Double, Double, Time and Trouble

(Based on the CW television series, Legends of Tomorrow)

They snagged Shakespeare backstage at the Stratford Festival in 1983.  He was in the green room, haranguing the actors about their theft of a play that, he insisted, had never been publicly performed.  Yet.  Under protest and under pressure (and Mick could apply considerable pressure), he was hauled out of the theatre.  Sara—dressed in a white coat—explained, a little too fast, that he was an escaped mental patient, while Ray and Nate—dressed as security guards—stood by, thumbs in their belts, looking officious.  Perhaps the actors were used to weird fans turning up in costume.  Perhaps they had one eye on the clock, for the performance was about to begin.  Or perhaps they put it all down to the curse of Macbeth. At any rate, they seemed to buy the story.  As the Legends headed towards the river, where a cloaked Waverider was parked under the trees, Sara remarked with great satisfaction that all they now needed to do was return the playwright to 1606.  The ship took off only minutes later.

The rest of the mission should have been routine.  They had, after all, tracked down and fixed most of the other anachronisms.  A quick flight to the Globe Theatre, a zap with the flasher, and Shakespeare could assume his proper place in history once again.  No one was expecting the first words out of his mouth to be, “I know you!  My writing has had a fair measure of renown since we first met.  Though—”  He looked around the bridge with wonder.  “—I trow, if I wrote a play about such strange folk as yourselves, it would make the crowds roar.  I’ve ne’er seen aught like this great hall of yours.”

“It’s a ship, Mr. Shakespeare,” corrected Sara.  “But we’ve never met.”

“’Twas a good ten years gone,” said Shakespeare.  He looked appreciatively at her legs under the white coat, and then spotted Zari.  “Is that our Juliet?  Hah!  A maid in truth.  I thought as much.  Yet she made a better Juliet than any boy at the Rose.”

“What the hell?!!”  Sara rounded on the crew.  “Who’s been taking trips—unauthorized trips!—in the jump ship?”

“I haven’t!” Zari protested.  “I’ve never acted in a play in my life.”

“Really?” retorted Sara.  She looked at the others.  “Ray?  Nate?  Did you fancy taking in a performance in Old London Town?”  And, with a hard look at Mick, “Or maybe a booze-up behind my back?  Because,” she declared, “clearly someone has been dipping into history!  And it’s just damned good luck that you haven’t totally screwed up and written Shakespeare and all his plays out of existence!”

With that, she whipped off her coat, slung it over her arm, and stalked away.  In the doorway, she turned, with the chill suggestion that the others should join her in the fabrication room and get in costume for the rest of the mission.  “Zari,” she said pointedly, “you’ll stay aboard. Keep our guest out of trouble till we get back.  You seem to know him—or, at least, he knows you.  I’m sure you can chat.”

In the corridor, Mick lagged back.  When the others were out of earshot, he said quietly, “Gideon?”

“Indeed, Mr. Rory.”

Neither said more.  By the time Mick joined the others, Sara was already starting to dress and Ray’s costume was nearly fabricated.  When he saw it, though, he looked disappointed.  “I want velvet,” said Ray.  “Maybe crimson, with embroidered patterns on it.  And jewels.  And a ruff.”

“Oooh, yes.  A ruff!” put in Nate.

Mick snorted.

“I’m sorry, Dr. Palmer,” said Gideon, “but, by the sumptuary laws of this century, only the highest nobles wear crimson velvet.”

Seeing Ray about to protest, Sara quickly put in, “‘Sumpchy’ I don’t know.  But laws, I get.  We don’t want to draw attention to ourselves, guys.”

“But I am a knight,” Ray protested.  “Sir Raymond of the Palms.”  He struck a heroic pose.

“Can it, Ray,” snapped Sara, and began doing up her bodice.  “There’ve been screw-ups enough already.  Don’t think I’ve forgotten.  And don’t make things worse.”

