33. Chapter 33
Chapter 33
T he Watchers’ headquarters in Washington were hidden in plain sight, in one of the many political buildings that sprang up around the White House at the outbreak of the war. Brayden walked down a low-lit, featureless hallway, following Donnovan, the manager of their team.
The man held open a door at the end. “One of our labs.”
The room beyond was spacious, if cluttered. Machines and contraptions of every size filled desks, shelves, or simply sat on the floor; a few chairs and recliners lay in disarray around them. The shelves of a tall cabinet, set between two windows, held jars, glasses, and vials of colorful liquids. On a station in front of it, an amber-colored concoction was cooking— burning ?—with an acrid smell. A helmet-like apparatus whirred. A puff of smoke emerged from a palm-sized metallic cube on a nearby desk.
It was not how Brayden had imagined the Science Division.
A man and a woman emerged from an office attached to the labs.
“Marshall, these will be your coworkers,” Donnovan said. “Dr. Rumley, our chemist.”
The man had a stocky frame and messy, reddish-gold hair. He gave Brayden an energetic squeeze of the hand.
“And Dr. Deniau, from Paris.”
“Zurich, if you will,” the woman answered with a slight accent. She was tall, with dark eyes and impeccably styled brown hair. “At least until the Sorbonne decides to admit women.”
“Dr. Deniau has been leading the charge here,” Donnovan said. “She’ll explain the particulars. I’ll leave you to it. You’re all familiar with the Confidentiality Code.” He waved his hand in a “do your thing” gesture and left.
“We’re pleased to have you here, Marshall,” Rumley said. “Dr. Deniau and I have been working on the chemical side of the matter. All we need to do is join your mechanical research with ours.”
“Have you made the substance already?” Brayden asked.
“Oh!” Rumley’s eyes darted around the room. “Where’s the Linum?”
“We are not calling it that.” Deniau removed a vial, filled with dark brown liquid, from the shelf. “This is our prototype serum.”
“The Linum,” Rumley whispered.
Deniau faced Brayden. “We followed the theory that almonite affected by Leader’s abilities could help. Sadly, the almonite in Lincoln’s watch showed no change…”
Because that particular almonite was long since gone.
“But, we thought, what about the body itself?”
“The body?” Brayden asked.
“Leaders behave differently when they travel outside their lifespan. They create a duplicate of their body which disappears once the travel is concluded.”
Brayden started to piece it all together. “And any injuries the duplicate receives are not transmitted to the original. You’re thinking you could apply the almonite from their body to localized healing.”
“That’s just it, Marshall,” Rumley said enthusiastically. “The serum can heal individual wounds. Turn them back in time, if you wish. It’s based on the mutated almonite from the Leader’s body.”
Brayden stared at the vial. “This thing has Lincoln’s blood in it?”
“Hence, the Lin-um. ” Rumley flashed a wide grin.
“Unfortunately, we have trouble administering it,” Deniau said. “Injecting, ingesting, or applying it to the wound will not work. It appears the serum needs stimuli.”
“Yes.” Rumley cleared his throat. “So far, our research is based on rats. They haven’t responded to classic applications, but we had one successful case of a wound healing after the subject received some encouragement from a voltaic battery.”
“You submitted a rat to electricity?”
“It was unintentional, but isn’t that how most discoveries are made?”
“You can see how that would not work for human subjects,” Deniau remarked dryly.
“Which is where you come in.” Rumley clasped his hands. “We need a device, something small and transportable, that can be attached to the wound to transmit our serum, stimulated by electricity.”
“I brought some research with me.” Deniau turned to Brayden. “Books, notes, designs of esteemed European inventors, Watcher and non-Watcher. Perhaps you will wish to take a look?”
“I’d appreciate that.” Brayden couldn’t take his eyes off the vial. “Do you realize how amazing this is? You two may have the ultimate medicine on your hands.”
“No, Marshall, not us two.” Rumley grasped his shoulder. “ We do.”
Brayden took an office by the lab and barely saw his lodgings for the next week. He spent his waking moments poring over documents, theorizing with Deniau, or noting Rumley’s experiments. The latter was particularly fond of explaining other inventions and projects, especially when he noticed Brayden was interested in something, and they held long debates.
Late one evening, Brayden was studying a collection of old sketches when Rumley knocked on his door. “Still burning the midnight oil, I see. With such a work ethic, I pity your wife.”
If he only knew Brayden was working this hard partially as a distraction, to stop replaying the last conversation they’d had in his head. If Fabienne had told him of her dealings earlier, Caddie might still be alive. In the woods, he wouldn’t have to make that choice.
“Look who’s talking.” He wasn’t sure Rumley ever left the lab. “I may have found something. These are from a British member of the Watchers in the fifteenth century.”
Rumley squinted at the writing on the sketches. “Transmuting box. For temporal deferral or acceleration.”
