and slipped a sideways
glance at Bosch. “We are most prudent in how and when we
are able to pass on information regarding our technology,
our prudence may seem obsessive but believe me - our
competitors are ruthless in their pursuit. Fortunately for
our program, our major competition has experienced
several setbacks, or rather - regretful fatalities among its
travelers.”
There was a moment of silence during which Blake
pictured himself drifting in cyberspace. “Fatalities?” he
asked with a contorted face. “Don’t we get a return ticket
on this excursion?”
Beckman appeared guarded in his response. “Oh,
they came back, but the sub-atomic transference was, eh . .
. what we call severely distorted .”
Blake shifted his position until eye to eye
with Beckman. “What the fuck’s that mean - severely
distorted ?”
“Imagine a facsimile,” Beckman said as he edged
away from Blake. “You set it onto the plate of your
machine and you transmit. It arrives at its destination as an
exact duplicate of the original, which remains in your fax
machine.” Again he waved a casual hand toward the two
cylinders. “Just like these two gentlemen. They are lying in
their ‘facsimile machines.’”
“Sounds like your ability’s highly questionable,”
Blake said. “Like you’re holding back on us.”
Beckman hesitated. It was best to be candid with
Blake. He could see the agent was not at the front of the
queue when God handed out patience.
“If the receiver,” Beckman explained, “sends
a copy of the original back to you but your machine’s
receptor is malfunctioning, you may hear the activation
of the machine alerting you to the incoming transmission,
however when it attempts atomic restructuring, well, the
result is misalignment.”
“Misalignment?” Dal groped.
“Quite so, reading it becomes impossible. The
transcription is out of alignment; the text is jumbled. It is
misaligned.”
As the sick feeling began building deep in Dal’s
stomach, he shuffled his feet and moaned, “I need the
restroom.”
Bosch pointed to a door and Dal hurried off with
both hands clenching his stomach.
“He appears unwell,” Beckman commented with
insincerity.
“What the hell are we getting ourselves into here?”
Blake asked. “I understand our going back to the 14th
century,” and he pointed at Bosch. “Hans here explained
how we get back, but seeing these two sleeping beauties
just lying here waiting, well – it puts a nasty taste in my
mouth.”
“Understandably so,” Beckman replied. “But please
accompany me to a more comfortable setting. Perhaps we
three can explain exactly what your task entails in uh -
somewhat layman’s terms.”
Dal rejoined the group. They moved on to a room
far more eclectically decorated than the sterile areas within
the facility. Of note were two sofas of Chesterfield design
separated by a Louis XIV table.
“I have to tell you guys,” Blake said still deep in
thought and ignoring the décor, “this isn’t sitting too well
with any of us.”
Beckman said, “Allow me to begin by explaining the
theory of how you will arrive at your coordinates. I assume
my colleague...” and his tone became condescending as he
flipped a casual thumb over his shoulder, “...explained the
purpose of the three empty chambers.” He handed Blake
five small discs. “These converter discs are of paramount
importance, never misplace them. You have one each, three
green ones. The additional two red discs are for Campion
and Moreau. We must assume their discs are malfunctioning.
I cannot impress upon you enough the importance of these
discs – they are your ticket back to this facility.”
“Hold that thought,” Blake said. “I recall hearing a
guarantee from you, you said because you’re here now –
didn’t you say words to that affect?”
“Quite so, the men in the particle chambers, you
saw them, they are here now, are they not?”
“Yeah,
glance at Bosch. “We are most prudent in how and when we
are able to pass on information regarding our technology,
our prudence may seem obsessive but believe me - our
competitors are ruthless in their pursuit. Fortunately for
our program, our major competition has experienced
several setbacks, or rather - regretful fatalities among its
travelers.”
There was a moment of silence during which Blake
pictured himself drifting in cyberspace. “Fatalities?” he
asked with a contorted face. “Don’t we get a return ticket
on this excursion?”
Beckman appeared guarded in his response. “Oh,
they came back, but the sub-atomic transference was, eh . .
. what we call severely distorted .”
Blake shifted his position until eye to eye
with Beckman. “What the fuck’s that mean - severely
distorted ?”
“Imagine a facsimile,” Beckman said as he edged
away from Blake. “You set it onto the plate of your
machine and you transmit. It arrives at its destination as an
exact duplicate of the original, which remains in your fax
machine.” Again he waved a casual hand toward the two
cylinders. “Just like these two gentlemen. They are lying in
their ‘facsimile machines.’”
“Sounds like your ability’s highly questionable,”
Blake said. “Like you’re holding back on us.”
Beckman hesitated. It was best to be candid with
Blake. He could see the agent was not at the front of the
queue when God handed out patience.
“If the receiver,” Beckman explained, “sends
a copy of the original back to you but your machine’s
receptor is malfunctioning, you may hear the activation
of the machine alerting you to the incoming transmission,
however when it attempts atomic restructuring, well, the
result is misalignment.”
“Misalignment?” Dal groped.
“Quite so, reading it becomes impossible. The
transcription is out of alignment; the text is jumbled. It is
misaligned.”
As the sick feeling began building deep in Dal’s
stomach, he shuffled his feet and moaned, “I need the
restroom.”
Bosch pointed to a door and Dal hurried off with
both hands clenching his stomach.
“He appears unwell,” Beckman commented with
insincerity.
“What the hell are we getting ourselves into here?”
Blake asked. “I understand our going back to the 14th
century,” and he pointed at Bosch. “Hans here explained
how we get back, but seeing these two sleeping beauties
just lying here waiting, well – it puts a nasty taste in my
mouth.”
“Understandably so,” Beckman replied. “But please
accompany me to a more comfortable setting. Perhaps we
three can explain exactly what your task entails in uh -
somewhat layman’s terms.”
Dal rejoined the group. They moved on to a room
far more eclectically decorated than the sterile areas within
the facility. Of note were two sofas of Chesterfield design
separated by a Louis XIV table.
“I have to tell you guys,” Blake said still deep in
thought and ignoring the décor, “this isn’t sitting too well
with any of us.”
Beckman said, “Allow me to begin by explaining the
theory of how you will arrive at your coordinates. I assume
my colleague...” and his tone became condescending as he
flipped a casual thumb over his shoulder, “...explained the
purpose of the three empty chambers.” He handed Blake
five small discs. “These converter discs are of paramount
importance, never misplace them. You have one each, three
green ones. The additional two red discs are for Campion
and Moreau. We must assume their discs are malfunctioning.
I cannot impress upon you enough the importance of these
discs – they are your ticket back to this facility.”
“Hold that thought,” Blake said. “I recall hearing a
guarantee from you, you said because you’re here now –
didn’t you say words to that affect?”
“Quite so, the men in the particle chambers, you
saw them, they are here now, are they not?”
“Yeah,
Similar Books