Prudently not weighing in on either side, Nate took his own costume out of the fabricator and checked it over.  Then (and not for the first time on their missions), his training as an historian got the better of him.  “Should we really be wearing tights?” he asked.  “Hose were more like stockings, and had to be tied up; and the baggy pants went over the top of them.”  He looked up.  “Gideon, are these snaps?  This isn’t exactly authentic!”

“I’ve got to wear this dress,” said Sara sharply, holding out the broad skirts of her own gown.  “It’ll be hell to fight in if anything goes wrong, but you don’t hear me complaining.  At least Gideon hasn’t put me into hoops and a corset!  Oh, for Heaven’s sake, Nate, just get dressed.”

“Can I at least have a big ruff,” said Ray plaintively.

Sara sighed.  “Gideon, can he have his big ruff?  Or will that bring the cops down on us?”

“No, I can fabricate a ruff,” said Gideon agreeably.  “Dr. Heywood, you are, of course, quite correct in saying that the garments are somewhat inauthentic in execution; but I think you’ll find them much easier to put on, while still appearing accurate to the inhabitants of this era.”

“Well, that’s a point,” Nate said, with a doubtful look down at his costume.

“‘Points’ being the point, in fact,” said Gideon.

Nate got the joke.  He looked up with a grin, even as Ray leapt to open the fabricator and remove his newly created ruff.  “I’ll have one of those too,” said Nate, and began to pull his shirt off.

“Oh, get a move on, the pair of you,” said Sara.  “It’s the first performance of Macbeth, damn it.  They can’t put it on without their star actor.  Soon as you’re ready, guys.”  And, without waiting for Nate’s protestations that Shakespeare, for all that he was the house playwright, had not been the star of the Lord Chamberlain’s Men, she headed for the bridge.

They came out of the time stream high over London Town, at an altitude that sent Shakespeare a few stunned steps back.  “We fly?” he murmured, his eyes avid on the view.  Ahead of them lay the long gleaming curves of the Thames, crossed by the medieval stone bridge crammed with shops.  To the east, they could see the White Tower and the spire of a Gothic cathedral; but their destination lay over the river.  Something of a town draggled in a fringe of streets along the bank of the river towards the Globe Theatre.  (“Thought London was bigger,” commented Mick.  “No, that down there’s Southwark,” replied Nate.  “Same thing,” said Sara—a comment that, for a moment, drew Shakespeare’s eyes to her.  But he said nothing.)  As they swooped lower, a moated manor house complete with portcullis and drawbridge could be seen through the viewport.

“What’s that?” said Ray.  “It can’t be the Tower of London.  At least,” he added thoughtfully, “it doesn’t look at all like that today.”

“Holland’s Leaguer is its name, Dr Palmer,” said Gideon.  “Once owned by the Knights Templar.  In this century it’s—”

“A brothel,” Nate chimed in, recognizing the name.  “It’s the most famous brothel in Elizabethan London.”

Mick perked up noticeably.

Seeing this, Sara declared emphatically, “You’re staying here, too,” and added, “Zari, you keep an eye on him while we’re away.”  She reached in a hidden pocket for her time courier.  Even as she raised it, though, all plans went awry.

“Captain Lance,” said Gideon.  “I’m being hailed.”

There were no Time Bureau teams active in this century as far as they knew.  Sara shared a puzzled glance with Mick.  “Who is it?” she asked, wondering if agents might be stranded by a defective courier.

“A time ship,” replied Gideon in an uncharacteristically perturbed tone.

“Time?” murmured Shakespeare.  “Ship?”  No one responded.

“Time ship?!” exclaimed Zari.  There was no ship visible below—or above, for that matter. But then, it would be cloaked.  Just as they were.

Not Ava, nor Gary, nor anyone in the Time Bureau had discussed the fate of those time ships that had been out on missions when the Oculus exploded.  By now, the possibility of survivors had long since been superseded by the urgency of missions; and the old days of the Time Masters had sunk into memory.  For a long time now, the crew of the Waverider had assumed their own to be the last surviving time ship, or at least the last on active duty.

“Who is it?” asked Ray.  “Do they say?”

