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I glanced at Anderson, ignored his smarmy smile, and marched across the hangar towards Dispatch, knowing he'd be following. For some reason, I thought Mr Anderson was keen to keep an eye on me specifically. One glance over my shoulder as I bounded up the stairs and I was proven correct. Anderson and a goon were at my back, not more than a few feet away.
This was going to get very old very quickly.
Dispatch was not quiet. It was packed. Amanda was still on duty, and again I had the disquieting feeling that the woman never slept. She acknowledged my appearance with a smile and a look of relief that was immediately replaced with an expressionless mask as Anderson entered the room behind me.
"Miss Cockburn," I greeted. "How many rips have we got?"
"Right now, just the two, sir. It's as if Time knows we've only got two Orions to fix any rips and is pacing itself."
"Not Time, Miss Cockburn. Lunik."
"You believe Lunik is behind all this?" Anderson asked.
"Leningrad was an Origin Event," I said, distractedly, as my eyes swept over the rips we'd had already. Orion 2b was returning, having fixed its rip in Moscow in 1958. Orion 6b was on the way to Star City, again in 1958. No other rips had appeared yet, but I brought up Baikonur Cosmodrome on the 23rd of September in 1958 and stared at the time wave that represented it.
"That location and time mean something to you, Dr Evans?" Anderson asked from directly behind me.
I grunted but didn't offer a legitimate reply. Crossing my arms over my chest, I stared the time wave down, daring it to fracture before my eyes.
"Why there, Dr Evans? What's at Baikonur on the 23rd September 1958?"
I turned to look at the man. "You don't know?"
"You're the Time Surgeon."
"That's the date and location of the first Luna launch."
He blinked up at me. No way, he didn't know what that meant to Orion. Civil servants sent to us from Downing Street might not be the fastest rockets in the booster pack, but they would have been debriefed to some extent before let loose on the Royal Academy. I might not agree with the current Prime Minister's politics, but I would not have called the man unintelligent.
I turned fully towards Anderson. "Let's not play games with each other, shall we?" I said. "You know exactly what Lunik means to Orion. Clive's been filing reports with the Prime Minister for years about this, and I saw the most recent one he sent off with my own eyes. Every single minister, adjutant and lackey in Westminster knows what Lunik is to Orion by now, so stop wasting my time and acting all coy, Mr Anderson. Do you want to help save Time or are you here to break it?"
"I'm not here for Time at all, Dr Evans. I'm here for RATS."
"What does that mean, exactly?" I demanded; aware Amanda and everyone else in Dispatch were watching and listening intently.
"The Royal Academy of Time Surgeons costs the British Parliament in excess of twenty billion pounds per year and, as yet, has not turned an annual profit once. Where do you think that money comes from, Evans? I'll tell you where. It comes from the very public we as civil servants serve, that's where. And finally, the public wants answers as to why we haven't commercialised RATS yet. And I am here to determine exactly why that is. It doesn't help that in the past several months alone, RATS has burned through the money as if it is at war, but despite this grievous malpractice, the Prime Minister is prepared to give you one last chance to prove your worth. Cooperate with us, and you may keep your job when RATS gets revitalised. Obstruct justice, and you will get your just deserts."
I looked at the man as if he were mad.
"You're not here for Time," I repeated.
"That's correct."
I could hear uneasy shuffling in the background as those present absorbed Anderson's words. I didn't spare any of them a glance. My eyes were all for the lunatic standing before me and the impending doom he represented to RATS. Clive didn't need to leave this time for RATS to fail and Sergei Ivanov to shatter Time. Anderson and his hit squad would do it all right in front of us, and if the way he was acting was anything to go by; we didn't have a leg to stand on.
We were so fucked.
"You're not here for Time," I said yet again.
"You seem to be having trouble with this concept, Doctor. I'm the purse strings; you're the Time Surgeon. You do whatever it is you do to keep Time ticking along nicely, and I'll assess the financial damage and come up with a recovery plan."
"A recovery plan that includes commercialising time travel," I said.
"Now, you're thinking more clearly. That's exactly how this will work."
I shook my head. "It won't work, Anderson. It won't work at all."
He opened his mouth to argue some more, but right then, Baikonur Cosmodrome, on the 23rd of September in 1958, lit up the main viewscreen and the gentlewhoop-whoopof an emerging rip sounded out over our heads.
