Acme Time Travel Incorporated - Volume 2 -
In Baltimore 16th Oct 2180
The ACME INC Building - Baltimore
Dmitry Alexandrovich sits behind his very large, very shiny, very sparse desk on the 47th floor of the ACME Building, Baltimore.
On the polished surface of his desk is a cell phone, a visi-tablet and a paper jotter.
He holds an ordinary pencil in his left hand.
He twirls the pencil between his fingers, finally inserting the end into the only other object on his desk; an old, mechanical pencil sharpener.
He holds the pencil in the hole in the sharpener with his left hand and turns the handle with this right.
A small spiral of wood shaving curls out from the sharpener into the clear plastic waste receptacle in the base of the sharpener.
He pulls the pencil out of the hole and runs his right index finger against the point.
He smiles; satisfied at the results.
He turns and looks out of his office window. It isn’t really a window. It is a twenty-yards wide, four yards high sheet of reinforced plexi-glass. He had said he wanted a view, and he had got one. He could see his reflection in it.
He thought he looked pretty good for a guy fifty-three-years old. He was still fit; he worked out, he always had. He wore good suits; and not just because he could afford to. It was because it was important; it made people who couldn’t envious.
He still kept his hair stubble-short. He thought it made him look tough. So did the scar across his right cheek; it ran down from his eyebrow down to the jut of his jaw. He could have had the scar fixed. It had happened a long time ago; a bar-fight, a guy wielding a broken bottle. It hadn’t helped the guy in the long run. The guy had been keen and young; had lots of energy, had got in a lucky strike. But it hadn’t helped him. Dmitry had had the experience, patience, some agility, and a ruthless determination to win. To win and not only to finish it, but to make sure that it never every happened again. Nobody who saw that fight would have ever felt the need to try their chances with Dmitry.
So he chose to keep the scar.
It all helped.
Even now.
His visi-tablet chimed and he checked whether it was a secure line. It was.
He clicked receipt.
“They’ve moved,” the voice on the other end said. “They’re not in Seville anymore.”
“Where to?” Dmitry said.
“Dunno. They’re still moving. Seem to be making a slow trip up through Spain.”
“Team 1 are both dead?” Dmitry asked.
“Yep, that’s a definite. They are both really dead. Didn’t know the fuckers had weapons ... or knew how to use them.”
“Well now we know,” said Dmitry, with a sense of exasperation.
Surely you didn’t need to tell a hit team that the victims might be unwilling to die.
“We could try and catch them while they’re moving. Maybe they are heading for ...”
“Listen,” said Dmitry. “Team 2 are ready to go. Flynn and Matthews. Let me know when they have stopped ... and I don’t mean when they’ve stopped for a crap. I mean when they’ve stopped for eight hours or more. Let me know, and I’ll get team 2 in.”
“Yeah. Right. As soon as they stop for ...”
Dmitry clicked off the call. He pushed the pencil back into the sharpener and gave the handle a savage twist. The leaded point sheared.
He pulled the pencil out, viewing the damaged point.
“Bollocks,” Dmitry muttered, angry at himself.
He was angry at himself for losing his cool. For losing his cool over something that should not be that difficult to achieve. Not that difficult to achieve, but with fucking huge, fucking catastrophic consequences.
He looked at himself, at his reflection in the plexi-glass.
“Fucking med-bay staff,” he muttered. “Maybe team 2 will be man enough to kill two fucking med-bay staff.”
He threw the pencil into a small waste receptacle adjacent to his desk.
The waste bin uttered a brief fzzt noise as it destroyed the pencil.
He didn’t like things that didn’t work; that weren’t fit for use. He couldn’t tolerate their presence near him. But he felt a grudging respect for the med bay staff. They had killed two of his own. The meds hadn’t been trained for it, but they had managed to kill two big guys with guns. Ok, they had had no choice; but they had come out winning. He could respect that. And if they had merely disabled his guys, then he would have had to finish his guys off anyway. To encourage the others as someone had once said.
He smiled to himself. He liked his job.
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