I struggled to rein in my breathing as anxiety threatened to rob me of rational thought. But how was I supposed to react when my life was about to end fifty years before I was born.

Heavy mist swept off the Great Lakes, and cold easterly winds scattered paper and debris beneath the outline of distant skyscrapers. The rain arrived in spurts, slapping the pavement like an open palm, spreading the inner-city smells of wet asphalt and organic rot. Neon signs buzzed and flashed down the length of Clark Street, whispering promises only money could fulfill.

I sensed him. The invisible signature of his passing, the familiar smell of cinnamon, lingered in the air. Soaked, I slipped into shadow beneath a crumbling brick archway with the glossy letters, Angels Inc., crudely painted on a nearby steel door. Blood pounded in my ears as I scanned the street and my hands trembled like a junkie desperate for a hit. I had run out of places to hide.

The interior of Angels Inc. reeked of stale booze. Faint light emanated from table candles surrounding a tiny center stage, and the sultry beat of a thirty-year-old love ballad played softly in the background. The only people in the room, the bartender and a buxom blonde in black spandex, shared a smoke at the bar.

I chose a table in the corner and took a moment to peel off the jacket and gloves that, thanks to the rain, adhered to my skin like velcro.

“What’s the matter, Hon? Get caught in the downpour?”

I glanced up to see the blonde, hands on hips, giving me the once over.

“No, er, yes,” I stammered. “Bad time for a walk.”

She eyed me critically, her gaze flickering across my Armani shirt and leather jacket, before sinking into the opposite chair. She flashed a professional smile. “Well, let me join you, Hon. Name’s Lucy and there’s nothing like some company on a miserable night.”

I hesitated and she made a subtle motion with her hand. The bartender appeared with two imported beer. She passed me one and our fingers briefly touched.

“Oh, you’re cold! Been outside long?”

“Two or three hours.”

She passed a hand through blonde curls as she took a drink. “Looking for anything in particular?”

I played with the bottle in my hand. “Not really… I couldn’t stay….”

Her eyes widened. “It’s never easy to leave,” she said. “How long were you… involved?”

I felt a surge of panic before I realized what she meant.

“Five years,” I replied. Five fantastic years.

She took another drink and waited until I followed suit.

“That’s a long time,” she acknowledged.

I shrugged.

She picked up her bottle and leaned back. Some part of my mind registered the fact the bartender had changed the music to something upbeat and modern.

She pointed a manicured finger at me. “Let me guess. You’re either a lawyer or a banker.” Her gaze dropped to my gloves drying on the table. “Or a mob boss.”

I shook my head. “Wrong on all counts.”

More questions swirled behind those baby blue eyes.

We finished our beer just as the bartender arrived with a bottle of champagne and two glasses. He flashed me a greasy grin through his finely trimmed mustache.

She handed me a full glass of bubbly and another manufactured smile. “A toast,” she said. “To change.”

We clinked glasses and drank.

She leaned close and her fingernails scraped against my skin. “By your accent I’m guessing you’re not from around here.”

My expression must have changed because she laughed. The sound was infectious because, after a moment, I chuckled. “Is it that obvious?”

“Tell me,” she said.

I ran my finger around the edge of the glass. At this point my cover story didn’t matter anymore. “I’m from a … somewhere different. But I can honestly say my city pales in comparison to this metropolis.” I suddenly found it difficult describing something I spent five years trying to forget. Dredging up memories stirred my anxiety.

She smiled. “You are from away. How did you end up here?”

“I went AWAL,” I said, the words slipping out before I could stop them. “I was on a reconnaissance mission.”

She straightened in her seat. “You’re military? You not deserting--”

I waved my hand. “It’s not like that.”

She relaxed. “Good, cause we all have our principles.”

“Yeah, we all do,” I whispered.

We drank in silence, her eyes appraising, her mind trying to connect the dots. The alcohol began to blunt the sharp edge of my fear.

She pushed her chair back. “I’ve got to pee, Hon. Save my seat, ok?”

