The bank vault slid from transitional blur into real-world shades of grey. Cool air covered my naked body with gooseflesh, but at least there was carpet beneath my feet. I released Simone’s hand and heard her gasp. This was her first transit and many found passing through solid matter disturbing, to say the least.
That was my singular talent – the ability to walk through walls, and to take someone with me.
The down-side was I could only move flesh-and-blood - nothing inorganic, like the fillings in your teeth. Not the best basis for grand larceny, but we had a plan.
Above us, in The City, it was 2:30am and raining. Down here, in the vault of Sneddon & Peel, Merchant Bankers, the only sound was our breathing and the slow tick-tock of a wall clock across the way.
A heavy-duty metal grill separated the vault from a dimly-lit corridor. Fortunately there was enough light for us to read the safety deposit box numbers, as working by touch alone would have been the proverbial pain in the ass. This level of illumination also allowed me to appraise Simone’s naked body, but the sight of it left me unmoved. Libido suppression is one side-effect of time-travel they definitely don’t tell you about. Not that I’d ever indulged in chronometic sex-tourism, but it must have come as an unpleasant surprise for those who did.
Despite my evident lack of interest Simone held an arm across her chest and turned slightly away from me. “Is it safe, Venn? There’s no obvious surveillance but what about infrared, pressure pads, motion sensors?”
I covered myself using both hands, if only to spare her blushes, and smiled. “It’s nineteen-seventy-one. Added to which this bank is so conservative they probably still equip the night watchman with a candle and billyclub. If you ever needed somewhere discreet in which to stash your ill-gotten gains then this, my dear, would surely fit the bill.”
She looked sceptical but nodded anyway. I moved over to the grill while Simone located the box we were after; 222. She placed both palms over the locks and closed her eyes, frowning slightly. That was her singular talent – micro-telekinesis. Or, to put it another way, psychic lock-picking. I kept watch, more for her reassurance than with any real expectation of being discovered.
Simone and I worked for the CIA, ripping-off the past to fund its future, but this little jaunt definitely came under the heading of ‘private enterprise’. As far as the world knew, time travel was limited to spying on past events, and there was a world-wide embargo on developing the technology further.
Yeah, right.
The past made for easy pickings when your body was a riot of bioware enhancement, and I already knew our theft would go unreported – or we’d vanish without trace. That’s the risk when you tweak causality, even the unknown can have a come-back.
A soft double click made me look around in time to see Simone step back, quivering. The concentration required to manipulate a complex mechanism like a high-security lock was akin to playing four Grand Masters at simultaneous chess, or so I’d been told. Although it had only taken a couple of minute’s effort there was a sheen of sweat on her high forehead, and we were only half done.
I padded over and pulled 222 from the wall. It slid out unevenly on dust-smeared runners – obviously the owner hadn’t paid a visit in some time. I supported the box as Simone lifted the lid. Inside, wrapped in a fold of blue velvet, lay the Patiala necklace; a Cartier art deco masterpiece comprised of De Beers diamonds and Burmese rubies. It had gone missing in 1948 and wouldn’t resurface – less the major gems – until 1982. It was only in our time-frame that it’s supposed location during this period had come to light, and it was simply too good an opportunity to pass up.
Hence our little off-the-books jaunt into the past, and who could blame us for trying?
We looked at each other and grinned. Simone lifted the necklace and fastened it about her neck, nudity seemingly forgotten. I slid the box back into place and was rewarded by the sound of both locks snapping shut. So far, so good.
I smiled. “There may not be a mirror in which you can admire yourself, but, take it from me, you look absolutely stunning. All you need to complete my fantasy is a pair of five-inch Christian Louboutin heels, as but he’s only eight years old at present, that will have to wait. Now, if you don’t mind…?”
“Killjoy.” She sighed and moved over to box 303. It took somewhat longer to open it and the effort really seemed to take its toll. Simone stumbled as she stepped back and I was just able to grab her arm and help her sit, rather than fall, down.
I slipped the necklace off my partner in crime as she slumped against the wall; eyes closed, hugging herself and shivering. It was a matter of moments to open box 303, insert the jewels, and seal them safely away.
The perfect crime is the one which goes unreported, and – as history told us - the owner of 222 was sh*t out of luck. We’d step forward to 1982, visit the bank as the legitimate owners of box 303 (paid for in advance), and retrieve the Patiala neckless. It was just a shame we couldn’t sell the damn thing intact, but the past is the past and you have to play by its rules.