In an uncharacteristically perturbed tone, Gideon replied, “It’s the Waverider.”

“PROTOCOL LETHE!”

Sara twisted round at the hard command.  Mick was erect and stone-faced, neither the untrustworthy, pyromaniac thief who had come aboard with Cold so long ago, nor the gruff friend he had become in the years since.  It had been a while since she had thought of him as Chronos; but she had no doubt that he had reflexively reverted to that persona.

“Aye, aye, Mr. Rory,” said the ship’s AI briskly.

Cautiously, Sara asked, “What exactly is ‘Protocol Lethe’, Mick?  Radio silence or something?”

“Wouldn’t that make him suspicious?” asked Nate.  “Whoever it is.”

“It is Rip over there, right?” put in Ray.  He and Sara shared a wary look.

“We’re being hailed again,” said Gideon.  “What alias should I give?”

“Streamsurfer,” Ray put in, swift and eager.

There was a general wince; but, as no one immediately suggested a more imaginative alternative, Sara said, “Go ahead, Gideon.”  Then, after a pause, she looked thoughtfully at Mick and added, “Do you have any other suggestions?  How should ‘Protocol Lethe’ be followed?  I mean, from what we saw before, time ships have a one-man crew.  On the other hand, if most of us go skulking in our quarters, that isn’t going to help get Shakespeare back to the theatre.  Which,” she added dryly, “is why we’re here.”  At least, she thought, I hope that’s why we’re here.

“Unless,” said Ray, following the same train of thought, “Rip is the anomaly.  Or anyway, another anomaly.”  As the others looked round at him, he added weakly, “We can have two anomalies, can’t we?”

“Unless they’re connected,” Zari pointed out.

Mick simply shrugged.

“Well, we’ll have to find out,” said Sara.  She straightened herself in a captainly fashion. “Gideon, if that is Rip over there, we need to know what time he’s from.  Pretty well has to be from before he recruited us.”

“But how long before?” asked Ray.

“Well, that’s the question.”

A moment later, Gideon reported that—according to her (prior) self—Captain Hunter was not actually on board.  He had taken the jump ship down to the city in order to track down and apprehend the fugitive.  Sara did not bother to ask who “the fugitive” might be.  What mattered was the fact that Rip’s absence gave them a chance to return Shakespeare to the Globe Theatre and then vanish into the time zone with no questions asked.

“No sight-seeing?” said Nate, disappointed.  “Awwww, we come all the way here, and don’t even get to see the show.”

Sara ignored this.  Activating the time courier, she opened a gate to the alley behind the Globe Theatre.  Stunned by the view through the portal, Shakespeare was grasped firmly by the arm and steered through to his own century.  There a quick zap with the flasher erased his recollection of the past day.

Looking a bit puzzled, he took a step or two backwards.  Then, more decisively, he turned towards the back door of the theatre.  Suddenly, it opened; and out at a full run came a young boy in doublet and hose.  With a quick grab, Shakespeare caught him as he bolted past.

“Where goest thou, Randal?” he asked sternly.  “Is the rehearsal now over?  Then the performance will begin soon enow.  Get thyself in costume.”

“Master Shakespeare!”  The boy tried to tug free.  “No please, please let me go.  He’ll get me.”  The Legends froze, not daring to move lest they draw attention.  Frantically, the boy looked over his shoulder at the open door, then back at the playwright, tugging a little; but Shakespeare did not let go of his arm.

“Who’ll get thee, boy?” he remonstrated.  “The manager?  What hast thou done?”

“No, please!”

Just as Randal looked again towards the door, it was flung hard back against the wall with a bang.  Out stalked the menacing figure of Rip Hunter, half hidden by a long dark cloak.  At the sight of his quarry, he reached under it, drew his gun, and pointed it.  “Get away from the boy, Shakespeare,” he demanded.  “You are untouchable; but he must die.”

Shakespeare froze, but kept tight hold on Randal.

Rip took slow and careful aim.

“Here, hang on a minute!” protested Ray.

