Bones of the Earth by Michael Swanwick Page B

rat over her archaeopteryx.
    Caligula snatched the rat and flung it down to the floor. Then he stood on the creature’s head with one foot, and tore messily at its stomach with his beak.
    Jamal grimaced down at it. “Oh God. Oh, gross. Rat innards all over the carpet again.”
    The teleconference room was a good sixty years old and timelessly bland, though the equipment itself was contemporary. Molly double-checked that the camera was off-line, and then turned on the video wall.
    The defector was sitting bitterly in a chair behind a conference table, staring straight ahead of himself at nothing. He rarely blinked.
    â€œWhen will Griffin be here?” he asked peevishly. He was dressed entirely in black, and had cultivated a small, devilish goatee. All in all, he was the single most Satanic-looking individual Molly Gerhard had ever seen. She was surprised he wasn’t wearing an inverted crucifix on a chain around his neck.
    Tom Navarro, sitting to the man’s left, put down some papers and pushed his glasses up on his forehead. “Just be patient.”
    On the defector’s right, Amy Cho sat smiling down at the top of her cane, tightly clutched by those pale, blue-veined hands. Without looking up, she made a comforting, clucking noise.
    The defector scowled.
    Okay, kiddies, Molly thought. It’s show time!
    She dimmed the lights to give her an indistinct background, put her administrative assistant on the table before her, and switched it to steno mode. Then she snapped on the camera. “All right,” she said. “What do you have for me?”
    â€œWho’s this?” the defector demanded. “I was supposed to talk to Griffin. Why isn’t he here?”
    She’d wondered that herself. “I am Mr. Griffin’s associate,” she said emotionlessly. “Unfortunately, he can’t be here at this time. But anything you can tell him, you can tell me.”
    â€œThis is bullshit! I came here in good faith and you—”
    â€œWe have yet to establish that you have anything worth hearing,” Tom Navarro said. “The burden of proof is on you.”
    â€œThat’s bullshit too! How could I even know about your operation if it weren’t riddled with double agents? Your press conference announcing time travel is going on right now! I didn’t come here to be treated like a child!”
    â€œYou’re absolutely right, dear,” Amy Cho said. “But you’re here now, and you have a message that needs to be heard. So why don’t you just tell us it? We’d all be delighted to listen.”
    â€œAll right,” he said. “All right! But no more of this good-cop bad-cop routine, okay? I expect you to keep this guy muzzled.” This last was directed at Molly.
    Bingo! she thought. He’d accepted her authority. Their little psychodrama was now firmly on course. But she was careful not to let her elation show. Outwardly, she allowed herself only the smallest of nods. “Go on.”
    â€œOkay, I stared work at the Ranch four years ago—”
    â€œFrom the beginning, please,” Molly Gerhard said. “So we have a more complete picture.”
    The defector grimaced and began again.
    He was a film maker. After graduating from London University in 2023, he’d returned to the States and the usual round of rejection and menial industry jobs an aspirant director could expect, before drifting into Christian video. He’d had some success with Sunday school tapes and inspirational packages for aspirant missionaries. He specialized in morality tales of people rescued from drugs, alcohol, and situation ethics by a strict literal reading of the Bible. He was always careful to have those transforming passages read aloud by a stern father-figure, who could then explain what they meant. He was particularly proud of that touch.
    He’d had success, but no money. Religious producers were notoriously miserly, slow