TMA: Agent Moon Ch. 02

"So far, so good," mumbled Dylan as they approached the stairs.

"Just relax, baby," she said in response. "Remember, you have the implant. Be smooth and confidant. You're doing fine."

Dylan did not respond as he walked. Instead, he regarded the faces of those they passed – the young couple as they giggled and touched one another, the older man who strode with purpose down the middle of the hall, the uniformed porters and housekeepers – and wondered if any of them were actually Rectifier agents. Instincts that had lain dormant for two decades were suddenly on edge.

Just keep to the mission,he told himself.Keep to the mission . . . .

***

As they neared the door to their room, they saw a young woman closing it behind her, pushing a wooden cart laden with all the typical accouterments: toilet paper, paper towels, a bucket with sponges floating within it, and other items. She looked up at the approach of the man and woman, and smiled sheepishly.

"I was just checking your room," she said demurely, head bowed as if she was addressing royalty. Her voice was tinted with an accent that, Dylan assumed, she tried to suppress. It reminded him of West Virginia. "The front desk called to make sure everything was in order."

Dylan smiled upon the girl, assessing her soft face, the brunette hair, the light spattering of freckles across her cheeks. "Thank you . . . miss . . .?"

The young woman blushed, even as she smiled. Her eyes lifted, meeting Dylan's own. For a quick moment, they shared that look. "V-vernon," she said at last. "Betty Vernon."

Dylan touched her shoulder. "Are you often on this floor?" he asked.

Betty nodded, her smile deepening for a moment. The she noticed Corinna and looked down once more. "Um, yes, sir. This is my normal round. Anything you need, sir."

Dylan lowered his hand. "I'll remember that," he said. He watched as the young woman pushed her cart away, then took out the key and opened the door. He could not help but feel the coldness radiating off Corinna as she breezed past him into the room. He closed the door softly and flicked the lock, watching his 'wife' as she tossed her handbag on the singular bed in the room.

"What's wrong?" he asked.

"Nothing," she responded curtly.

Dylan sighed. "Look, being undercover means acting like someone you're not," he said. "Maxwell Lord was a terrible flirt, according to our records. Besides, she could be a Rectifier, you know," he said.

"Uh-huh," Corinna responded, facing the large mirror in the room as she took out her earrings.

Dylan sighed. "I wasn't flirting seriously," he said.

Corinna slapped the small baubles she had taken from her ears upon the long vanity that spanned the wall. "Even if you were," she said, then took a breath. She forced a smile. "You're right. Besides, it's been my experience that people like her are better for information than nearly anyone."

Dylan stepped up behind Corinna, looking at their reflections in the mirror. His callused hands touched her bare arms beneath the hem of the dress' sleeves. He lowered his face beside hers. "Is this what you were worried about, Cori?" he asked, his voice scarcely above a whisper.

She ground her teeth, staring into the mirror. "Dylan . . . ."

"Yes?" he asked, moving his hands up, massaging her shoulders.

Abruptly, she spun about, wrapping her arms around Dylan's neck and crushing her lips against his. She pressed her body against his and moaned softly into his mouth. Breaking the kiss for a moment, she managed a heated whisper: "Take me. Now."

***

Dylan stared at himself in the mirror. The lingering aroma of sex surrounded him as he leaned against the simple porcelain sink. Corinna was asleep in the bed; Dylan had learned to expect her to slumber after a bout of sex. Strangely enough, he always felt awake and refueled afterward. Perhaps it was yet another aspect of his unusual physiognomy.

He turned on the faucet, splashed some cold water onto his face. He was mildly surprised to find that a bathroom in 1933 was much more familiar than he would have expected. Porcelain sink, polished steel faucets, a mirrored cabinet. The only thing that seemed out of place was the claw-footed tub with the serpentine shower head hanging over it.

Dylan smiled suddenly.I'm in the year 1933, at a resort in upstate New York. I have to save some stolid rich kid from being assassinated by robots from the future.He chuckled.And to think I thought I had seen it all in the FBI . . . .

He wiped his face with a towel, then dabbed at his underarms. Deodorant in 1933 was a puff of talc, supplemented with cologne (if one could afford it). No spray-on or roll-on antiperspirant. Briefly, Dylan wondered how long it would be before he noticed his own body odor.

