Tandy

By D. T. Kane

Temporal Operations Militia, Field Report #001

AUTHOR’S NOTE: Unlike my fantasy novels, there is foul language in this story.

“The stars glowed like a thousand supernovas as she was yanked through time. Again.“

Tandy’s ebony skin shone in the evening twilight. Her dark hair was cut short and her brilliant blue eyes, like twin oceans, appraised the situation before her. As she considered, her fingers brushed over a gold charm that hung from her neck. Most would have identified it as a letter T, referencing the owner’s name. But some, those familiar with the early history of this planet, might have called it a cross, or even a crucifix—the wooden stake upon which the savior of a long-ago religion had been executed. 

Well, it was a long-ago religion from the perspective of her employers. It had been a current one for much of her lifetime. 

She was home. At least, as close to home as she’d been in quite some time. Tandy had seen things she couldn’t have imagined before becoming an agent of T.O.M. Wagons that moved without horses, contraptions carried in pockets that connected you with the world, vessels made of steel that traveled among the stars. All those years later she still marveled at it, how a slave girl from the deep south of 18th century American Earth could have come so far.

The street in which she stood was hard-packed dirt, muddy from spring rain. Night was coming, lamplighters busy climbing ladders to illuminate the gloom. Men in frock coats, collars upturned to the evening chill, led women in fur-trimmed jackets and woolen cloaks into the building before her. 

It was a three-story, gabled structure, snugged between others of similar architecture. Its ground level along the busy thoroughfare had five arched entrances to accommodate all those bustling to get in from the cold evening. Atop those were two floors of white-trimmed windows set into a red brick facade. A small wooden sign hanging between two of the entrances on an iron support was the only indication of the building’s identity. 

“Ford’s Theatre.”

Tandy frowned at the sign. She’d appeared in the city a day prior—the capital of one of early Earth’s most powerful nations. Getting one’s bearing was always top priority when beginning a new assignment. She’d spent the day determining her where and when. Sometimes that could prove difficult, like the time she’d been deposited into a barren, frozen wasteland with no signs of life for leagues in any direction. This time, though, it had been a simple thing. A newspaper had told her the date: April 13, 1865. Nearly 100 years after her Reference Time, not that it mattered. She’d taken the decade’s worth of True-His classes required of all Agents. She knew the time period better than any man or woman who had lived through it. A war had just ended, the nation celebrating. Entertainment venues were bursting at the seams to accommodate all the relieved populace who were looking to release years of pent-up anxiety and dread.

Tandy’s mind was far from the pleasure-seeking of those around her, though. Anomalies. That was all she thought of. T.O.M. never told you the mission—you had to figure it out on your own, which was why True-His was so important. Agents had to discover the historical derivation occurring at the time and place into which they’d been sent and correct it. Fail and… Well, Tandy had never failed. She’d met others who had, and that had been motive enough to know she’d never permit herself to falter.

One thing she had learned from experience, though, was T.O.M. rarely sent her to inconsequential points in time. Find the most significant event in the True-His of her current time and place and she’d find the Anomaly. And on April 14, 1865, there could be little doubt as to what that event was.

She joined the crowd flowing into the theatre’s entrance. Tandy was hardly dressed for the occasion, her clothing barely period appropriate and a far cry from formal. Her shirt was white linen, wrinkled and entirely unsuitable for the weather. It was tucked into tight-fitting dark pants and mud-splattered ankle boots, attire more appropriate for a jockey than a woman on the town. She had, at least, acquired (that is, stolen) a wool overcoat from a nearby hotel’s cloakroom. It was too large for her, but that did nicely to hide what she wore beneath. She allowed herself to be pulled further into the theatre by the throng. 

Tandy’s worry over her garments had been unnecessary, as no one so much as glanced at her. All about, people were gathered in groups, laughing and toasting. Glasses of champagne for the women, men clinking together tumblers of brown liquor. She must have been the only person in the lobby sick with anxiety. 

If they only knew what was about to happen. 

Her eyes darted about. Up. She needed to go up.

The stairs were across the lobby and she pushed her way through the jovial crowd. The show was set to begin in a few minutes and the better dressed folk were all making their way to the stairs as well. Here, her luck began to run out. An usher stood at the bottom step, checking tickets. He’d already eyed her more than once, as had several of the wealthy couples waiting to alight. 

