The Sphere: A Journey In Time Read online

  Jim stopped to open a door for me, then followed me in. A small round table was set with my meal and his. Though it felt like mid-afternoon for me, it was only mid-morning. Opposite my duck and salad was a tea pot and some small pastries. In addition to the table there were a couple sets of arm chairs dotting the room. I had been in this room many times, it was another part of the debriefing process. A more formalized interview, given while the experience was still fresh in the librarian’s mind, but after they had a chance to adjust to the time shift and think more clearly.

  I sat myself at the table and eagerly dove into my salad. Jim sat across from me and watched for a moment. "Well, of course not,” he said. “But while people love to ascribe meanings to things they know can't be real, they're equally enamored with reading into literature. Finding symbolism in places where none was intended."

  I held a floogberry in my mouth for a moment, my tongue savoring the juiciness. Stratford was not known for its fruit. "I guess that's part of the fun. Trying to determine who's right. And we're killing that. That opportunity for speculation."

  "It was a dead topic anyway.” Jim poured himself a cup of tea and pushed the small plate of pastries away before settling back in his seat. “It's been decades now since homosexuality has been the least bit scandalous. Even if people take this as absolute proof, which they probably won't, the most it will amount to is an 'oh well' in the minds of the scholars who were looking for proof."

  "It's not absolute proof. It merely refutes one of the most widely cited examples that supported the case that he was gay. It's not like I found him in bed with the footman." The tension crept back into my shoulders. It was easier to dismiss now that I was actually in Jim's presence. He was my advocate and I thought of him also as my protector. I couldn't be faulted for anything. I did my job. He was right anyway; it was largely a dead topic. "So I haven't really proven anything, just taken away a bit of their argument. In the end, this isn’t over."

  "It might be for us. Regardless of what it does or does not prove, it's a question that has been answered. And it was a fairly important point of argument in its day. Learning the meaning behind such a hotly contested sonnet will not go unnoticed. The task now is to determine if we continue along this line or let it go."

  "That makes it sound like this was a pointless mission." I frowned down at my salad.

  "Are you sorry you went?"

  "Of course not, but that's hardly the point. You know I was thrilled about the chance to meet Shakespeare." A pang of guilt hit me. Perhaps I had pushed to go more than I should have. In the grand scheme of things, it really was no longer an issue. "But was it worth it?"

  "That depends on if it was worth it for you. Look, we've all had our pet projects that we pushed extra hard to see through. It's impossible to come up with a mission that will have meaning to every single person in the country."

  I tried to figure out an example to refute that. Given the general apathy of the majority of the population, I couldn’t. Some people cared about politics, some people cared about literature and art. Some people cared about nothing but themselves. With all the advancements of technology over the past fifty years, life had become a piece of cake. Without the drive to better their situation, most people merely floated from day to day. What difference did it make to them how they got there?

  Jim had not spoken while my mind wandered and I looked up, realizing he had been staring at me. He gazed at me over the lip of his tea cup as he took another sip. "So?"

  "So what?"

  He put the cup down and set his gaze on me again before continuing. "Was it worth it for you? The weeks of preparation, months of living someone else's life, the recovery?"

  A grin spread over my face as I remembered the desire to stay in Stratford. "Absolutely."

  "Then I declare a success. You got a question answered and came back without regret. It's worth feeding a pet project every now and then if it keeps you a librarian." A proud smile crossed his face. "And one of our best at that."

  I rolled my eyes at his compliment and relaxed again. I had heard of a few missions that were complete failures, but so far I always managed to accomplish my objective. "Do you know what the planters are leaning towards?"

  "Of course not. You've been back for less than an hour. And the further back in time a mission takes place, the more opportunities in time they have to plant the evidence. And you were gone for a long time. Knowing your obsessive note taking habits they're still probably trying to read through your journal."

  If nothing else, I had given them real insight into the man's everyday life. I nearly dropped my fork. It seemed so obvious all of a sudden. "They’ll plant my journal."

  "It's likely. I've only read a small amount of it, but it's a highly plausible scenario."

  Of course it was. More and more people were learning to read and write in that time period. I had told William myself about my father wanting me to know how. The details of my visit were all there, my interactions with him. I would just have to expand it out a bit; make it less scientific observation and more girlish whimsy. Then add the conversation that proved that the 20th sonnett was not about a man he loved, but his son. Then the planters could take it back in time, perhaps with a note to give it to someone in the household. One of the daughters, maybe. I tried to quell my excitement. They wouldn’t allow further interaction with the family, I was sure. Too many years for a minor change in history to ripple outward.