He pushed away from the sink, paused in the doorway as he looked upon Corinna slumbering in the hotel bed. She looked almost tortured in her sleep. Dylan could only guess at the things she had seen and endured in her life, as a soldier, a woman, and a time-traveling agent. There was some pain in her past, that much he could readily deduce. But they had not been together long enough for him to discern what that was.

His brow furrowed.And how much longer are we going to be together?he wondered.I'm seventy-three years old, but according to Dr. Ziske, I won't even be middle-aged until a hundred and thirty or so, maybe even later. How many more years has she got? Thirty? Forty?

A pained look crossed his face, and he self-consciously touched his left ring finger. The simple gold circle felt strange. He had not worn one in almost twenty years, and while the ring was only part of their cover, it was conspicuous to him.How many times am I going to suffer through it? How many wives and lovers will I lose because I'm different?

A weight descended upon his chest. He felt almost claustrophobic; the need for fresh air was undeniable. Hurriedly, he slipped on his slacks and shirt, stepped into his shoes. Corinna did not stir. Dylan already knew what a deep sleeper she was. She did not hear him as he stepped out the door.

There was a small open balcony at the end of the hall, overlooking the resort. Below lay a large pool, with an open-air bar and a stage where a jazz band played. Men, women and children sat, strolled, and swam beneath the warm September sun. Within a month, the air would turn chilly, Dylan knew, but for the moment, the Indian Summer was cause for celebration. The air was breezy and gentle; Dylan cupped his hand slightly around the Zippo as he lit his cigarette.

Dylan smiled, looking on in wonder. In 2007, women would be wearing skimpy bikinis that revealed more than they hid, and some men would brave scrutiny with thongs. But in 1933, women wore one-piece suits with high necklines that covered them to mid-thigh, yet left their arms 'scandalously' bare. Men wore long shorts, but only while in the pool; otherwise, they wrapped robes around themselves, or pulled on loose tennis shirts.

Dylan frowned slightly as he looked upon the jazz band. It was only a six-piece ensemble, as opposed to the sixteen horns and strings that would undoubtedly play in the ballroom that evening. What really garnered Dylan's attention, however, was the grinning, large-bodied black man standing before the ensemble and singing into a classic 'radio days' microphone.

"I don't believe it," Dylan said aloud as he smiled. "Satchmo."

"Yeah," came a young woman's familiar voice. Dylan turned in her direction as she continued, timidly stepping onto the balcony. "Miss Hutton's father is a pretty important fellow. But how he got Mr. Armstrong to fly over here from overseas, just to play for four days, is beyond me."

Dylan smiled with a small nod. "Um . . . Betty, right?" he asked.

The girl blushed, her eyes dipping. "And you're Mr. Lord, from Connecticut," she said, smiling slightly in self-congratulation.

He cocked his head. "I didn't realize I was that well known," he said, feeling a moment's anxiety. He and Corinna had been assured that, while sufficiently wealthy to warrant an invitation for Miss Catherine Hutton's debutante ball, Maxwell Lord was relatively obscure.

Betty shrugged. "I like to know who I'm taking care of," she said simply. Her eyes wandered a bit over Dylan's torso, and her cheeks reddened again at the small amount of his chest that was exposed.

"You're very thorough, then," he said, leaning casually against the balcony railing.

Betty looked admonished. "I'm sorry, Mr. Lord," she said. "I probably shouldn't be talking with you."

He shrugged and pulled on his cigarette. "Why not? Hotel rules say you can't speak to the guests?"

Betty frowned. "Well . . . yes, actually, except when it's polite."

He arched an eyebrow.Oh, right. This is 1933.He gave the girl a wink. "It's okay. I won't tell anyone."

Her rosy cheeks returned, and she touched her face self-consciously. But she took another step closer, standing in profile to him at the railing. The breeze stirred the strands of her hair that were not secured in the simple bun. Dylan could not help but think that the cyan-colored maid's uniform she wore did much to accentuate her natural curves. Betty Vernon was markedly much more voluptuous than Corinna.

She turned her head slightly. "Um, got another square for a working girl?" she asked.

Dylan chuckled and dug out his cigarette case. "Sure," he said, and took one out. He lit the cigarette for the young woman as she leaned in. Her light freckles glowed softly as she inhaled and pulled back.

"Thanks," she said, and licked her lips. "I'm glad you prefer the filtered ones."

Dylan felt the implant kick in. It was a strange sensation, suddenly knowing something he did not before. "Well, the extra cost is worth it."