“Sure.” I watched her spandex stretch as she sashayed to the little girls’ room.

The bartender, he introduced himself as Raoul, deposited a second bottle of bubbly on the table and inquired whether there was anything else I needed.

I glanced across the empty, smoke stained interior, and shook my head. Not unless he could roll back time.

#

Lucy returned, totally transformed. Her long, platinum tresses were tied into a neat bun and the black spandex replaced with a white blouse and knee length shorts. Gone was the pancake makeup.

“That was some pee break,” I said.

She curtsied. “You like?”

I nodded approvingly.

She emptied the first champagne bottle and unscrewed the cap on the second. “So, Mr. Armani, tell me about your home. I promise not to whisper a word to anyone.” With a wry smile, she traced an imaginary cross over one breast.

I took a deep breath and leaned heavily on the alcohol. “I’m from a place you cannot imagine. We are a poor nation, but no different from the other small pockets of civilization.”

Confusion marred her pretty face but I ignored it as the smell of cinnamon returned. He was closing in. “I grew up on the street where children line up daily for a dollop of government dispensed gruel. People starve to death or fall prey to roving bands of thieves. Only the strongest survive and family members eagerly stab each other in the back if it buys another day of food and clean water.”

Eyes wide, Lucy slowly returned her glass to the table. “Where…?”

Her incredulous look irritated me. No one in this city appreciated the security and creature comforts. Not many would survive when they were ripped away. “I would have died in one of those ghettos but, luckily, I had certain…talents. The Feds plucked me out of that nightmare and trained me as an operative.”

“To do what?”

“To collect power.”

Lucy struggled to put the pieces together. “You steal energy secrets?”

I shook my head. How could I expect her to understand? “No, I stockpile energy.”

One look at her furrowed brow and I tried another track. “See this candle.” I waved my hand through the flame. “It gives off heat that simply melts into the room. My job was to collect that unused energy and smuggle it out. I said we were poor. The Feds need that energy.”

“What are you talking about?” she scoffed. “Energy from a candle?”

“Not from a candle,” I said. “From generating stations, nuclear plants, anything that produces huge amounts of power.”

“And you would store it in what, a large battery?” She started to laugh but my grim expression didn’t waver and the sound died in her throat.

“Something like that,” I murmured.

Her eyes locked on mine. “You’re from a tough place.”

I nodded.

“What about family?”

I sipped my drink and focused on slivers of memory. “Father disappeared when I was young. I had a brother but he died of the plague.”

“By the Feds, you mean the government?”

“No. The ruling Council. They run the…city.”

“They trained you?”

“For ten years. They used neurotransmitter augments and surgical implants to enhance my transport ability.”

She gestured for me to slow down. “Whoa there, Hon, you’re losing me. I was thinking you were from one of those impoverished African countries but now I’m not so sure.”

I grimaced. She probably thought I was some kind of nut.

The cinnamon smell hit me like a bolt of lightning, stronger than ever. I almost threw up.

Lucy noticed. “What is it?”

My eyes scanned the room. Candles on nearby tables burned low, casting dim shadows that flickered across the cheap artwork and stucco ceiling.

“He’s narrowing in,” I whispered.

“Who is?”

“My comrade. The one I abandoned. They sent him to find me.”

She leaned forward and took my hand. Her skin was warm. “Hon, you’re shaking like a leaf so let me tell you something. If you need a hole to hide in you’ve come to the right place. There could be a four-alarm fire next door, a nudist colony upstairs and an exorcism in the basement, and the cops wouldn’t darken our doorway.”

I forced a tight grin. “It’s not your lawmen I’m worried about.”

Her relaxed smile folded into a frown. “Then explain it to me.”

“It’s the subtle things,” I explained. “The difference in a stock price, the number of arrests at a rock concert… the beating of a butterfly’s wings halfway across the world. Tiny events that are impossible to notice when you’re standing in the now. But he’s on the outside, searching for those minuscule changes. He’s been zeroing in on me since I left.” I took another drink.