I had the details of an 80’s fence who would break it up, and even a fraction of its real value would be worth millions. We’d lodge the cash with a financial institution known to still exist in our own time, and laugh all the way to the bank. As payback for impotence, well, I thought that was fair.
I gave Simone a few moments then held out my hand. “Time window, doll. We need to get going.” She wiped sweat from her face and I helped her up.
We faced the wall of the bank vault, hand-in-hand. “Do you ever get used to this, Venn?”
“Hell, no. The trick is a single deep breath and momentum. Ready?”
“Not in the slightest.”
“Good girl. OK, one and two and…”
We ran forward and jumped ‘into’ the wall. I took us out of phase with our surroundings but, unlike Simone, didn’t have the luxury of closing my eyes. Tiles and reinforced concrete gave way to earth and rubble. It looked wispy and insubstantial, but if our ethereal presence came to rest before reaching open space then we’d suffocate. If eventually discovered then our bodies would make for one hell of a mystery, but I didn’t intend to end my days as an archaeological oddity.
Stone and brickwork.
We burst out into the Waterloo & City tunnel, staggering to a halt as terra firma snagged the soles of our feet. Our clothes lay in two neat/untidy piles where we’d left them. Simone and I laughed and hugged, then her embarrassment returned and we dressed, facing away from each other. The Underground line was down for maintenance, so there was a risk of accidental discovery by engineering staff, but the surviving work schedules I’d scanned placed any activity south of the Thames. Still, it was nice when a plan comes together.
We’d barely returned to respectability, and placed the designator bracelets on our wrists, when the vortex swirled into being. Point-to-point jumps were more art form than science, but I had faith in the expertise (and greed) of the technician manipulating the chrono-stream.
Simone shook out her hair, “So long, Seventies, I barely knew ya.”
“Don’t think the fashions would have suited you, doll. Now the Eighties, that’s a whole different ball game. We’ll have three days there to set things up, more than enough time for you to sample the whole ‘power dressing’ chic. Tailored suits, shoulder pads, heels – very you.”
“In your dreams, Venn, in your dreams.”
I smiled. “A man can hope, right?”
She laughed and shook her head. Together we stepped into the shimmering sphere of chronomatic energy, from 1971 to 1982…
…and into the glare of an oncoming train.
That was my singular talent – the ability to walk through walls, and to take someone with me.
The down-side was I could only move flesh-and-blood - nothing inorganic, like the fillings in your teeth. Not the best basis for grand larceny, but we had a plan.
Above us, in The City, it was 2:30am and raining. Down here, in the vault of Sneddon & Peel, Merchant Bankers, the only sound was our breathing and the slow tick-tock of a wall clock across the way.
A heavy-duty metal grill separated the vault from a dimly-lit corridor. Fortunately there was enough light for us to read the safety deposit box numbers, as working by touch alone would have been the proverbial pain in the ass. This level of illumination also allowed me to appraise Simone’s naked body, but the sight of it left me unmoved. Libido suppression is one side-effect of time-travel they definitely don’t tell you about. Not that I’d ever indulged in chronometic sex-tourism, but it must have come as an unpleasant surprise for those who did.
Despite my evident lack of interest Simone held an arm across her chest and turned slightly away from me. “Is it safe, Venn? There’s no obvious surveillance but what about infrared, pressure pads, motion sensors?”
I covered myself using both hands, if only to spare her blushes, and smiled. “It’s nineteen-seventy-one. Added to which this bank is so conservative they probably still equip the night watchman with a candle and billyclub. If you ever needed somewhere discreet in which to stash your ill-gotten gains then this, my dear, would surely fit the bill.”
She looked sceptical but nodded anyway. I moved over to the grill while Simone located the box we were after; 222. She placed both palms over the locks and closed her eyes, frowning slightly. That was her singular talent – micro-telekinesis. Or, to put it another way, psychic lock-picking. I kept watch, more for her reassurance than with any real expectation of being discovered.
Simone and I worked for the CIA, ripping-off the past to fund its future, but this little jaunt definitely came under the heading of ‘private enterprise’. As far as the world knew, time travel was limited to spying on past events, and there was a world-wide embargo on developing the technology further.
Yeah, right.
The past made for easy pickings when your body was a riot of bioware enhancement, and I already knew our theft would go unreported – or we’d vanish without trace. That’s the risk when you tweak causality, even the unknown can have a come-back.
