TMA: Agent Moon Ch. 03

A pang shot through him, though Dylan did not show it. He gripped her hand, then pressed it to the wound. "Keep the pressure, and breathe shallow," he said. "I'll be right back."

Betty nodded wordlessly. She reached a bloody hand that touched his chest.

After a moment's hesitation, Dylan pushed away from the car and ran back into the house. He began calling out as soon as his feet fell upon the creaking wooden boards. "Craig! Craig, come on! We have to go! Now!"

He threw open the door to the bedroom, expecting to see the man cowering or fidgeting. Instead, all he saw was a slender form swallowed up in the bed covers.

"Craig, damn it!" shouted Dylan angrily, throwing back the blankets. "I'm not in the mood for your . . . your . . . ." He trailed off, staring at the body upon the bed.

Michael Craig's skin was pale, exceedingly so. His eyes were open, glazed, faded. Flecks of foam decorated the corners of his mouth, and his tongue, purplish and bloated, stuck out. Dylan's heart sank. He had seen many corpses in his life, but there were times when the starkness of death touched even he. "Jesus Christ," he muttered, then stepped around the bed and touched the man's neck. Faintly warm, yet clammy skin met his fingers. No blood pumped through the carotid.

This isn't right,thought Dylan.I did what I was supposed to do. Reece couldn't have gotten to Craig . . . could he?

Betty . . . .

His fears for the success of the mission were tossed away. All that mattered to Dylan was getting the young woman he promised to protect to safety. Without a look back, Dylan turned on his heel and darted out to the waiting car.

***

The night ward of St. Joseph's Hospital in Elmira, not far from the Van Deusen Resort, was startled by the entrance of a man carrying a bleeding young woman in his arms. Reactionary shock was quickly transmuted into action as they produced a rickety gurney to carry the woman into emergency surgery. Dylan followed, answering questions as quickly as they were launched upon him.

"Her name is Betty Vernon," he said. "She was helping me. I work with the Bureau of Investigation. Do everything you can to save her; she's a state's witness."

Doctors and nurses alike, either impressed, cowed, or intimidated by Dylan's words and presence, worked swiftly to carry out his wishes.

Dylan watched as Betty was wheeled through broad double doors, his face pale and worried beneath the stark light of the corridor. He hated the feeling that Betty's life was in hands other than his own, but he was, at best, a field medic, not a surgeon.

The doors flapped heavily in the wake, clacking with the mortal precision of a clock. Dylan could do nothing but wait.

***

"Mr . . . um, Agent?"

Dylan looked up as he sat in the waiting area, clenching his hands together. The young surgeon before him wore a long white apron stained with blood. The mask that had once been around his face now hovered under his jaw.

"Tell me she's alive, or tell me nothing at all," Dylan said grimly.

The surgeon smiled thinly. "She's alive. The bullet was lodged between her ribs. There really wasn't that much damage. In a way, it's nothing short of a miracle."

Dylan let out a relieved laugh, and touched his knuckles to his forehead. "I'd like to see her as soon as possible."

The surgeon nodded. "She's quite incapacitated by morphine at the moment, but . . . we'll let you know when she awakes."

Dylan sat back, stretching his spine. Despite the failure of Craig's inexplicable passing, and whatever problems Reece's death may cause, he felt a sense of accomplishment that, at the least, Betty had been saved. Still, the guilt he felt that Betty had been hurt pained him. "If you don't mind, I need to stay with her once she leaves surgery."

***

It was early the following morning when Betty awoke. Dylan sat in an uncomfortable chair beside her bed, his fingers interlaced with hers. Despite his physical discomfort, Dylan had fallen asleep, head lolling on his chest.

The young woman opened her eyes slowly, feeling the grogginess of morphine that still lingered in her body. Looking about slowly, her clouded mind was just able to make sense of where she was, and the presence of Dylan, her protector, her guardian, made her smile. Mustering what little strength she had, Betty squeezed his hand . . . then squeezed again.

He shifted, came awake with a start. His face showed exhaustion, yet his eyes were instantly alert. "Betty?"

Her lips stretched in a tired smile. "Thank you."

He returned the smile, leaning forward. Fingers graced faces. Dylan relished the feel of her soft young cheeks even as she scratched at his stubble-covered ones. "Nothing else matters except that you're safe," he said.