She remained quiet, watching my eyes. I didn’t notice she had pulled her hands away until she lit a cigarette. I felt like a sinner in a confessional. “I can smell him.”

“Smell him?”

“It’s in the training. They augment our senses. Temporal sequencing emits a particular odor, cinnamon.”

Lucy took a hurried drag. “Look, I like you, Hon, but you’re starting to scare me.”

“I’m sorry.”

We waited in silence, Lucy puffing on her cigarette, me praying for a second chance.

#

I sensed his presence before spotting the silhouette. I gasped and Lucy straightened.

“What’s wrong?”

I could barely speak through the lump in my throat. I nodded towards the table and squeezed my eyes shut. “He’s here.”

She spun in her seat. “Hon, there’s no one there.”

I opened my eyes and, sure enough, the table was empty. Of course. Now that he had pinpointed my location, he would wait for an opportunity.

I turned and spied him at another table. The bastard was baiting me.

Without taking my eyes off him, I gripped Lucy’s arm and firmly pulled her out of the seat. “Come with me.”

I heard Lucy’s sudden intake of breath as her eyes fell on the visitor. At the bar, Raoul scratched his head in confusion.

I stopped in front of the table. “Socrates,” I said, low. With the collar of his trench coat turned up and his fedora pulled low, he looked like a down-and-out private eye.

“Plato.” His voice was just as grating as I remembered. “It’s been awhile.”

I grabbed two chairs and pushed Lucy into one. Mouth agape, the blonde stared at the new arrival.

“You’re real,” she said quietly.

Socrates brown eyes flashed. “How much have you told her?”

It was all I could do to hold the panic at bay as I slipped into a chair.

“Do you realize the risk you’re taking?” His hard glare tore at me.

I stole a glance at Lucy and took a deep breath. “I don’t think our discussion will alter history.”

He pulled out a cigarette, lit it, and pointed it at me. “You forget how close to the edge we tread. Our city is alive--”

“Our city is a living hell,” I snapped.

Socrates slowly placed both hands on the table. “For now. The Council needs time to reverse the trend.”

“The Council sucks up all the energy while the people starve,” I said bitterly.

“They distribute the energy as needed.” Socrates’ voice sounded like millstones being ground together. “Unless our energy scavengers go AWOL.”

His accusation stung. My gazed dropped.

“I couldn’t take it anymore,” I whispered. “People living in wretched conditions, misery and disease lurking like vultures over walking corpses.” I paused as a police siren flew past the front door. “It’s different here. People take care of each other. There are hospitals, orphanages…”

Socrates leaned forward. The candlelight emphasized the jagged scar that traced a circular path from his eye to his jaw. “It was these same people who precipitated the war, Plato.”

I clamped my jaw shut. He was exposing nothing more than my weakness, the inability to shield my soul with callous indifference and do my job.

Lucy rested her hand on mine, but her blue eyes cooled when she focused on Socrates. “You’re here to take him back,” she said. “To that terrible place?”

Socrates hesitated. “He deserted, Lucy. There is a price to be paid.”

“You know my name?”

“He knows everything about you,” I said. “Between the time he arrived at the first table and now, they would have supplied him with information.”

She blinked and I could see the wheels turning.

“So you know everything up to this moment, but not beyond?”

Socrates and I exchanged a surprised look. Lucy was smart.

“So you both were operatives for the… Council?” she asked.

“Plato!” Socrates warned.

I ignored him. “We worked as a team for ten years.”

“And this energy you harness, it supplies the basic necessities?”

My former comrade looked about to burst.

“No. Almost every kilowatt goes into Fed programs, the machines and factories. Very little is left for the people.”

“It has to be done that way,” Socrates interjected, his tone biting. “If we’re going to survive, we must rebuild.” He met my gaze. “Damn you! We risk everything talking like this!”

Lucy held up one hand. “Can this future be prevented?”

Socrates slumped back in his chair. I shook my head. “All the computer simulations show exactly zero possibility of preventing the war,” I explained. “There are too many variables, too many personalities in positions of power. It’s not a matter of if but when.”

