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"I'm an Intern and on-call, and you're delaying my response time to a Category One Rip," I snapped back in my best Jessica Harding impersonation.
"You're a Novitiate," he argued.
"Wrong."
"You told me last night you were a Novitiate."
"I was playing with you. Ask anyone. Mimi Wylde is always messing with people. She's a bitch and likes to make others suffer horribly."
He blinked down at me.
"Go on," I said. "Check. But hurry. Category One Rips have a tendency to tear the fabric of Time apart and the longer I'm delayed from flying, the worse it'll get for RATS. As you're now part of RATS, congratulations, you could be causing your own horrific death as we speak. Tick-tock," I added for good measure.
I'd never actually heard Harding say tick-tock, but thought it would be something I could see her doing when particularly annoying.
The guard pulled out his own tablet and swiped the screen. It took him a good minute or so to find my name on the roster, check my credentials, and then check that all against the flight crew flying. Not a fast reader, this one; I could actually see his lips move as he read from the screen.
"Okay," he said reluctantly. "But don't mislead a member of the security team again."
"You're not RATS Security," I told him, moving past and out of reaching distance. "You're hired help; a mercenary force, and you have no idea what can happen when Time gets fucked up."
"Now, hold on a minute," he started to say.
"Sorry, gotta dash. Saving Time and your arse waits for no woman."
I started running, confident he'd see me as too much trouble. I was right. Grumpy 3.0 didn't follow me into Dispatch. But Grumpy 1.0 did demand to know what took me so long once I arrived there.
"Ask your comrade," I said, breathlessly. Lowering my head between my knees and placing my hands on my thighs, I breathed deeply and loudly for several seconds, catching my breath.
"Been workin' out lately, princess?" Bryan Fawkes' distinctive Floridian drawl said.
"Been too busy keeping my head down, gator boy," I shot back.
Standing up, my eyes met Bryan's. Knowledge of how wrong the next few minutes could go for us was shared in that one quick meeting of the eyes, and then I was assessing the room.
Ididknow the dispatcher. Her name was Margaret. She was new and not nearly as good as Amanda. In fact, I wasn't even sure if she'd finished her probationary period. I immediately filed her under Potential Problem on my list of What Could Possibly Go Wrong At RATS and Probably Would.
"Category One Rip, eh?" I said, wanting to break the strained silence.
"Star City again," Fawkes said as if he'd been involved in the last round of Chase Lunik All Over Russia Until One of Us Runs Out Of Time Travel Juice.
"Sergei," I hissed.
"It has not been confirmed what has caused this rip, Dr Wylde," a snively voice announced. I turned to see Mr Anderson himself enter Dispatch. "However, the rip is of a substantial enough size that permission to fly immediately has been granted."
"By Dr Crawford?" I asked.
"By me. Dr Crawford has had to take personal time for private reasons. I am in charge of the Academy now."
Personal time for private reasons.I didn't like the sound of that. Had Anderson sent Crawford back to his own time? Ostensibly to his family. In reality, nowhere near close enough to cause any problems for the Overseers.
"Okay," I said, because what else could I say? I needed to be able to fly. Crawford wanted me flying. He was counting on us.
I couldn't see a way to fix this yet, but something would present itself, eventually. It always did. And when the answer appeared, I wanted to be in a position to use it. I couldn't do that if I pissed off the new boss and got grounded again.
"Location and time, please," I said to the dispatcher.
"Star City, as Dr Fawkes said," Margaret supplied, "23rd of September 1958."