Tandy muttered a curse, dropping her eyes to the floor. This country might have just won a war to outlaw one of True-His’s gravest human rights atrocities, but it was still centuries away from anything resembling equality. 

It galled Tandy how easily she fell back into an aspect of subservience. Her shoulders sagged, hands folded demurely before her. She trailed behind the couple in front of her. Right before they reached the usher, she took up the hem of the woman’s skirt in front of her—a flowing ball gown with too much lace—stopping it from touching the bottom step. 

Immediately, she felt the usher’s eyes go from scrutinizing to seeing right through her. Tandy held back a derisive grunt. After about three steps, she dropped the woman’s dress and brushed past the couple. At the top of the stairs, she moved down the hallway, passing doors that led to the theatre’s private suites. The further she went, the fewer people there were as she got closer to the hall’s end, where it terminated at the entrance to the state box.

She took several deep breaths. None made her feel any better as she approached the door. She put her eye to the peephole. There were four people within, two men and two women. One of the males caught her eye. Even sitting, he was obviously tall and thin, with a dark, smokestack hat atop his head. Although Tandy had known she would see him, her breath still caught. Now, just to figure out exactly why she was here. What was the Anomaly, and how was she going to stop it?

Applause from the ground level caused Tandy to draw back from the door. The play was starting. And it saved her life. Too late, she noticed the reflection in the door knob. All she could do was grab the crucifix at her neck. Squeezing, she crushed the gold charm in her fist.

Lurch.

Tandy’s vision blurred for a moment, stomach dropping to her toes, then up to the heavens. She clamped her mouth shut over the bile that burbled up her esophagus, swallowing it back down. Her vision cleared and she was back at the top of the stairs, where she’d been perhaps sixty seconds prior. The cross she’d crushed was gone. There had been an emblem at the charm’s center, a half-open door with a figure partly though, unclear whether it was coming or going. Now it was imprinted on her palm.

The charm had been her Bridge from the previous Mission. It was the only aid T.O.M. ever gave its Agents in the field. Anything further would create too much risk of further Anomalies. After each Mission was complete, there’d be a Bridge waiting somewhere nearby, either a black one that took you forward in time or a white one that took you back. You never knew which until you used it and figured out where it’d taken you. After traveling, the Bridge remained with you, retaining some residual power—what T.O.M. called “temporal echo.” You could use it once more to make a brief, temporal leap, either forward or back, depending on what kind you had. A sort of real-life mulligan. 

Thankfully, the cross had been a white Bridge. Tandy hated using them to make up for mistakes, but not as much as she hated being dead.

Tandy retraced her steps toward the state box, taking care to follow the same path she had previously. It’d been the reflected shine of scarlet in the door knob that had alerted her. That meant a Red—T.O.M. hunters. They only showed up once every three or four missions, but it was a shitstorm whenever they did. Reds were trained to see echoes. If she did anything to suggest she’d just messed with time, the Red would notice. 

Again, she looked through the peephole, this time taking note of the box’s other male occupant. He wore a blue jacket with polished brass buttons and a saber hung from his belt. The old type military men of this era used. The way he sat his chair suggested he knew how to use the weapon.

The crowd began to applaud once again. This time, Tandy didn’t back away. Waiting the space of a heartbeat, she flung herself to one side. An instant later, a metal star lodged itself in the door where her head had been. She spun, facing her attacker.

Definitely a Red. Whether man or woman, it was impossible to say. The figure was clad in a tight-fitting jumpsuit that looked like leather, except Tandy had seen a Red’s armor deflect bullets and absorb lasers that would slice steel. The suit was segmented at the joints, as if made of distinct pieces, though no openings between them were evident. Upon its head was a helmet that reminded Tandy of knights she’d seen in this planet’s Medieval era, except it was made of some high-gloss material. Instead of a visor, it had a shaded piece of glass over the face, revealing nothing of the person within. The entire outfit was apple red, with white accents across the shoulders and down the pant legs. Thus the name—Reds. T.O.M. knew nothing of them other than they made a habit of interfering with its operations. At least, T.O.M. had never told her anything else about them. 

The Red reached over its shoulder, producing a sword. Not like the cavalry saber the military officer in the state box had, but a slender blade that glowed electric orange. Great. Tandy had been trained in all manner of weapons at the Academy—everything from muskets to energy cannons, and dirks to tazer staves. But she had none of those now, and fighting a Red with a galvblade was only slightly smarter than sticking your arm in a grain thresher.