  Jim lifted his hand to touch the implant in his ear. It was an obsolete gesture, the speaker was internal to his brain and there were no outer controls to interact with. He felt it was considerate to give people around him a visual indication that he was at least momentarily going to be distracted by whatever he was hearing. He gave me a somewhat patronizing look and set his hand back down on the table. "Sounds like you're right. They've transcribed the journal, the file's already on your server. Embellish and expand beyond your departure point. Looks like you'll need to come up with a reason for your disappearance from Stratford after all to add to the journal. They’ll find an antique book dealer’s store to plant it in and provide an anonymous tip to a collector to go find it.”

  “Someone discovers the long-lost journal of a maid in Shakespeare’s household? That’ll get some attention.”

  “You've got a week to rework the journal."

  "A week is way more than I'll need to-".

  He didn't bother letting me finish my protest. "It's been five months, Addy. This is the longest anyone has been gone and it's going to be a while before you're let out again. Relax. Take your time."

  I frowned and inwardly sulked. I was feeling fine, I saw no need to be overly cautious. "How long?"

  "We're thinking about sending you on a two-week vacation after you finish the report."

  I tried to not show that I was seething on the inside. "And then?"

  "And then we'll reevaluate how you're doing."

  I snatched my wine glass a little too violently and slumped back into my chair to pout. It would be at least three weeks before I even knew what my next assignment might be. And who knows how many weeks prepping for that. That meant at least a month before I could go on another mission. I scowled at the wine in my glass.

  "Don't pout, Addy."

  I glared at Jim from the rim of my glass, drained it and placed it back on the table. It was mostly for show. For the past five months, I had been drinking bad, high alcohol content wine and my tolerance had increased dramatically. I crossed my arms and continued to glare at him. He picked up the bottle and refilled my glass for me. I contemplated downing that one rather quickly as well.

  Jim spoke again before I could try. "Think of it this way, there has to be something you've been wanting to do, that you haven't had time to take care of."

  It was true. I had not taken a vacation in a long time. I picked up my wine glass and thought about it again. I realized I had not taken a vacation since I started here a few years ago. When I really thought ab
out it, aside from my missions, I had not left this place since I started. I wasn’t even sure where I would be allowed to go. "Maybe." I never really thought I needed time off. I enjoyed my work learning about cultures from long ago, the dialect lessons, and the travel. What would I do with two weeks to myself? "Where do I get to go for vacation?" I was fairly certain they did not trust me enough to let me interact with the normal world in an uncontrolled environment.

  "We have an island in the Atlantic. It’s fully staffed with trustworthy people."

  "You've been there?"

  "I went when you were on an assignment once. Lovely spot. Learned to fence."

  "Still. Two weeks?"

  "You've been gone five months.” He emphasized the last two words as though I wasn’t aware of the passage of time. “For us only a week has passed since you left. It's important for you to spend some time in this time."

  I took a hefty sip from my glass, becoming slightly less peeved about the situation. "How about a compromise: I'll rewrite the journal during my two weeks away."

  "No." His response was immediate. I knew Jim well enough to know when there was no compromise to be had. I also knew he had my best interests at heart. Jim is the closest thing I had to a father since mine died when I was a young girl. Though I enjoyed the banter, we both knew I would do whatever he wanted. I didn’t have much choice in the matter.

  "Fine." I stood up roughly from the table and stalked towards the door like a petulant child.

  "You can't start working on the journal until tomorrow," he said.

  I stopped dead in my tracks. The crafty bastard knew me too well. I turned and walked back to the table. "Fine." I snatched the still half full glass and bottle and took another swallow on my way out of the room. I paused at the door, "I want a hot fudge brownie sundae for dessert."

  As the door slid closed behind me, I heard Jim confirm something about Teddy and my room.

  I started down the hall towards the exit. The few people I passed nodded in acknowledgement or welcomed me back. I recognized most of them but could not name them. Teddy met me shortly before the entrance to the living dome. I could see the welcoming, colorful foliage beyond the door at the end of the plain white hall. "Your sundae is on your coffee table, Miss MacDuff. Best not delay your return, the ice cream will melt."

  "You're a saint, Teddy."

  "My pleasure, Miss MacDuff."

  I stepped through the glass door at the end of the hall and took a deep breath. Though the dome was completely enclosed, the trees and plants provided plenty of fresh air and floral scents. It was a welcome change from the five months of mild body stench and horses, followed by the stale recirculated air of the mission return chambers. I walked over to the Japanese style garden and placed my wine glass and bottle on a bench. I said to the general air, "Leave it," and continued on toward my apartment. The door parted before me, and I barely glanced at the interior as I grabbed my sundae and headed back to the pond.

  My wine was still on the bench. I sat down next to it and stared at the water in the fountain for a few minutes. My brain felt sort of fuzzy. Perhaps it would be a good idea to just relax for the rest of the day, work on readjusting my internal clock to the present time. I rarely had any down time on my mission, just the few minutes before I went to sleep every night to write in my journal. Now that I was back I hardly knew what to do with myself. My instinct had been honed to clean and tend to things whenever possible. Back here, almost everything was done for me.