Betty's eyes fluttered. The drugs in her system, combined with exhaustion and blood loss, brought upon a feeling of displaced euphoria. She barely managed to slip the necklace over her head, the tiny gold cross catching the light. "I want you to have this, Dylan" she said drunkenly, then fell back in her bed, sighing heavily. Within moments, she was asleep once more.

The metal of the cross was warm in his hand. The chain draped over his fingers as he pressed the symbol to his lips.I don't deserve this,he thought, and tucked the cross into his pocket.

He felt the buzzing of the cigarette case in his jacket, against his chest. He thought about answering it, knowing it was the TMA, but did not. He was worried as to what his bungled mission had done to the timestream. However, once the case buzzed for the third time, he decided to answer. Planting a soft kiss on his sleeping lover's dry lips, he stepped from Betty's room, took a few turns until he stood within a grimy, little-used corridor. The case flipped open with a touch.

"Moon."

"Time to come home, Agent."

The accented voice, the curt words . . . Dylan was surprised to hear the Director's voice. "What's happened?" he asked.

"Just come home, Dylan. We'll talk about it once you return."

He gritted his teeth. "I'd like to stay here a little longer—"

"No." The flat reply was firm and uncompromising. "Head down the hall to a janitor's closet. You can activate the recall from there."

Dylan breathed out, closing his eyes, thinking of Betty in her room, all alone and recovering. But he forced himself to remember where his obligations and duty really lay. "All right," he said. He snapped the case closed, looked back along the corridor.

I'm sorry, Betty.

***

"Agent Moon? Are you all right?"

Dylan nodded, fending off the helping hands that tried to lift him to his feet. His senses took in the sterile aroma of the Tap Chamber; he glanced around, seeing a couple of familiar faces in technician uniforms. Heavy eyes found Dr. Naveen standing on the other side of the observation window in the Command room. Her features seemed dark, but also sympathetic. She nodded once. Dylan returned the gesture with a thumb's-up gesture.

The techs helped him to his feet, and he stumbled from the room with their help. Though he felt a little weak, at least there was no nausea this time; Dylan figured he was beginning to get accustomed to time travel.

"I need to speak to the Director," he managed to say as he was escorted by a young French lieutenant.

"As soon as you've recovered," the man answered in a thick accent.

Dylan coughed once, cleared his throat. He cracked his neck and straightened his back. "I'm recovered."

***

Two hours later, Dylan stood before the broad window overlooking the Tap Chamber, hands clasped behind his back. A quick shower and fresh change of clothes had done little to relax him. There was a lingering sense of guilt that he had returned from the past, alive and whole, while Betty Vernon was left to fend for herself. Not to mention that Corinna's corpse remained attached to a 'Jane Doe' tag in 1933. That is, if her body had ever been recovered at all . . . .

"Agent Moon."

Dylan turned at the sound of Colonel Naveen's voice. He nodded shortly, then took a seat after the Indian woman sunk into her chair. She regarded him a moment, her expression blank and unreadable. "Rough trip?"

Dylan let out a sharp, sarcastic laugh. "Yeah, you could say that."

Naveen breathed in, folded her fingers atop the table. "You have never worked for an agency like the TMA before, Dylan," she said. "Much of what we do is . . . highly eccentric."

He chewed his lip. "That's one way to put it," he said. He glanced around. "Glad to see everything looks normal. I guess it was Foster Reece's time to die, after all."

Naveen nodded carefully. "It seems that way," she admitted.

Dylan ground his teeth. "Craig's still dead, though," he said. "I took a peek at the archives. Nothing seems to have changed. Kind of funny, isn't it?"

Naveen stared back. "Michael Craig died on September 17th, 1933, presumably of complications due to a congenital heart defect. He was supposed to die, agent. But then, I have the feeling you know that now."

Dylan seethed a moment, then calmed himself. "I don't like being used," he said, giving the Director a challenging look. "So, how'd you do it? How'd you insure Craig died when he was supposed to? And why thefuckdid you have to send me and Corinna back in the first place?"

Naveen did not seem the least bit perturbed by Dylan's outburst. "The chemical you gave Michael Craig," she said. "Was a poison, as well as a tracker. Time-released, to insure he died at the exact moment he had in the true timeline. We couldn't risk the possibility that any actions you took would extend his life."

Dylan narrowed his eyes. "So . . . I was just an assassin? The whole Budweiser angle was a sham? Why the hell send me back in time, if he was going to die anyway? And why send Corinna?"