Rip registered the presence of other witnesses down the alley; and his eyes flicked off target.  “Who are you?” he demanded.  “No one’s supposed to be here.  Gideon said this alley was—”  He broke off.  His eyes narrowed as he got in a good look at the Legends.  “Ye-e-es,” he said thoughtfully, “who are you?”  He slightly lowered the muzzle of his weapon.  “Identify yourselves.  Did the Time Masters send you?  What is your purpose here?”

“Who’s the boy, and why are you after him?” asked Sara bluntly.  She took a short step forward, shouldering past Ray to take point.

“You are out of your time,” said Rip, his suspicion deepening.  “And your clothes are clearly fabricated.  If the Time Masters didn’t send you….”  He slowly approached, again raising his weapon, but this time aiming past Shakespeare towards the Legends.

From the shadows behind them appeared an armoured figure.  “I invoke Protocol Lethe,” it said in a harsh voice.

For a startled instant, Sara looked round.  Rip halted abruptly.

“Chronos!” he said a tad crossly, and then added, “Well, you might have said that from the start.”  Holstering his gun, he grabbed Randal from the playwright and headed towards the Legends.  “Let’s go,” he said.  “My jump ship is parked in the fields beyond the Paris Garden.”  Towing the terrified boy along with him, he strode through the startled group and headed down the alley.

“Nate, flash ’im,” Sara said in a low voice, with a nod at Shakespeare; and then, with a gesture to the others, led them after Rip.

Shakespeare could do more than protest, “Where take you—?”  Then Nate whipped out the flasher, erased his memories once again, and hurried after the others.

The street along Bankside was crowded with merry-makers and hawkers; but the presence of a large man in armour—even the unfamiliar armour of Chronos—guaranteed a clear path.  Rip said nothing; nor did the Legends.  Randal protested all the way; but no one they passed was inclined to interfere when, to their eyes, the struggling boy was clearly under arrest.  So they made their way past the Bear Garden and Holland’s Leaguer to the fields and orchards beyond the town. There, a not-overlarge area of flattened grass betrayed the presence of a cloaked jump ship.

“Well,” said Rip, halting, “we haven’t been introduced yet, have we?  At least, I’m reasonably certain that I’ve never met any of you before—” and he gestured towards the Legends “—though I know of you, Chronos, by repute, of course.”  He gave Mick a quick slight nod, only to be discomfited by an utter lack of response.  “I suppose you know who I am,” he added quickly.

“Captain Rip Hunter,” said Sara, with a slight polite inclination of her head.  “Of the Waverider.  I’m Captain Lance.”

“Of the Streamsurfer,” added Ray.

“With your crew,” said Rip, a bit impressed.  “Yes, I see some of the changes in my future, ‘Lethe’ or no ‘Lethe’.”  He looked down at Randal, who desperately cast round the unfamiliar faces, but saw no mercy.  “I dare say you know who this is, too,” and he gave the boy a shake, “but let me formally introduce you to Rond Vidar—or ‘Randal’, as he’s been calling himself.”  In a bitter tone, he added, “And a right royal pain in the arse it’s been catching him, let me tell you.  I’m bloody glad to rid the time line of him and his meddling.”

None of the Legends dared ask for details.

“Just let me take care of this last bit of business,” Rip went on, “and I’ll offer you hospitality.  We Time Masters see each other far too seldom on mission.”  He gave Chronos a sardonic glance.  “Well, I don’t suppose you’ll be inclined to come aboard.  But you and your crew, Captain,” and he smiled at Sara, “are certainly invited to come aboard.  Tea?  Beer?  Something a bit stronger, maybe?  And we can talk and catch up, far as we’re allowed.”  Then, brusquely, he pulled out his gun and thrust Rond Vidar away hard enough for the boy to trip and fall.

“Wait!” said Sara sharply, as he aimed.  “Our orders are to take him with us.  Alive.”

“What?”  Rip turned his head to look at her.

Seeing him distracted, Rond scrambled to his feet; but, as he made a dash to freedom, Chronos made a quick snatch, and jerked him to a stop.