A soft double click made me look around in time to see Simone step back, quivering. The concentration required to manipulate a complex mechanism like a high-security lock was akin to playing four Grand Masters at simultaneous chess, or so I’d been told. Although it had only taken a couple of minute’s effort there was a sheen of sweat on her high forehead, and we were only half done.
I padded over and pulled 222 from the wall. It slid out unevenly on dust-smeared runners – obviously the owner hadn’t paid a visit in some time. I supported the box as Simone lifted the lid. Inside, wrapped in a fold of blue velvet, lay the Patiala necklace; a Cartier art deco masterpiece comprised of De Beers diamonds and Burmese rubies. It had gone missing in 1948 and wouldn’t resurface – less the major gems – until 1982. It was only in our time-frame that it’s supposed location during this period had come to light, and it was simply too good an opportunity to pass up.
Hence our little off-the-books jaunt into the past, and who could blame us for trying?
We looked at each other and grinned. Simone lifted the necklace and fastened it about her neck, nudity seemingly forgotten. I slid the box back into place and was rewarded by the sound of both locks snapping shut. So far, so good.
I smiled. “There may not be a mirror in which you can admire yourself, but, take it from me, you look absolutely stunning. All you need to complete my fantasy is a pair of five-inch Christian Louboutin heels, as but he’s only eight years old at present, that will have to wait. Now, if you don’t mind…?”
“Killjoy.” She sighed and moved over to box 303. It took somewhat longer to open it and the effort really seemed to take its toll. Simone stumbled as she stepped back and I was just able to grab her arm and help her sit, rather than fall, down.
I slipped the necklace off my partner in crime as she slumped against the wall; eyes closed, hugging herself and shivering. It was a matter of moments to open box 303, insert the jewels, and seal them safely away.
The perfect crime is the one which goes unreported, and – as history told us - the owner of 222 was sh*t out of luck. We’d step forward to 1982, visit the bank as the legitimate owners of box 303 (paid for in advance), and retrieve the Patiala neckless. It was just a shame we couldn’t sell the damn thing intact, but the past is the past and you have to play by its rules.
I had the details of an 80’s fence who would break it up, and even a fraction of its real value would be worth millions. We’d lodge the cash with a financial institution known to still exist in our own time, and laugh all the way to the bank. As payback for impotence, well, I thought that was fair.
I gave Simone a few moments then held out my hand. “Time window, doll. We need to get going.” She wiped sweat from her face and I helped her up.
We faced the wall of the bank vault, hand-in-hand. “Do you ever get used to this, Venn?”
“Hell, no. The trick is a single deep breath and momentum. Ready?”
“Not in the slightest.”
“Good girl. OK, one and two and…”
We ran forward and jumped ‘into’ the wall. I took us out of phase with our surroundings but, unlike Simone, didn’t have the luxury of closing my eyes. Tiles and reinforced concrete gave way to earth and rubble. It looked wispy and insubstantial, but if our ethereal presence came to rest before reaching open space then we’d suffocate. If eventually discovered then our bodies would make for one hell of a mystery, but I didn’t intend to end my days as an archaeological oddity.
Stone and brickwork.
We burst out into the Waterloo & City tunnel, staggering to a halt as terra firma snagged the soles of our feet. Our clothes lay in two neat/untidy piles where we’d left them. Simone and I laughed and hugged, then her embarrassment returned and we dressed, facing away from each other. The Underground line was down for maintenance, so there was a risk of accidental discovery by engineering staff, but the surviving work schedules I’d scanned placed any activity south of the Thames. Still, it was nice when a plan comes together.
We’d barely returned to respectability, and placed the designator bracelets on our wrists, when the vortex swirled into being. Point-to-point jumps were more art form than science, but I had faith in the expertise (and greed) of the technician manipulating the chrono-stream.
Simone shook out her hair, “So long, Seventies, I barely knew ya.”
“Don’t think the fashions would have suited you, doll. Now the Eighties, that’s a whole different ball game. We’ll have three days there to set things up, more than enough time for you to sample the whole ‘power dressing’ chic. Tailored suits, shoulder pads, heels – very you.”
“In your dreams, Venn, in your dreams.”
I smiled. “A man can hope, right?”
She laughed and shook her head. Together we stepped into the shimmering sphere of chronomatic energy, from 1971 to 1982…
…and into the glare of an oncoming train.