Calmly, Colonel Naveen opened the file before her and took out a wrinkled, aged sheaf of paper. She glanced over it a moment, then set it down on the table. She fixed Dylan with a level-eyed gaze. "In 1934, toward the end of summer, a young woman gave birth in a New York City hospital," she said. "By all accounts, the birthing was quick, the child and mother both healthy. The child was a boy, and she named him Dylan. However, a few months later, the mother was killed on Valentine's Day by a jealous ex-boyfriend, and her son was placed in the care of the Our Lady Of Eternal Hope orphanage. He eventually gained the last name of Moon, borrowing from one of the few families that temporarily adopted him."

Dylan stared at the Director, trying to make sense of what she was saying. His lips moved for many long moments as he tried to speak. Finally, the words came. "I . . . wait a sec. That's not possible."

Naveen nodded again, as curtly as before. "It is, Dylan. We've verified it." She pushed the sheet of paper toward him. "That's your birth certificate. The day matches your birthday of August 5th, and I'm willing to bet we could prove that the little foot print matches yours as well. But we don't need to do any of that. The blood on your shirt confirmed what we already knew."

Dylan swallowed thickly, feeling a weight descend upon him. "You're saying that . . . I'm my ownfather?"

"Yes."

Dylan breathed out, trying to make sense of the possibility. He closed his eyes, remembering Betty, his lover . . . his mother.Jesus Christ . . . .

"Dylan?"

The voice startled him. He blinked his eyes open, looking to the doorway of the room. For a moment, he was not sure if what he saw was reality or a ghost.

"Corinna?"

She smiled, standing there in tight-fitting jeans and her brown leather jacket over a simple white blouse. There was not a scratch upon her. "Hi, baby."

Dylan frowned, as much stupefied as he was glad. "But—"

"I know," she interrupted, stepping into the room. "Don't be mad, Dylan, please? We had to do it."

Dylan frowned more deeply. "Had to do what?" he asked, his voice growing darker. He looked to the Director. "You faked her death? Why?"

"Because you wouldn't have gone to bed with Betty Vernon if you thought Corinna was still alive," Naveen said casually. "And it was necessary that you did so."

Dylan shook his head in disbelief. "So this whole mission wasn't about protecting anyone," he said. "It was about me making sure that I became my own fucking father!" He slammed his fist upon the table, glaring at both the Director and Corinna.

Naveen's expression was neither forgiving nor apologetic. "Don't think for a moment that being an agent with the TMA is anything like what you have experienced before, Dylan. There are things at work that not even I, nor Turgenyev, nor Jasper understand. But they are things that are vital and necessary, and the sooner you understand that, the sooner you become of value to us."

Dylan shot up from the table abruptly, his eyes hard. "Maybe I don't want to be 'of value' to you."

Naveen's gaze was cold. She cocked her head. "There's the door."

Dylan ground his teeth, wondering how a woman could be so heartless. Then he looked to Corinna's worried face. Yet, even she said nothing. "Fine," he said, and stepped from the room.

"Dylan, wait—" began Corinna.

"Let him go," ordered Naveen. She breathed in, glancing to her agent. "Sometimes, people have to figure things out on their own."

***

He was surprised that all the decorations, clothes, and personal effects in his little room fit into a single large Army duffel. By the time he was done packing, his quarters looked sterile and bland. His heart felt much the same way. Cold. Emotionless.

"I'm sorry."

Dylan stiffened slightly at the sound of his former lover's voice. "You could have told me," he said.

He heard her breathe in. He did not face her. "I wanted to tell you," she said, her words strained. "I kept thinking . . . maybe you wouldn't like doing it, but if you knew the reasons, you'd still go through—"

"I thought you were dead," he interjected, seething silently. "I watched you go over the edge. How did you get out of the car?."

"One piece of equipment we didn't give you was an IR. Instant Recall. There's always a chance of failure, but I was willing to take it." Corinna stepped closer, reaching out a hand to touch his arm. "That Walker in the truck gave me a coincidental advantage I took," she explained. "Believe me, Dylan, I didn't want to do it that way, but orders are orders. They figured, if you thought I was dead, it would be easier to . . . be with her."

He jerked his shoulder away. "Don't touch me."

Reluctantly, Corinna lowered her arm. "Look, I understand that you're pretty angry right now—"

"You're God damned right about that."

"—but we did what we thought was right, and it all worked out. So, maybe you're pissed off, maybe you feel like you've been used. Welcome to the fucking club!"