“Subsequent information,” put in Nate.

Looking annoyed, Rip holstered his gun, and turned to open the hatch of the jump ship.  Quickly jumping inside, he said, “Gideon, who is this Captain Lance?  What ship is the Streamsurfer?  And what is this ‘subsequent information’ of theirs that buggers up my mission?”

For a moment, the others froze.  Then, sounding eerily like their Gideon, his AI responded, “I’m sorry, Captain Hunter, but I cannot answer your questions.”

“Cannot?  Or may not?” Rip said sharply.

“Protocol Lethe, Captain.”

“Damn,” he muttered.  He turned in his seat to look back out the hatch.  “Well, what can you tell me, then?”

“Captain Lance and the Streamsurfer come from our future,” pointed out Gideon behind him.

“Well, yes,” acknowledged Rip; but he was looking at Sara.  “Of course, they come from the future.  My future, that is to say.  Hence ‘Lethe’.  And what, exactly, am I supposed to tell the Council in my time about my mission?”

“That you completed it,” said Sara promptly.  “As you have.”  Blandly careful to suppress her feelings about Rip’s evident intention—and orders—to kill a young boy in cold blood, she added, “Congratulations on a mission well done.”  Barely turning her head, she went on crisply, “Nate, Ray … go with Chronos, please, and take Rond Vidar with you.  I’ll finish up here.”

As they disappeared round the invisible ship, Rip’s eyes stayed on Sara.  “Yes,” he mused.  “I suppose some time anomaly turns up in the future, traces back to my orders, and you and your crew are sent to … well, to do whatever it is you plan to do.”  He focused on Sara.  “At least this anomaly has been corrected.”

“Yes,” said Sara, slipping her hand behind her back to fetch up her flasher.  “You’ve done your duty, Captain.”  There was a sudden flash of light, that (among other things) covered the use of her courier to return to her ship.  A moment later, looking more than a bit dazed, Rip realized that he must have returned to the jump ship.  Presumably, he had killed his quarry, though it was puzzling that he could not recall any details.  He glanced out of the open door, saw no one near at hand, and quickly shut himself inside.

“Congratulations on completing your mission, Captain,” said Gideon.

“Right,” he said blankly.  “Contact the Council, will you?  I’ll provide the mission report when I get back aboard.”

When Sara came through the time-courier portal onto the bridge, she was stopped dead by a sudden blinding flash.

“What the hell?”  She blinked her eyes, squinted them open a crack, and saw the Legends.  Most of them, she saw, were in some sort of costume that she vaguely recognized as Elizabethan.  Leastways, several of them were wearing those ruffs round their necks.  Zari was the only one in normal clothes.  And—her eyes adjusted enough for her to see clearly—Mick seemed to be absent.  She focused on Nate, and the flasher in his hand.  It was still pointed at her, though he quickly lowered it with an apologetic look on his face.  Almost subliminally, she heard him say, “Sorry, Captain.  Gideon insisted.”  Since this barely registered, she repeated her earlier words.  “What the hell?!!”

“Captain Lance,” put in the AI, “if I may:  circumstances on your mission dictated that neither you nor the rest of the Legends remain in possession of certain knowledge that might adversely affect the time line.”

“You zapped me?” said Sara incredulously to Nate.  Twisting round to address Gideon, she demanded, “What things about the time line?”

“Kind of missing the point of the flasher,” Nate remarked.  He put it away.  “If it’s any consolation, we got zapped, too.  We don’t know any more than you do.”

“Great.”  Sara took in the team’s clothes more clearly, glanced down at her own with raised brows, and looked out the viewport.  “Where even is that?  And when are we?”

“London, Captain,” Gideon answered.  “The year is 1606.  And the team was sent to return an anachronism to this time, which mission you have successfully completed.”

“Right,” said Sara, breaking into a smile.  “In that case, I’m going to go change.”

“I wouldn’t mind, either,” agreed Ray.  He ran a finger inside the ruff where it touched his chin.  “This thing itches,” he complained.  “Catch me ever putting one of these on again.”