“Hey!”

Tandy’s eyes flicked away from the Red for only an instant. A ruddy-faced man had poked his head out from the door of a box down the hall, looking quite annoyed. Tandy immediately looked back to the Red, but it was gone. She gave a relieved sigh.

“The play’s started,” the man said. “Be silent. Go and find your master.” With a final glare, he shut the door.

“Yessuh,” Tandy said, her eyes dropping out of habit for a split second before she caught herself. You no longer looked up to anyone, she told herself. Well, save for her C.O. at T.O.M. But when a habit had literally been beaten into you from birth, it was difficult to break.

Cursing her ingrained servility under her breath, she looked to where the Red had come from. She had a few minutes now, at least. The Red had phased. It would take time for it to perform the calculations necessary to return to this exact point in time without crossing its own timeline. Reds, for all their meddling, seemed to follow some timeline-preserving code of their own and never permitted themselves to be seen by Linears—ordinary, non-time-traveling humans. That’s why the Red had disappeared upon the appearance of the ruddy man. It was the only real advantage Tandy and her fellow Agents had over them.

The Red had come from a narrow service stair and Tandy moved to investigate. Initially, she saw nothing of interest, but then noticed a broom closet at the top of the landing only partly shut. She opened it to find a man slumped unconscious among the mops and buckets. He had curly chestnut hair with a natural part and mustache that dropped over the edges of his mouth. One of his hands was outstretched, a single-shot pistol lying just beyond his reach.

Tandy glanced around to make sure no one saw, then stepped into the closet and nudged the man with her foot. His head lolled to the side, revealing a lump the size of an egg at this temple. A groan issued from his lips, but it was barely audible. Tandy kicked him with more force, but he gave no sign of stirring. 

“Shit,” Tandy muttered. She looked down at the gun, then over to the door of the state box. This was it. The Anomaly. And the Red could be back any minute—she couldn’t wait for the man to wake up.

With a sick stomach, Tandy took the pistol and inspected it. She’d taken well to her weapons courses at the Academy, particularly those from the centuries close to her Reference Time. It was a .44-caliber weapon, muzzleloading with a caplock. Small enough to fit in one’s pocket. It felt stubby in her hand, almost a toy, its barrel barely extending past her fingers when she gripped it.

“It’s already happened,” she muttered, rising and turning back toward the state box. “Far worse will happen if I don’t ensure it stays that way. I’ve got a duty to a higher power.”

She knew it was true. The Academy hammered it into every agent’s skull from day one: T.O.M. doesn’t exist to change, but to preserve. True-His is written in stone. If Anomalies succeed, that stone cracks, and too many cracks would lead to temporal instability. And temporal instability… Well, suffice it to say, there were reasons T.O.M. made clear that a dead Agent was preferable to a successful Anomaly. 

Tandy was at the state box’s door and a glance through the hole indicated all the box’s occupants were fixated on the performance. With one final, stomach-curdling breath, Tandy eased the door open. She stepped inside, pistol raised. Her hand wanted to shake. She commanded it to remain steady. 

“Shoot always with your mind, never your heart.” That’s what her C.O. always said.

She pulled the trigger.

The shot was louder than she’d expected. The man in the tall hat jerked forward, his bearded face falling into the lap of the woman beside him. She stared down at him, a momentary look of annoyance turning to horror. Then she screamed.

The other woman in the box gasped, then immediately began sobbing. The man in the blue coat with brass buttons leapt from his seat, turning toward the door.

Tandy had already dallied too long. She spun and bolted for the service stair.

“Stop!” cried the military man. Heavy footfalls indicated he was giving chase. 

“The President’s been shot! Help! Stop that man!”

If she hadn’t been running for her life, Tandy would have been insulted by that chauvinism, assuming she was male. Women could commit murder just as easily as men.

Oh, God. Murder. She’d shot him. She really had. One of the greatest men of this century. His blood on her hands.

Not now, Tandy, she thought. Guilt had to wait. As she rushed through the door leading to the service stair, she tossed the pistol back at the feet of the unconscious man. With any luck, after she was gone, they’d connect him with the murder weapon and all would be right. 