Betty smiled. "Still, ten cents a pack . . . ."

Dylan held back a laugh.Wait until they're six dollars,he thought. He made an effort to clear his head. "You like working here?"

Betty shrugged. "Work . . . live. Yeah, I suppose it's fine. A lot better'n home."

"You live here?"

The girl nodded. "Sure do. Few of us girls do. Even in the dead of winter, when the hotel is closed down, we keep up the place. Guess that makes it easier for them to only pay us a dollar a day. But, you know . . . pennies add up."

"I'm sure they do."

Betty tapped her cigarette and hung her head, almost in shame. "That was really inappropriate, Mr. Lord," she said. "I got no right to say anything of the sort. I hope you won't tell Mr. Starkweather."

Dylan thought a moment, making the effort to access the implant.Starkweather, Johnathan, 37 years old . . . hotel manager at Van Deusen, 1929-1935. Terminated for impropriety with a female employee . . . .

"I won't, promise," he said, reassuring the girl. "I'm not much for following rules myself."

Betty smiled, casting Dylan a brief glance. She took one last puff on her cigarette, then stepped to the standing ashtray in the corner. She turned back, hands held before her. "Thank you for the cigarette, Mr. Lord," she said. Her eyes held his for a moment, soft orbs of bright hazel that captivated him, if only for a heartbeat.

He nodded. "You're welcome, Betty."

She blushed at his use of her first name, and headed back toward the hallway. Then she paused and glanced back over her shoulder. "If I may, Mr. Lord, your wife is a very lucky woman." Then she headed down the hallway.

Dylan watched her go, feeling a mix of emotions. There was something . . .undeniableabout the young maid, other than her fresh-scrubbed face and innocent eyes, her full bosom and deliciously showcased rear. Some sort of ethereal quality that prickled Dylan's skin when she was around.

He waited until she had disappeared around the corner of the hallway, then concentrated on the implant once more. Surprisingly, it took only a few moments to access the information he desired.

Vernon, Bethany Jane . . . born June 9, 1913, in Clarksburg, West Virginia. Father Herbert James, mother Gloria Dean Stathan . . . employed at Van Deusen Resort Hotel, 1932-1935 . . . found dead, February 14th, 1935, in an alley in south Boston . . . .

Dylan's eyes flashed open, feeling his heart pounding briefly with anxiety and vicarious fear for this young woman, doomed to live little more than a year longer. He forcefully swallowed the lump in his throat, pulled on his cigarette.

Jesus Christ,he thought.I didn't want to know that.

It took a little effort, but Dylan finally pried his thoughts away from Betty. He ground out his cigarette, then headed back to the room.

***

Corinna stood facing the windows, holding the compact against her ear, as Dylan stepped through the door. The silky slip she wore hung off the spikes of her nipples and graced her lean, muscular thighs nicely. She did not notice the quiet entrance of her lover.

". . . yes, at least a dozen signatures," she said, speaking into the camouflaged phone. She frowned at the response on the other end. "How the hell am I supposed to know? There've never been more than two Rectifiers encountered—" she broke off, listening. She nodded now and then.

"No, I got a fix on him," she continued. "Everything seems to be on schedule. But I really don't like this. The odds are greatly against us. If we take action, we might end up causing a hell of a lot more damage to the timestream . . . I don't think you want to hear my ideas . . . all right . . . yeah, repatriation. Yes, it would be tricky . . . ." Corinna huffed loudly, and turned around, finally noticing Dylan. Her eyes widened, then turned hard.

". . . yeah, talk it over with Col. Naveen, then get back to me," she said curtly, then snapped the compact closed. She fixed Dylan an acidic look. "Where thehellhave you been?" she barked.

Dylan blinked. "I didn't want to disturb you," he said. "I just stepped down the hall for a smoke—"

"Asmoke?" she shrilled, advancing upon him. "There are at least a dozen Rectifiers in this hotel, and you go out for afucking smoke break! Get it in your head, agent! This isnota fucking holiday!"

Dylan was passively stoic as Corinna roared, and now frowned upon her, working his jaw. "Don't ever question me," he said in a dark, even tone. His eyes penetrated into hers. "And don't forget that I'm practically twice your age. I know more about duty and responsibility than you do."

He stepped away, leaving Corinna both stunned and admonished. For long moments, neither of them spoke. Dylan headed to the bathroom. "I'm going to take a shower," he said in a grating voice.

