Rystrome grinned. "Yes, sir. Well, she got a flute and says it's as good as the one she had before. I like the way it sounds, but what do I know?"
"Didn't you mention having children?"
Rystrome looked suddenly uncomfortable. "I did. Yes."
Archer turned to Rothesay with a questioning look. Rothesay just shrugged. "It's a volunteer mission. Pays really well."
Archer stood in front of Rystrome. "You do know there's some risk?" Rystrome nodded. "What could be so important that you'd be willing to risk leaving your wife widowed and your children fatherless?"
Rystrome blinked, but looked Archer full in the face. "I want my children to go to school."
Archer stared at him for a few minutes thinking that a new society that could travel between dimensions should be able to come up with a way to provide an education for all its children. He sighed, nodded, and turned toward the controls wanting to ask Rystrome if he had thought to make that provision in his contract unconditional on outcomes.
He had calibrated the machine to look for a life signature match with Thelonius M. Monq. Thankfully they'd had the foresight to save some of his DNA.
From the remnants he'd retrieved from equipment mangled and mostly wiped, he gathered that Monq planned to hide the princess in a dimension with a counterpart of his own, counting on the belief that a similarly astute and nimble mind would believe her, accept her, and protect her.
Although he had no way of proving it at this stage in the research of interdimensional travel, he theorized that a "placeholder" was required for each life signature in a particular dimension. If the princess survived the trip, she would have gone to a dimension where there was a life signature that matched Monq's, and a "placeholder" for her; in other words, someone who matched her life signature, but was deceased.
Archer also conjectured that, if his theory was correct, and he sent someone to a dimension where the matching life signature was occupied, they would simply cease to exist - as in vanish or disappear. The thought of that was so chilling to him that he would rather step in front of a lumber train than transport into a dimension with calibration set for other factors. He was forbidden to share his suspicion with the volunteers since it was only theory. His stringent petition to abort this mission had also been denied because he had no proof.
Sometimes he wondered if the new authority was really any better than the old authority. All he could do was operate the controls and hope that the only fatality was the last surviving member of the Laiwynn royal house. That is if she survived. To Archer, it seemed like way too big an "if" to risk twelve good Ralengclan men.
Each of the dozen men was carrying a backpack with weapons, communications devices, and all weather gear along with a few gold bars. Archer reasoned that any similar dimension would value gold regardless of how their currency was formed. Most importantly, they each had been issued a new Yacht Timer Chronograph watch and given a week to test it for accuracy. They set times according to Archer's instructions and were reminded that they had to return to the exact point of entry at the exact time Archer would reverse the transport or they would miss their ride home and become permanent resident aliens.
Archer looked at the faces, all between twenty and thirty-five, all certain they were serving a noble cause. He sighed and started the cylinder's rotation.
"Good luck."
***
CHAPTER_10
BLACK SWAN FIELD TRAINING MANUAL Section VII: Chapter 3, #7
Vampire shall be dispatched upon contact. Take no prisoners.
Baka wondered what Heaven was doing at that moment. She might be sleeping. He had no reference to keep track of time. He sometimes wondered if he'd been there for hours or days. One thing was certain. He had no idea whether it was day or night.
Had she even noticed that he hadn't come into work? Would she care if he lived or died?
"Stupid," he said to himself. Of course she would care. She'd be glad if he died, but would be too ladylike to show it outwardly. It would be just his luck if his very last thought was about her and how much she hated him.
He pulled on his chains for the thousandth time while chanting the adage that the definition of insanity is repeating the same action again and again expecting a different result. He knew his wrists were raw and bleeding. He could feel the sting where the skin was broken and he didn't have to be a vampire to smell the blood. If only it was painful enough to be a sufficient distraction for his mind.
He had tried every trick he knew. Everything from singing until his voice was raw, reciting everything he could remember from "The Lady of the Lake" to the multiplication tables. He tried to focus on each person he knew well and recall their features so that he could draw them in his mind. But his mind was doggedly persistent about wanting to show him his past and the memories kept returning. Relentlessly.
The thinsulate jacket was better than nothing, but it wasn't nearly enough to keep the cold out when sitting, or standing, in one place. He tried concentrating on being cold and miserable. He tried concentrating on the dank smell of the Underground and the unmistakable feeling that the place was "alive" with the ghosts of souls who were angry about the way they had died. Each new tactic did work, for a few minutes, but nothing could withstand the onslaught of the horrific presentation. Some force wanted him to see it all. Again.
He saw himself leaning on an alley wall on a warm night eavesdropping on cafe conversations and remembered that he'd done that nightly. It was the Montmartre section of Paris in 1922. The usual vampire amusements had become tiresome and he'd found that he enjoyed listening to people talk about books and politics and, especially, art.
For a time he had been following a young Spaniard who had been in Paris for a few years, enough to learn the language and be understood. He lived in an attic flat with a French girlfriend and their relationship worked on several levels. She sat for him when he wasn't busy with the commissioned portraits that provided money to live, she fed his gargantuan ego, and expanded his natural inclination to be sexually adventurous.
It was a good time for the young artist. He was in Paris at a time when the world prized and celebrated art. He was in love. He had friends who were exciting and fascinating like Gertrude Stein and Ernest Hemingway. The very air around the romantic district where he lived and worked seemed to shimmer with the vibration of creativity.
One night he left his lover sated and sleeping. He slipped away gently closing the door latch and quietly descended the stairs to join his friends at a nearby cafe for late night banter. Gertrude liked to hold court at her salon, but a couple of times a week she would venture into the arms of 'the people' and patronize ordinary neighborhood cafes.
He had grown aroused while painting his lover who was becoming mistress of his heart. She had deliberately set out to experiment with her charms and learn if she held enough sexual currency to draw him away from his art when they were supposed to be working. She did. He had dropped his brushes into the thinner jar and practically leapt upon her as she welcomed him in triumph laughing, legs falling open wide.