"It's not that easy!" he shouted, turning back. "Don't tell me you understand! That doesn't make anything better!"

Corinna folded her arms defensively. "And what does? Leaving?"

Dylan said nothing, glancing to the stuffed duffel on the bed. He took a step, snatching it up, and for a moment, stared into Corinna's quivering green eyes. "Sometimes, it's better to just walk away," he growled, then shrugged past her to the door.

Corinna closed her eyes, resisting the urge to turn about, to say something. It pained her to think that Dylan could leave so easily, without so much as a farewell. The sound of his hurried steps down the hall hurt more than anything Dylan could have said.

***

The taxi slowed to a stop before a weathered iron gate. Dylan hesitated a moment, the money in his hand, contemplating getting out or telling the driver to go back. He stared out the window, through the gate, looking upon the crowded stones set in the ground.

"This where you want to go, yes?"

Dylan breathed in, then nodded. "Can you wait for me?" he asked the driver.

The Persian man nodded. "Certainly, sir I can wait," he responded in the lilt typical for his people.

Begrudgingly, Dylan slipped from the car, closing the door carefully. He was aware of how hesitant his movements were, yet still he approached the gate. Half of it lay open, allowing him to step through.

The cemetery was old, the headstones crowded together. Finding the plot numbers was not easy, and it took a few minutes to figure out how the place was laid out. Referring to the slip of paper in his hand, however, he eventually found the headstone he sought.

More than seven decades of rain and wind had not been kind to the simple edifice that marked the final resting place of the grave's occupant. Cracks had grown upon the stone, and the simple raised lettering had become somewhat eroded. The name, however, was easy to read.

Bethany Jane Vernon,Dylan read, feeling more reverence at the moment than he ever had before when facing a grave.Born June 9th, 1913 . . . died February 14th, 1935.He knelt, taking out the single white rose from under his jacket. The ground was patchy, wet; it had rained recently in this part of New York.

"Hi, Betty," he said, setting the rose upon the grave. He shook his head. "I had a hundred things to say, but I can't remember any of them now. I guess, when I think about it, I just wish I had known you better. I . . ." he hesitated, sniffling slightly. "I wish I'd . . . God, crazy as this sounds, I wish I'd known you while I was growing up."

He laughed suddenly, settling onto his rump. "Now if that isn't just the strangest thought. Growing up as your son, only to find out later I'm my own father. Freudians would have a field day, I'm sure."

He fell silent for a long moment, studying the headstone, passing his fingers through sparse, damp grass. "I'm glad we had the time we had, Betty," he said at last. He shook his head with a self-admonishing laugh. "Damn, that didn't sound right. Of course I'm glad we were together. I wouldn't be here, after all, right? I mean, we weresupposedto be together, otherwise . . . ." He trailed off, brow furrowing in thought.

Otherwise, everything would have fallen apart.

In a moment of stark clarity, the simple reality became clear. Dylan scrambled to his feet, wavering over the grave of Betty Vernon. The moment of celerity left him momentarily dazed. At last, he smiled, a slow, knowing expression that bespoke realization and acceptance. "Thanks . . . Mom," he said, then turned and headed back toward the gate.

***

He stopped the rental in the spacious lot before the 'Amalgamated Products' building just outside Discovery, Nebraska. The harsh light behind the windows and large glass double doors softened as it reached out toward him. He clenched the keys in his hand, then started toward the doors. He could already feel the assault to his ego that was to come.

Nevertheless, he shoved open booth doors and strode in with all the righteousness and arrogant confidence of a conquering son returning home. He only paused when ports opened in the walls and ceiling, robotic arms ending in thick, wide barrels jutting out toward him.

"STATE YOUR BUSINESS," came a deeply modulated, threatening voice.

Dylan was not perturbed. "Agent Dylan Moon," he said, holding his hands open at his sides. "I need to speak with the Director."

"AGENT MOON IS NO LONGER REGISTERED ON THE DIRECTORY."

Dylan's lips curled in a smile. "I'd like to speak to Col. Naveen," he insisted.

***

Radha Naveen paced back and forth in the Command room, fidgeting with her hands. The calm, stoic image Dylan Moon presented – standing with his arms clasped lightly behind his back – was quietly intimidating, and that made her nervous. Radha was a woman used to being in control, used to being in charge. She had not climbed the ranks of the Mossad through complacency. Intimidation was supposed to be a thing she exuded, not something she felt.