***

Though physically close, Dylan and Corinna remained emotionally distant that evening as they attended the first night of the debutante ball. Catherine Hutton was the daughter of a steelworks tycoon, but beyond that, the TMA agents knew (due to their implants) neither the young woman nor her family ever made much of an impact on history beyond the thirties. Dylan found that fact amusing: despite all the pompous expense of Catherine Hutton's coming of age, it all eventually came to nothing.

Still, it was necessary to keep up appearances and play the roles they had adopted. "Maxwell Lord," Dylan said by way of introduction as he shook the hand of a minor newspaper magnate. "Nice to meet you."

Similar introductions were given, and casual conversations made, as Dylan and Corinna made the rounds at the party. Taking up flutes of champagne, they strode the floor, trying not to become distracted by all the finery displayed. Over thirty thousand dollars had been spent on this four-day bash, the agents new. Translated to modern dollars, that figure would have been close to a million.

"All this money, just to get his little girl in the limelight," Dylan mused.

"It's a different world," responded Corinna, with more than a little coldness.

Dylan tried not to think about the tension between them. He understood that they could not afford to compromise their mission because of a personal squabble. But he knew their emotions could become a distraction, regardless of how professional they were. The key was to stay focused on the task at hand, and worry about their personal lives later.

"We should mingle until Craig shows up," suggested Corinna, not looking to Dylan. "We don't want to do anything to look out of place."

"Sure," responded Dylan, but even as he spoke, he found his attention diverted. Halfway across the spacious ball room, the young brunette appeared, clad in a classic white tuxedo shirt and black skirt. She balanced a round tray professionally on her small hand, laden with flutes of champagne, as she circulated through the crowd.

"You foundherpretty fast," Corinna commented, having obviously followed where Dylan's eyes fell.

Dylan looked to her. "Is this going to become a problem?" he asked. "Your jealousy, I mean. And not just on this mission, but in the future."

Corinna glanced away, sighing deeply as she ground her teeth. "No," she said. "I'm sorry. Look, why don't we just . . . do what we're supposed to do, all right?"

Slowly, Dylan agreed. "All right," he said, then gave Corinna a soft touch on her cheek. He smiled. "Meet back here later?"

Corinna's face was unreadable for a moment, then she nodded and smiled. "Sure."

***

Mr. Michael Craig was a skinny, effeminate young man, impeccably tailored and obviously impressed with himself. He arrived with an entourage that included supposed Hollywood starlets, but if any of them ever made it to the silver screen, Dylan had never seen them.

Disengaging himself from a captivating conversation about Egyptology with an archaeologist named Jones, Dylan touched the implant behind his ear and concentrated briefly. ~Cori?~

There was a pause before she replied. ~I'm here. I saw him, too.~

Dylan chuckled as he approached the bar, still keeping the dapper Mr. Craig in sight. ~I'm not surprised. All right, we found him. Now what?~

Corinna's reply was curt. ~Now we keep an eye on him.~

***

Louis Armstrong's voice carried through the air, above the band's rendition of 'Mack The Knife,' serving well to keep the crowd in a festive mood. Dylan found himself smiling and nodding along with the music, even as he kept his mind on business. Never had he thought he would ever have been able to see the great Satchmo perform in person. There had been that chance, in 1960, shortly before the man stopped performing, but Dylan had not been able to make the time.

And now that I can finally see the man, I'm on a God damned mission through time,he thought with a rueful smile. His eyes darted to his charge. Michael Craig was busy entertaining a group of middle-aged wives, soaking up their attention. His entourage looked bored, remaining close to Craig even as they flirted with their eyes.

"Oh, Mr. Lord! Would you like some champagne?"

Dylan turned at the sound of the young woman's voice. He smiled upon Betty, again feeling that incontrovertible sense of attraction, and took a flute from her tray. "Thank you," he said. His eyes wandered a bit, noting how the majority of her full breasts were exposed by the push-up bodice top she wore. He found the bowtie choker especially sexy.

"So, um, where's the wife?" she asked innocently.

Dylan shrugged. "Making the rounds," he said dismissively. "Keeping our good name in the minds of those who run things."

Betty half-heartedly nodded. "But you're not," she said, the corner of her mouth curling slightly in a sly smile. "Instead, you're talking to a hotel employee."

Dylan sipped his champagne, watching the band. "I'm not quite as obvious as my wife," he said. "I prefer to speak when it is important to do so."