“He’s right,” Socrates added wearily. “And if we try, we might tilt the equation just enough to ensure the extinction of our species.”

Lucy glanced at me but I could only shrug.

“He’s been here five years,” she said. “I assume nothing has changed.”

“Only because he knows history intimately,” Socrates replied. “He’s been lucky. Nobody can’t beat the odds forever.”

“Don’t believe him,” I said to Lucy. “I’m living proof it can be done. People can fade into the past and not alter the timeline.”

“Or they can produce a dead world,” Socrates murmured.

Lucy tapped the table thoughtfully. “Even in hard times, people come together.”

Socrates’ smile was totally devoid of humor. “Your time pales in comparison to our period of destruction. Try to imagine billions of unexploded mines across the globe. Roads littered with the rusted hulks of burned out tanks and armored vehicles. Semi-sentient H-K’s roaming the land.”

Her brows knit in confusion. “H-K’s?”

“Hunter-Killers,” I said. “Machines with cybernetic brains programmed to eliminate populations based on genetic code. Their fusion batteries provide decades of power.”

“I haven’t even mentioned the toxic filth you call lakes and rivers,” Socrates added. “The acid storms and, even better, the earth itself laced with biotoxins and chemicals that, once ingested, turn your guts into a bleeding, fungating mass.”

Lucy grimaced. “It sounds horrible. How can you bear it?”

“Some of us can’t,” Socrates replied. “The rest of us grit our teeth and plod forward.”

Raoul wondered over and deposited three beers. No one touched them.

Finally Lucy took my hand and squeezed. “I won’t claim to understand what you two have endured, but it’s obvious Plato has donated his pound of flesh. Even if you brought him back he’s wouldn’t be much good. He’s burned out.”

Socrates shook his head. “That doesn’t change anything. If he can’t work, they’ll use him for parts.”

Lucy’s hands tightened on mine. “They’ll what?”

“He’s owned by the Council. They invested significant resources in his training, in all our training. If they can’t get a return, they’ll take back the augmented parts.”

Her hand flew to her mouth. “That’s barbaric! They’ll kill him!”

Socrates didn’t bat an eye. “If he can survive with what’s left when they toss him into the street--”

“You would let that happen?” she asked, incredulous.

“Nothing is wasted,” Socrates murmured. “He understood the risk when he joined.”

“Screw you!” she snapped, hauling me out of the seat. “We’re leaving.”

She stopped at the door to grab a yellow raincoat and point a finger at Socrates. “And if you try and take him, I’ll blab this story to every tabloid in the city.”

My old comrade sat calmly in his seat. His hooded eyes, however, conveyed another message.

#

Outside, a heavy rain chased us up the street.

“Where are we going?” My question came out in a cloud of gray mist.

“To my apartment. It’s a couple of blocks from here.” She hesitated as her thoughts caught up with her feet. “They’ll be waiting, won’t they?”

I kept her hand in mine as the rain splattered around us. “It’ll be the first place I’d look.”

“They want you that bad? Why?”

“Because the Feds need to hold me up as an example to others harboring similar thoughts.”

She set her jaw. “I’m willing to help. Tell me what to do.”

A million thoughts tumbled through my brain, chased by a wave of panic and the faint smell of cinnamon.

“This way,” I decided. We crossed the main thoroughfare and stumbled on a lone cab. As the driver raced up Craig Street, I wondered if all of my safe houses were compromised. “Take us to the Hilton on South Michigan,” I instructed and turned to Lucy. “I worked a mission there years ago, before he became my partner. It’s not a place he knows about.”

Twenty minutes later, two drenched rats crept into the lobby of the hotel. I registered under the names of Mr. and Mrs. Smith and paid in cash. Before finding the room, I made a quick detour to the bar and returned with a couple of items, one of which was a full bottle of rye.

It took three drinks before I could stop pacing. Lucy rocked back and forth on the bed and nursed her own glass.

“Will he find us?” she asked.