As they turned to go, though, a sudden change caught the eye as, behind them, a decloaked time ship became suddenly visible below the white clouds.  Their trained reflexes brought them instantly round, focusing on the swoop of its flight; but only Nate turned swiftly enough to catch a clear view.  “That’s the Waverider!” he declared.

“It can’t be!”

“It must be another time ship.”

“No.”  Nate rounded on them.  “On the side.  I saw it:  the serial number WR-2059.”

“You made a mistake,” said Zari.

Ray looked thoughtful.  “Not necessarily,” he said.  “We could visit this year from sometime in the future.  Our future, I mean.  Or Rip maybe came here sometime in the past, before we even met him.”  Brightening, he suggested, “Maybe that’s what we’re not supposed to remember!”

“Gideon?” asked Sara.

“It was indeed the Waverider,” came the confirmation.  “A mission some years before Captain Hunter recruited your team to join him.”

“Well, he’s gone now,” said Nate.  “And, if we met him, we don’t remember any of the details—which I suppose is the point.”

With that, there seemed to be no more to say about the matter.  Ray managed to nip into the shower before anyone else; and, by the time Sara had donned her usual white Canary-suit, the other Legends had dispersed to their individual amusements.  She returned to the bridge, where she found Mick sprawled in his seat watching the tape of a football match.  He had either changed before all of them, she concluded, or else he had not been part of the away team, for he wore slacks and a drab open-necked Henley.

Before she could say anything, he said laconically, “I’ve stowed our guest.”

Guest?  “Gideon!” Sara said sharply.  “You never mentioned—”

“Name of Vidar,” added Mick.  “Don’t blame Gideon.  She had other things on her plate.”

As Sara headed to find the detained ‘guest’, she could only think that it must be someone from the Time Bureau.  Mentally, she cursed both Ava (presumably checking up on the Legends) and Mick (for ‘stowing’ a time agent).  It came as rather a shock, therefore, to enter the room and find Ray in conversation with a mere boy who was nevertheless most certainly ‘stowed’.  The force field was up, imprisoning him securely.  “This is that Vader guy?” she said incredulously.  He was a sturdy kid with short wavy black hair, his cheeks a little rounded with baby fat.  She didn’t think he even looked old enough for high school.

Ray turned to her with a broad grin.  “Hey, Sara,” he began, “you’ll never believe how Rond got here.”

“Who is he?” she demanded.  “Those clothes—!  We haven’t kidnapped some kid from medieval London, have we?”

“No, no,” Ray assured her.  “It’s just as much a costume as ours.  No, this is Rond Vidar, from the thirtieth century.  And, Sara, you’ll never believe it!  He built his own time travel machine as a science fair project!”  He turned back, beaming at his fellow inventor.

“The Metropolis Students’ Science Fair,” Rond explained.

“How old are you?” Sara asked.

“Fourteen,” he said instantly, though—at her skeptical look—he admitted that it would actually not be his birthday till the summer.

“Isn’t it great?” said Ray, still with that big silly grin on his face.

“Not so much,” said Sara dryly.  “So, Rond, you were … what?  Time travelling all on your lonesome in your own little time ship?  Get lost, did you?”

“Time Cube, actually.  Not the small one I won the prize with.  That was great for peeking in on the past—got me some tips for History class.  But then I built a bigger one that I could actually get inside myself.  Only complication was, I had to be in the right place at the right time in order to get back home.  I took several trips without any trouble; but then … well, I missed my connection and got stranded.”  Instead of looking scared, the boy grinned up at her, clearly pleased with himself.  “I’d wanted to see one of Shakespeare’s plays at the Globe Theatre; and instead I landed myself a job there.”

“Boy actor,” put in Ray.

“I don’t suppose,” said Rond wistfully, “you could just put me back long enough for me to be in this afternoon’s performance?  I’m supposed to be playing Lady Macbeth.  It’s the very first performance; and I don’t know what they’ll do without me.”