  Well, I thought, at least I knew what I would do for the next half hour or so. I took another sip of wine, then picked up the spoon to my sundae. I zoned out as I stared at a tree, listening to the sound of the water spraying in the fountain, and let a spoonful of ice cream and brownie melt in my mouth. The moment felt unreal, like I was in a dream. Any minute now I would wake up and Mary would yell at me for not being down in the kitchen. Then Shakespeare would come and let me read another of plays. That was reality. This was a memory from long ago.

  I shook my head, as though that would help to clear my mind.

  Chapter 4

  I woke up with a bit of a hangover. I kept as still as possible for a moment. My bed felt much softer than normal. I was loathe at the idea of getting out of bed to begin my morning chores. Where had the smell of body odor gone? And where was the smell of fresh baked bread for breakfast? Was it still night time? What was going on? My head throbbed painfully. Of course. I was no longer in Stratford, I was home. I had drank that bottle of Bordeaux. And then I had drank that second bottle, and then that scotch. The scotch was probably a mistake.

  I decided to blame the time change for effecting my ability to cope with the alcohol. There was something I needed to remember, something from yesterday. Something about the pond. I decided to continue laying on whatever it was I was laying on. The pond in the Japanese garden. Japanese? No, I had decided against learning Japanese a while ago. Even if I learned the language, the likelihood I would be sent back to a point where I needed it would mean I would also likely have to look Japanese. While it might have been easy to tint my pasty white skin a darker color for my Egypt trip, I doubted changing my facial structure to blend in on a more intimate mission would go well.

  I rolled over and instantly regretted it. It was readily apparent that I was facing a window now. Though my eyes were closed, I could feel the difference in illumination burning through my eyelids. My brain felt like it was still turning over as well. The pond. I thought a groan might somehow help, but the noise merely made a throbbing pain join the moving sensation of my brain. When was the last time I had been hungover? Certainly not since moving to this place. I was pretty sure they stocked my medicine cabinet with something that would be useful. I just had to make it to the bathroom.

  Where was I anyway? I knew I was in my place, I remembered coming home. It was soft. There was a blanket. My foot was slightly pressing against something. I rationalized that it must be the couch. The bed was larger than this. If I was facing a window that meant my back was to the back of the couch. That was a good start. I rolled off the couch onto my hands and knees, keeping my eyes closed. Pond.

  I tried to get my bearings. The bathroom would be down at the end of the hall. I shuffled forward on my hands and knees to the end of the rug and pulled myself upright on the lounge chair. With my eyes still closed I felt my way down the hall. I left the bathroom light off, opened the medicine cabinet, then opened my eyes slightly. Through the bleary slits I could see the bottle of phenederil and managed to fumble the lid off. I tossed one in my mouth and turned the tap on. I hated trying to swallow a pill without a glass of water, but I didn’t want to try and make the trip back to the kitchen without some drugs in my system. I managed to get enough water from my hand into my mouth to get the pill down and plugged the sink. I watched the tap water fill the basin and thought back to the pond. I splashed some of the water on my face and gave it a good rub before looking down at the water again. Some dirt was floating on the surface of the sink water. I watched it float around for a minute before the idea finally came back to me. Sailing!

  That was what I wanted to do with my two weeks. Learning to sail in a private tropical paradise seemed like a great way to expand my mind, yet still have fun. Besides, it might come in handy someday. I dried my face off and took a deep breath. The drugs were already doing their magic. I strutted back to my living room and said to the space, "Message to Jim, I want to learn sailing. Send." A soft beep let me know the message had been sent. I went into the kitchen and put some water on to boil. I pulled a serving of steel cut oats out of a cabinet. "Mail." A screen appeared in the air over the back of the range. The most recent message was from the planters. The one before that was from Noah, another librarian. Noah was one of my better friends in the complex. We were discouraged from mixing with people not in our field. I focused my eyes on his message and said, "Read." Noah's voice filled my kitchen.

  "Hey Addy, my guess is you're either making yourself a grill
ed cheese sandwich with some of that horrible processed cheese substitute you seem to love, or you did the right thing and left business off till the morning, in which case you're stirring your oatmeal. Either way, when you have some free time during the next day or two I could use a little help with my prep for next week. I need a woman's opinion on something, and you're the closest thing around. Missed ya!"

  I couldn’t help but laugh at his message. We frequently made up excuses to consult on each other’s prep work so we could force ourselves to have some fun and not get burnt out. Not that we often had missions we weren’t looking forward to. Often another perspective helped with the prep work though. It was strange, I hadn’t seen Noah in over five months, but for him it had only been a few days. I heard another soft beep as I stirred my oatmeal. Jim had responded to my message. It was barely 6am, and I wondered if the man ever slept. "Read."

  "Sailing sounds like a wonderful idea. I'll see if I can set that up. You should have your files from the planters by now. Remember, one week. If you finish early I'll make you translate it into another language."