Number Ten: Every assignment will be followed by a written report made by each agent, and submitted to the Director’s Office within forty-eight hours of return from assignment. Number Eleven: All assignments are given exactly fourteen 24-hour days to reach completion. Any extension must be requested specifically in writing, and permitted in writing, by the Bureau Director. No assignment shall extend beyond thirty days, regardless of circumstances. Number Twelve: The Key to my assigned station and my time machine is more valuable than my life. Number Thirteen: Any meddling with the automatic settings of any time-machine is forbidden. Number Fourteen: Any disobedience, defiance or neglect of these regulations on the part of any agent will be dealt with by the Bureau Director, who may enact discipline including suspension or expulsion from the Bureau, a monetary fine, and/or recommendation to the government for arrest and imprisonment.

Very good! Flying colors, Carmine declared, checking off the last one, taking the paper off the clipboard, folding it and stuffing it in an envelope. He sealed it, scrawled something on the face of the envelope, then stepped over to a clear glass tube that ran from the floor up into the high ceiling. It had a little brass door, at eye level. He opened the little door, and a roar of wind issued—he stuck the envelope through the door and let it go. It instantly flew up and away through the tube like a leaf in the wind, into the ceiling and gone.

All right, then, he faced her and clapped his hands together. May I see your SABI identification?

Artful reached inside the front of her coat and pulled out her badge, which was housed in a brown leather wallet. She opened it and handed it to him. He took it and scanned it, nodding.

Mhm, looks good, he said, then glanced at her as he handed it back. Ever gone into the field before, Agent Doyle?

No, she admitted with a short sigh. I trained for this time-period in the Academy, and we were inserted into training locations with replicas and actors...But no, I haven’t actually time-traveled.

Mm, Carmine looked at her seriously. "Then there’s one main difference you need to keep in mind: There’s nobody to bail you out. Nobody but your partner. The Bureau will not be sending the cavalry in to pull you out of nasty situations, and we can’t provide you with backup. In the field, you and your partner must resolve conflicts among yourselves, and provide protection for each other, because extra protection from the Bureau will not be forthcoming. Do you clearly understand what I have just said?"

Yes, I do, Artful nodded, trying not to smile. She’d actually initiated that particular regulation herself.

You have your weapon? he asked.

Yes. She dipped inside her outside coat pocket and pulled out a small, wood-handled women’s revolver, with an elegant barrel. A rearing horse had been inlaid