“Oh, that’s all we need!”  Sara rounded on Ray.  “Are you out of your mind?  How did this kid get aboard? Did you bring him along? Nate? I know we can’t leave him here.  But if we’ve somehow mucked up Macbeth?  You do remember that we’re supposed NOT to change time!”  Turning away from the force field, she called, “Gideon!”  And, when the AI responded, she demanded, “The first performance of Macbeth.  Did it go on as planned?  Did it go on at all?  Or have we somehow screwed up time again?”

“According to my records, the timeline remains unaltered,” replied Gideon.  “Macbeth exists, and was indeed first played on this day in 1606 at the Globe Theatre in London.”

“Who played Lady Macbeth?” demanded Sara.

“History does not record the details of casting, Captain Lance.  However, there is a legend that the boy who was to play the part died suddenly, and the playwright himself stepped in at the last minute to play the part of Macbeth’s wife.”

“Shakespeare played Lady Macbeth?” said Sara skeptically.

“So goes the legend.”

With a long sigh of relief, Sara looked at the not-precisely-dead boy (who was nevertheless clearly not going to have to be taken back down to London) in the realization that, whatever their original mission, the Legends had at least not made things worse.  For once.

Behind her, a time-courier portal opened and Ava stepped through.  “Sara, you still haven’t reported in,” she began—and finished flatly, “Oh, God.”  She stared at the boy behind the force field.

“God, no.  Just me,” said Sara, turning with a teasing smile.  “Good to see you, Ava, if maybe not the best timing.”  She turned, with an elaborate gesture towards Rond.  “Let me introduce our guest, Rond Vidar, tourist from the future.”

In shock, Ava said blankly, “The Rond Vidar?  What the hell are you doing here?”  Focusing her attention back on Sara, she said sharply, “Captain Lance, you were sent on a simple recovery mission to collect a time-displaced William Shakespeare and return him to his own century.”

Rond froze.  Imprisoned behind the force field, he had no route of escape.  And Ava’s tone did not bode well.

“Oh, was that our mission?” said Sara.  She shared a glance with Ray.  “I suppose,” she looked at Rond, “he maybe ran into that Time Cube of yours?  Or some such.”  She turned back.  “No, we did get that done, Ava.”

“We must have,” sad Ray quickly.  “Because he’s down there now.  Gideon says so.”

“Right,” said Sara; and once again they nodded conspiratorially at one another.

Rond scarcely dared breathe, following the interchange warily, waiting to hear his doom.

“More of your fast talk,” Ava grimly recognized.  “You guys have screwed up again, haven’t you?”

“Maybe,” said Sara provocatively.  “But we’ve put things right again, too.  As always.  We always screw up better, don’t we, Ava?  Shakespeare’s back on stage; and we’ve collected young Rond here.  So all’s well that ends well.”

“Well, you’d better get him back to his own time fast,” conceded Ava.

“Right,” Sara said briskly.  “Gideon, set in a course for the thirtieth century.  You,” she declared, looking at Rond, “are going home.”

Rond looked surprised.  “You mean … you really aren’t going to kill me?” he said in a small relieved voice.  As they turned to look at him incredulously, he added, “You know, like that other guy was going to do.”

“What other guy?” asked Ava sharply.

Rond jerked his chin towards Sara.  “She called him Captain Hunter.  Rick Hunter.  He certainly hunted me.  Nearly got me a couple of times—at the place where I was staying, in the street, and then at the theatre.”

“Rip?” said Ava incredulously.  She looked at Sara.  “You saw Rip?”

Sara bit her lip, looked at Ray for help, and then said, “Maybe?”  And after a pause, “Well, we certainly saw his ship.  He was here, in this time period.  He must have been here for a reason.”

Ava looked at Ray, who shrugged helplessly.  “We got zapped with a flasher, Director.”

“Gideon?”

“Yes, Director Sharpe?”

“Was Rip here?”  When even the AI hesitated before responding, Ava added crisply, “Save the details for another time.  Was Rip here?  And was he going to shoot this boy?”

“I believe so, Director.  He had orders from the Time Masters.”