“They’re got the right timeline,” I admitted. “However, it’s a big city and if we move without creating a ripple--”

“Why do I sense he’s afraid of me?”

“Because as long as I’m with someone from the present, he can’t take chances. You may do something that will upset the time line. If you did go to the tabloids, most people would simply laugh it off, but some would be affected by the story, and that might inadvertently change history.”

“He can’t kill me?”

“A random death will most definitely affect the time line.”

“What if he takes me with you?”

“No one can use the temporal sequencer without being properly prepared. Any biological unit we’ve tried to bring forward without the proper coding undergoes rapid decomposition, even agents like me. It’s not a pretty sight.”

She hesitated before asking the next question. “So what do we do?”

“Tomorrow we leave the city and head north, to a place with little technology and even less people. With luck they might eventually give up.”

“They might let you go?”

I stared into my empty glass. “Possibly. Every use of the temporal sequencer consumes resources my world cannot spare. After a while they might decide it’s not worth the effort.” I paused. “That’s if you want to come. I never expected--”

I caught her smiling. “Let’s talk about it later. For now let’s just say I sense an opportunity.”

“I don’t follow.”

“After thirty years, I’m tired of the endless hustle, of cigarettes and booze. Tonight I feel like I’m doing something worthwhile.” She sank back into the pillows. “In the morning maybe I’ll change my mind and walk away, or maybe I’ll find you’re really a jerk just like the others.” She sipped the scotch. “Do you have a problem with that?”

“Uh, no Lucy.”

“Call me Beth,” she said. “Lucy is a mask I want to burn.”

She finished her drink and got under the covers. “Good night, Pluto.”

“Good night, Beth,” I said.

#

The smell of cinnamon invaded my dream. My eyes snapped open.

Socrates sat cross-legged in the chair opposite the bed. He stared vacantly at the ceiling.

On the other bed, Elizabeth’s breathing seemed abnormally slow and deep, almost like--”

“Ketamine,” Socrates answered before I got the question out. “She’s out for thirty minutes, enough time to finish this.”

Pulse pounding, I swung my legs over the side of the bed and sat up. “How’d you do it?”

He shrugged. “Good old detective work. I figured you for some kind of crazy Ivan. The surname Smith on the register caught my attention.”

I glanced at the sleeping form and tried to think between waves of panic. “You realize if I’m gone in the morning, she will carry out her threat?”

Socrates removed a cigarette package from the inner pocket of his leather jacket, lit one and proceeded to blow out a ring of blue smoke. He pointed to a piece of paper on the nightstand. “I figure the note you’re going to leave will buy us a few days. After that it won’t matter.”

My stomach lurched. He knew something. “What’s going to happen?”

He held up the cigarette. “Damn, these things taste good. I’d take a mission just for the smokes.” He took another drag. “You got me started in Moscow, remember?”

I nodded. “The Sino-Russia Conflict. I saved your ass.”

“Five minutes before the nuke exploded,” he acknowledged. “You took a big risk coming back. I would have left you to die and taken the Sequencer home.”

I waited. We had been through a lot together. The fact that I burned out first revealed a weakness, a layer of compassion that our training was supposed to expunge.

“They found her medical file,” he said, his lips settling into a smirk. “She’s got metastatic lung cancer, probably from her line of work. Thirty-six hours from now it’s going to eat into her bronchial artery.”

His words hit me like a sucker punch. The only person in the world who gave a rat’s ass for me and she had a shorter life expectancy than I did. “Does she know?”

He inhaled deep. “Records show her family finds out after the autopsy.”

My hands started to shake. “You went back and confirmed this?”

He nodded. He seemed to be waiting for something.

“If you went back…” The idea shot into my mind. “Then you already know if last night’s events affected the time line. Did it?”

He hesitated and I barely suppressed the urge to throttle him.

“There was no change,” he confirmed. “You blended into the time continuum without creating ripples. After Lucy, or rather Elizabeth, died we could find no trace of your existence.”

“Then a person can migrate into a different time without damaging history,” I met his gaze directly. “You can leave me here.”

