Frank nodded. “I can reproduce some of its functions with my old code base—the iPad app I wrote years ago. But you’re right. It is absolutely no replacement for the Chronotron.”
“And before you ask,” Mortimer said, “there’s no replacing that. We may be able to build a makeshift ODEC in the basement, but the Chronotron is a multibillion-dollar project.”
“It’ll be fine,” said Tristan, still working on the package in the kitchen. “We’re not trying to launch any new campaigns. We’re not being proactive. We’re being reactive now—reactive to Gráinne. We wait for her to make the first move, by sending DOers to the DTAPs we know so well. Then we go to those same DTAPs and stop them.”
“Fuckin’ A!” Mortimer said.
Tristan came in from the kitchen carrying a white plastic bag that he had extracted from the package. He continued, “We start by going back and talking to our KCWs, explaining how it is, asking them if they are willing to come over to our side. I think many will say yes. So we can develop our own witch network, our own system of safe houses. And in the present day, we still have friends within DODO.”
“How can you be so sure?” Erszebet demanded. “Gráinne is subtle. These people who claim to be your friends may in reality be her agents, trying to win your trust.”
“Then explain this,” Tristan said. He reached into the plastic bag and pulled out a dingy, tangled jumble of yarn, which I did not immediately recognize because I hadn’t seen it for years. Erszebet knew it before it was half-revealed.
“My számológép!” she cried, with the wide-eyed wonder of the girl I’d only ever seen in 1851. She began to scramble to her feet, but Tristan saved her the need by tossing it to her over the table.
“Merry belated Christmas! It occurred to me you might need something like this. I’ve spent the past month tracking it down.”
“How?” I asked, amazed.
“Classified,” Tristan said. “All bureaucracy, no cloak-and-dagger. It’s been stuffed in a filing cabinet for five years.”
“You are a good man,” said Erszebet almost tearfully. She clutched the számológép to her, cradled it against her heart as if it were a delicate pet. “Thank you. Thank you.”
“Ask and it shall be given!” said Julie. “Tristan, your timing rocks.”
“Do you know how to use one of those?” asked Rebecca quietly, to Julie. “I have no idea.”
“Mortimer and I can work together to rebuild the app,” Frank assured her. “It will never be the Chronotron, but it will be more powerful than the számológép and easier for those of us not used to the analog models.”
“Is there enough room left in the cellar for that project?” asked Tristan, wresting his attention from the cooing Erszebet.
“We have a guest room upstairs,” said Oda-sensei.
“You’re all fools,” said Rebecca. “This cannot be the headquarters for a new diachronic endeavor. Besides the fact that I want it to be safe for family to visit, Blevins will be after all of us. I’m surprised they haven’t already knocked our door down.”
“Actually, I’ve been thinking about that,” Tristan said, and finally sat down again. “It’s the dog that didn’t bark. Why hasn’t Blevins sent a DOSECOPS squad to knock the door down? What’s holding him back?”
“Probably not Gráinne,” I said. “Gráinne’s pretty hawkish.”
“Let’s cut to the chase: it’s the Fuggers,” Tristan said. “They made sure we could build an ODEC in the basement here. They’ve obviously made a decision that it’s better to have us around as a counterbalance to Gráinne than to cede total control of history to her and her minions. And so we are protected, somehow. We can stay here as long as we want.”
“Until the Fuggers change their minds,” Rebecca said, in a tone that made it clear this wasn’t good enough.
“I don’t think they’ll do that, though,” Tristan said. “They’ll protect us—they might even fund us, indirectly, untraceably—as long as we’re holding up our end of the deal.”
“Which is . . . ?” I asked, although I already knew the answer.
“To figure out what Gráinne’s up to, somehow—then go wherever she’s sending her DOers, and fight them. With wit and words when we can, with swords when we have to.”
“Yesss!” Mortimer said
“Works for me,” said Esme instantly.
“Me too,” said Felix.
“I’m in,” Julie said.
“Excellent,” said Frank, looking pleased, as Rebecca made a well-fine-be-that-way gesture of allowance.
“I have already agreed,” Erszebet contributed moodily.
Tristan glanced at me. “Stokes?”
“As if I had a choice,” I said. “Of course I’m in.”
And that, dear reader, is who we are, and what we now are doing.
THE END