Ava grimaced.  “Well, Rond,” she said decisively, “at the Time Bureau, we don’t shoot little boys, no matter how naughty they’ve been.  Yes, we’re taking you home—and, let me tell you, you won’t remember much of this.  So it doesn’t matter what I tell you now.  Just stay in your own era after this, okay?”  With that, she turned to Sara, drew up her dignity, and said crisply, “Carry on, Captain Lance.”

“Wow!” said Rond, as the portal closed behind her.  “That’s even better than the Time Cube.”

In his laboratory, Ray was tinkering with the A.T.O.M suit, intent on the minor repairs that were always needed to keep it in working order.  Finally, he downed tools and flipped up his safety visor with a sigh.  “Gideon, I’ve been wondering,” he began.  “Our last mission….”

“Yes, Dr. Palmer?”

“Do you remember everything that happened?”  Hastily Ray added, “No, I’m not asking you to tell me.  It’s something else.  We got our memories flashed; but it was on your instructions.  Does that mean it’s different for AIs?  You … what do you do?  Sequester the memories that you aren’t supposed to access so that they’re available if and when you need them?”

“Should I answer that?”

“Probably not.”  Ray grimaced.  Definitely not:  if Zari were to find out, she would probably try a hack on the AI.  Still, his curiosity lingered; and, after a little more thought, he tried again.  “But we did encounter Rip, and I gather from a time long before he recruited the Legends, when he was still a Time Master in good standing.  Does that mean that, potentially at least, you—I mean, you-you—were in contact with yourself then?  Do you actually have memories of meeting yourself?”

“Yes, Dr. Palmer.”

“Because it’s been my understanding that’s dangerous to the point of being utterly forbidden.”  Ray stopped.  “No, that’s not what I’m asking.  Are you all right?  That’s what I’m asking.  Because that was Rip out there.  Not our Rip, who blew himself up; not our Rip who recruited us.  From before all that.  Your Rip, Gideon.  If it was me, I’d gibber out our entire history to him in the hope of changing the past:  your past, our past, but his future.  You had the chance to save his family before Vandal Savage kills them.  Because for that Rip … it never happened yet.  So I’m asking you,” Ray paused for breath, “are you all right, Gideon?”

“Yes, Dr. Palmer.  Thank you for asking.”

“How fine is ‘fine’?”

“My programming bars me from interfering with the progression of history.  The time line is intact.”  Gideon’s voice was inhumanly calm.

“What would have happened if one of us had gone on board that other Waverider?” Ray asked.  “From what Rond said before we took him home, he did invite us.  What if we had?”

“If you broke protocol, you mean?”

“No,” said Ray uncertainly.  Then, shamed by his own candour, he admitted, “No, I don’t think any of us really gives that much of a damn about Rip’s family.  It’s not as though we knew them.”

“Then I don’t understand.  Can you rephrase your question?”

Ray thought for a bit, shrugged and picked up his tools again, and then put them back.  “God, I wish the Professor were here,” he said, quietly but with feeling.  “I think he could put this better.  Hell, I think he’d understand this better.”  He bit his lip and then, tentatively, tried to put his query into better words.  “If we had gone to his Waverider, would we be in his time or our own?  If we got a message there, would it come from the Time Bureau or the Time Masters?  Because the Vanishing Point … in our time, it’s destroyed.  And there is no way we can go back in time to before it blew up, because our time drive can’t take us there.”

In another time, on the bridge of another Waverider, Rip finished his report.

Zaman Druce considered what he had heard.  “Brevity has its virtues,” he said dryly, “but that’s sketchy in the extreme.  Still, I have to admit that the one thing that matters is the outcome.  You sanctioned Vidar, as instructed.”  For a moment, he hesitated, then gave a decisive nod.  “Right.  You’ll get instructions on your next mission shortly.”

The screen went blank, and Rip let out a silent sigh of relief.  “Well, Gideon,” he said, “it looks as though we’ve got a little time off.”  And he sat back in his solitary seat on the bridge, and thought of home.

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