“Some of them are far-fetched,” Brayden admitted. “He was also limited by the knowledge of his time. I can only imagine what he’d been able to do with a Leyden jar.”
“How come so many are unfinished?”
“The author, the Earl of Chester, died rather young. An accident. No one continued his work. We’d have to make plenty of adjustments to his ideas. I’ll begin transcribing…”
Rumley raised an eyebrow.
“Tomorrow.”
“Good man.” Rumley held the door open. “Oh, and remind me in the morning—I need to show you Lincoln’s nail clippings. And I’ve got hair, too!”
In mid-March, after weeks of tweaking and animal trials, the first prototype of the device was ready for a proper test. Rumley offered himself as a subject, to which both Deniau and Brayden loudly objected. In the end, Donnovan sent them to a temporary war hospital in Georgetown to try out the device on a wounded member of the Watchers.
Deniau presented herself as a foreign doctor, here to inspect how the war had improved treatment methods. The other two were company.
“This one.” Rumley led them to a bed at the far end of the room. The adjoining beds were vacant, allowing for privacy, but Deniau still pulled the screen. “Mr. Kirby?”
The man was sleeping. Deniau checked his vital signs and raised one eyelid. “Drugged. Makes it easier for us. Nonetheless, we’ll have to be quick. We’ll do the arm. If you would care to set up, Monsieur Marshall.”
Brayden strapped the device around the cut on the man’s forearm. It looked like a small medieval torture instrument, but if it worked, there’d be time for refinements later. A box about seven inches across was connected to a set of batteries on top. The skin-side was made of multiple absorbent layers, including a thin sheet of almonite and carbon fibers—a material barely known yet, that offered high chemical resistance.
Rumley added the serum, and Brayden activated the device with a button. It emitted a whirring sound and heated up. They waited a few minutes for a telltale flash, but nothing happened. Rumley looked at the others. “It’s usually done by now.”
“Perhaps we need to adjust it.” Brayden undid the straps.
“It didn’t fry him, that’s good,” Deniau said. “And he still—”
They all stared at the revealed arm. The little red gash of a wound was gone, the skin only slightly flushed.
“Incredible,” Rumley breathed. “It worked.”
Deniau inspected the arm. “The irritation, I assume, is merely from the device, not from the remains of the wound. Since there isn’t any wound at all.”
“A complete reversion. We’ve done it.” Rumley struggled to keep his excited voice down.
“Aren’t they going to notice it’s gone?” Brayden asked.
“That’s why we only did it to this minor wound. Likely, they haven’t paid much attention to it. This man has bigger problems.” Deniau slipped the bedsheet down, revealing a part of the man’s leg where a dark stain seeped through the bandage. “I don’t think anyone will trouble themselves over a scratch on his arm. In a few days, they will only trouble themselves with finding him a grave.”
An awkward silence fell, interrupted by an even more awkward cough from Rumley. “Let’s be on our way, then. I have a very interesting report to write.”
Deniau carefully stored the device in her medical bag.
“But that was the point,” Brayden said. “To save lives.”
Deniau rested her hand on the bag. “We are not authorized to do anything more.”
“It works. He’s going to die unless we help him.”
“So are countless others. We can’t help everyone,” Deniau hissed. “We have limited amounts of almonite and the Leader’s blood. We don’t even know this man.”
“He’s one of our own.” But it wasn’t just about the man being a Watcher. He had to have people who cared for him—and here they were, wanting to do nothing when they were perfectly able to help.
“And how would we explain his miraculous recovery to the hospital?”
“We can send someone to retrieve him before they notice. Say they want him to spend his last days at home. Perhaps he won’t remember any of this.”
They were interrupted by a nurse who came to check on Kirby, and Brayden was forced to let the argument slide. At the exit, he spared one last glance over his shoulder. Their patient had stirred, and the nurse was leaning in as he whispered something to her.
Three days later, the team gathered in the lab. Rumley unnecessarily polished and repositioned the device, along with a bottle of serum, as if preparing for an exhibition.
“Did Donnovan say anything about the meeting?” Brayden asked. They expected the man in about ten minutes, with important news for them.
“Nothing,” Rumley replied. “But he was happy with that report.”
The joy of knowing they’d succeeded at something temporarily eclipsed Brayden’s other concerns. A cure was still better than no cure at all, even if he didn’t agree with the Watchers’ politics on how to apply it. Besides, they weren’t there yet. Further testing—on Rumley’s self-inflicted scratches and a burn—showed the serum only worked occasionally. A lot more experiments and research would be required, and in that time, opinions could change.
A pot, set on a small transportable heater, began to whistle. A mechanical arm affixed to a pole with a complex sequence of gears and weights, reached for the pot and neatly poured its contents into cups set out on the table.
“Coffee, anyone?” Rumley offered.
Brayden raised an eyebrow. “Those are the kinds of things you do here?”
“Scientists get bored of their actual work, too,” Rumley said. “They finally smoothed out the kinks. It doesn’t slap you anymore.” He took a cup and patted the machine. “Good boy.”