She hurtled down the stairs, the man in blue pursuing. “Come back you reb! Cold-blooded coward! I’ll show you what—”

The man’s words suddenly cut off. Tandy glanced over her shoulder.

“Shit.”

Behind the blue-jacketed man was the Red, its galvblade sticking through his midsection.

Tandy didn’t wait to see what it did next. Down the rest of the stairs she rushed. The door at the bottom was open, leading into an alley behind the theatre. She sprinted for it and—

A man crashed into her, sending her tumbling into a wall and knocking the breath from her lungs. Even so, her instincts took over and she recovered almost immediately, spinning and crouching low, nearly striking out before she recognized who she’d run into.

His leather trench coat might have fit in with the time period. But any pretense of being a local was obliterated by his hair—dyed purple, pulled back in a ponytail. A strange fleck of blue also stood out on one of his cheeks.

A name formed on her lips, but she hadn’t the breath to speak it. She’d thought him dead. A collapsing bridge, her on one side, he on the other, a Red bearing down on him.

He flinched back from her threatened strike, making painfully obvious he’d never experienced T.O.M. combat training. But if that was the case, why was he here? How was he here? And how had he survived a Red?

When he saw she didn’t intend to strike him, he lowered his lands and smiled. Green eyes scrunched into dimples. Despite herself, she smiled back. He seemed on the verge of saying something, but then his eyes darted over her shoulder. She followed them. The Red was descending, its galvblade drawn, lighting the stairwell like a torch. It seemed to pause, though, when it saw the man.

“Go!” the purple-haired man shouted. He grabbed her and pushed her into the alley, slamming the door shut behind her. 

Tandy’s initial reaction was anger. Who did he think he was? She was no damsel in need of rescue. But she quickly chastised her hubris. She couldn’t hope to stand against a Red unarmed. And unlikely as it seemed, the purple-haired man had survived an encounter with one before. Tandy yearned to go back to him. It was so rare that she ever saw the same face twice, much less a friendly one.

But her mission here was done, the Bridge already tugging at her to leave. Resisting it was futile. They taught you that at the Academy, but like a child touching a hot stove, she’d had to test it for herself once. It had been far worse than burning her hand—she wouldn’t do it again. So with a final regretful glance at the closed door, she fled down the alley, boots splashing through puddles.

Back on the main street, people were beginning to flood out of the theatre, looks of shock and agitation on many faces. A policeman rushed past her, pushing through the crowd, hand securing his flat-topped cap from being jostled off. She ran in the opposite direction. It was as if a taut rope had suddenly lassoed her brain, tugging her in the Bridge’s direction.

She entered a hotel. Its lobby was empty save for a concierge who asked how he could help her, though his eyes said he’d rather not. She ignored him, looking about. Her eyes fell to an open door, adjacent to the concierge’s desk. Tandy ran to it, ignoring the man’s protests. She slammed the door behind her, throwing the bolt closed to lock it.

It was an office, appointed with a large desk, several leather armchairs, and a roaring fire blazing in a large stone hearth. Upon the desk were two objects and Tandy hurried over. After studying them for a moment, she gasped. 

One was a gold pocket watch, the other a simple, silver ring. Each was engraved with the coming-or-going crest of T.O.M. 

Two Bridges. She’d never seen more than one in the same place. The second must have been for the purple-haired man. So he was with T.O.M., despite his apparent lack of training. 

Tandy tried to take the watch, but recoiled as soon as her fingertips brushed it. A shock like she’d touched a live wire zipped up her arm. Not hers, then. She reached for the silver band, but hesitated just before taking it. After a moment of indecision, she opened the desk’s drawers until she found a pen and stationary. She jotted a hurried note, then tucked it beneath the watch, careful not to touch it. Almost, she snatched the paper back. Leaving any mark of her passing through this time and place—or any time and place T.O.M. sent her to—was dangerous. But she let it be. She had to see what, if anything, came of it.

Tandy picked up the ring, studied it a moment, then slipped it on. A perfect fit, of course. For a moment, nothing happened. Then the rope lassoed around her mind yanked as if attached to a run-away horse. 

Once again, the stars shone like musket fire as she fell through time and place, on to her next assignment.

THE END.

READ THE NEXT INSTALLMENT – Field Report #002: “Twenty”

*AI Disclosure: The “T.O.M.” logo shown at the top of this story was created by the author using Midjourney.