He sneered, the long scar twisting into the shadow of a monster. “Fraid not. The Feds need a victim, someone they can display to other agents. They made you my responsibility. I’ve chased your ass across two-hundred years of history and wasted a good chunk of my life. You’re going to pay for that. I’m going to watch the butchers take you apart, organ by organ, piece by piece, until there’s nothing left but a shell of hollow skin.”

His abject cruelty erased any compunction at what I had to do. I reached behind the headboard and withdrew a nine-millimeter Beretta complete with silencer. The appearance of the gun made him hesitate long enough for me to fire a round into the pit of his stomach.

The shock of the impact knocked his hand away from the laser pistol in his holster. I sprang forward and grabbed it, and then tossed both weapons onto the bed. His hands involuntarily retreated to the hole in his gut.

“How did you…?” he managed between clenched teeth.

“Leaving the name, Smith, was the bait,” I explained. “You’re too good to miss it.”

He still looked confused. “But the gun…”

“I worked here once,” I explained. “Back then I was a nervous young recruit who had a penchant for keeping extra weapons around, like the gun I stashed above the bar. After we checked in last night I went down and retrieved it.”

“And by shooting me you think you’re going to escape?” He tried to laugh but the sound degenerated into a groan.

I felt a twinge of sympathy. An abdominal wound was a painful way to die.

“It’ll give us a chance,” I admitted.

“Bah! We’ll pick up the scent,” he muttered. “I found you once already.”

“True,” I admitted. “I know you’ll never give up.” Even though I had worked with Socrates for years, I felt as though I was seeing the man for the first time.

“You should kill me,” he wheezed, blood seeping through his fingers. “At least then, when they roll your carcass onto that operating table, you’ll have some measure of satisfaction.” He coughed and dark droplets speckled his lips.

I didn’t move.

“You can’t finish it, can you?” He grunted, stretching one bloody hand into his vest pocket to withdraw a silver cylinder. “Still too much of a bleeding heart. I really would have let you die in that Russian jail”. He coughed again. “So you… won’t mind if I take this moment to vacate the premises?”

I remained mute; watching him as he punched his code into the sequencer. He paused every few seconds as the machine emitted an answering beep. I waited until I heard the telltale double click, and then lunged forward to rip the cylinder from his weak grasp.

“What…?” He barely stopped himself from pitching forward.

“This is why I didn’t kill you,” I said. “I needed you to enter your personal code to initialize the sequencer. In fact, killing you sooner would have guaranteed my capture. This way I have a chance.”

“I don’t understand,” he gasped. His body started to shake as shock set in. “Sending me back… dead… will make them look harder for you.” He sagged against the wall.

I bent down eye level. “It’s part of my plan. You’re going to die in a few minutes, old friend. When Lucy wakes up I’m going to tell her I caught you sneaking in and shot you. We’ll hide your body for thirty-six hours, until Elizabeth’s cancer claims her, at which time I’ll send both of you back. Of course, because her body won’t have been coded, it’ll distort beyond recognition.”

I don’t know if the shocked look on his face came from the pain, or the fact I was actually letting him die.

“But… they’ll see I’ve been… shot.” Socrates murmured, blood dripping off his chin.

“The Feds will think we killed each other but you survived long enough to program the sequencer. Since the codes are known only to each agent, they’ll assume the puddle of flesh is me.” I watched his eyes widen. “It completes the circle. They will have their vengeance and their victory.”

The silver cylinder vibrated softly in my palm. The confirm button flashed, ignorant of the fact it wouldn’t be pressed for another thirty-six hours.

I glanced back at Socrates but he was no longer bleeding, just as he was no longer breathing.

Stepping around the stain on the carpet, I pulled his body into the corner and hid the guns. The only sound in the room I could hear over Lucy’s relaxed breathing was my pounding heart.

Lying back on the bed, I poured another glass of rye. I had a day and a half to show Lucy I was not another jerk. There was nothing I could do about the cancer, but I could instill a modicum of hope in a girl bent on a second chance. After all, she already did for me.

###