“I never get bored of my work.” Deniau reclined in a chair, though her stiff posture indicated she wasn’t really familiar with the concept of relaxation.
“I do believe I’ll miss you when this is all over,” Brayden said.
“Do you have reasons not to work here anymore, Monsieur Marshall?”
“I don’t know. They only invited me for this assignment. My usual place is in the Legislative.”
“Mmm. Down here, we call it the Boringslative.” Rumley sipped his coffee.
“I have never heard that term before,” Deniau said, face serious.
“It can have its appeals.” Brayden wasn’t sure why he was trying to defend his division.
“I suppose, if you worry about living,” Rumley chuckled. “For God’s sake, we’re time travelers. We’re supposed to do interesting stuff.”
“But someone needs to do the paperwork, too.”
“I am afraid Dr. Rumley has grown rather attached to this team,” Deniau said. “But successful or not, our cooperation must end at some point. If you should ever find yourself in France, you are welcome to pay us a visit.” She sounded quite hospitable for a moment. “Then you can see how real Watchers’ work is done.”
“Was that an attempt at humor? I almost believe it was,” Rumley said to no one in particular.
“Perhaps I will—” Brayden started, and was about to say ‘stay’, when Donnovan marched into the room.
“You’re all here. Good. The news, as promised.” He straightened, hands behind his back. “I’m afraid we’ll have to put this project on hold.”
Rumley dropped the coffee cup. “For how long?”
“Indefinitely. You’ve made substantial progress, but the funds have been allocated to more urgent matters.”
No. Not again. “What could be more urgent than saving lives?”
Donnovan’s frown betrayed he wasn’t sure of the answer. “All I have is a letter from the Committee. You’ll get paid as promised and be assigned to other projects soon. Except for Dr. Deniau, of course. I assume you’ll be leaving us.”
Deniau nodded, eyebrows drawn.
“Rumley, I’ll need a final report with the conclusions.” Donnovan’s gaze softened, passing among the members. “I am sorry. I wish you all a pleasant day.” Handing them the papers, he turned on his heels and left.
“Bureaucracy,” Rumley puffed, slamming the letter on the desk. “They do this all the time, but usually with less important projects. I’d have never thought…”
Brayden leaned over to look at the letter: a cancellation notice from the Approval Committee.
“More of a Denial Committee, isn’t it?” Rumley said.
“I must say, your branch works on the most peculiar arrangements,” Deniau said.
“It’s the damn war,” Rumley grumbled. “The moment they suspect anything could help one side win over the other, they shut the project down. No one gets the money, no one gets the technology, and nobody wins.”
Brayden paused on two names of the members listed—the ones who signed for the cancellation. Why did they sound familiar?
Henson. When he was researching him in December, those two names popped up multiple times—they were close coworkers with Henson. Another slippery coincidence?
“I need to talk to Donnovan.” Ignoring Rumley and Deniau’s questions, he grabbed the letter and ran out.
Donnovan was already back in his office. “Marshall,” he said, surprised. “If you’re wondering about the next assignment—”
“The Committee. Why did they reject the project?”
“As I’ve said, the funds have been allocated elsewhere.”
“To what? Which projects? What is more important than this?”
“Now, Marshall. Everyone likes to believe what they’re doing is the most important—”
“Which projects?”
Donnovan sighed. “I don’t know. I’m not in charge of the entire Science Division. Like they don’t know what we’re doing, we don’t know what they are. In theory, only the Committee knows all the details.”
The Committee, which housed at least two of Henson’s cronies. But why would Henson try to stop this?
“I’ll be honest.” Donnovan twirled a pen in his fingers. “I’m not happy about the news, either. A week ago, they were all for it. Then I get this, with no explanation.”
“What will happen now? Will you destroy our research?”
“Oh, no. That would be much too harsh. They didn’t say it’s dangerous. We’ll pack it up and archive it, in case someday someone picks up where you left off.”
“Is there a chance that will ever happen?”
Donnovan was silent, his eyes saying everything. Not for the foreseeable future.
But they couldn’t even see the future. They were useless. Blind. The Edict was supposed to protect them, not make it worse.
“I was told you’ve been pining for this spot for some time,” Donnovan said. “Regretful as the cancellation is, it needn’t be the end for you. If you wish to stay, I can put you on other projects. We have people working on general improvements to our watches—perhaps that would interest you? It’s not as flashy as inventing a device to cure wounds, but I think all our work is important.” His knitted eyebrows expressed a mix of apology and encouragement.
“Thank you, sir.”
Working on watches. What he wanted. He once thought it would be Wallace’s shop, not secret laboratories of time travelers, but it was as close as it got.
If only the simple wishes of the past would still hold up.
“I’ll look out for spots.” Donnovan began stacking papers.
“Actually, sir, that won’t be necessary.” Brayden squared his shoulders. “If you don’t mind, I’ll be going home.”