The Institute

White heeled shoes echo loudly on the marble floor as the tall woman marches down the hallway. She is no more than 40, has thick, furrowed eyebrows and her dark hair is cropped close. Piercings run up her earlobes on both sides. A pair of tortoiseshell glasses are perched on the end of her nose. She is smartly-dressed in a dark blue suit with thin grey stripes which run down her neatly pressed trousers. On her lapel sits a small silver badge, a symbol of a hand holding a fob watch, but instead of a clock face, there is an image of the earth. The logo of The International Institute of Inter-Era Investigative Journalism. Beneath this symbol, in tiny letters, reads her name, Dr Elizabeth Hawthorne, and her title, Head of Recruitment.

A young man in a trench coat waits for her in the lobby, a cavernous room, almost empty except for a grand pair of spiral staircases and a single copper statue of that same symbol on Hawthorne’s badge. He wipes his hair back from his face nervously as he hears the click-clack of heels on the marble coming closer. Hawthorne appears at the top of the stairs, just at the moment the young man is bent over, checking his laces. She pauses, looking sternly down at him.

“Well, come on then, I haven’t got all day.”

He looks up, flushing. Mummering an apology for keeping her waiting, he picks up his bag and hurries up the spiral staircases to meet her, holding out his hand to shake hers. She doesn’t take it.

“This way please Abernathy.” Hawthorne gestures for the young man, Marcus Abernathy, to enter through the archway at the top of the twin staircase. She follows him into a corridor lined with painted portraits of unnamed men and women. The hallway is bright with light, despite the single westerly-facing window which is blacked out. Abernathy can’t recall what the weather looked like when he entered the Institute several hours ago for security checks. Dull and hot, as always, probably, with a chill-biting wind that would nip at your dry fingers and push the dusty, smokey air down your throat.

At the end of the corridor a large metal door barres their way. Hawthorne places her fingertips on a scanner at its side, which blinks green, and the doors open onto another long, equally empty hallway. Here there are no windows but four towering doors. Above each door inscribed into the stone was the name of the office within. The sign on the first door reads Inter-Era Visas and Journalist Registration Department. Next door was the Department of Languages, Costume and Culture, and beneath it, a small sign indicated it was also home to the Department of Internal Affairs. The door to the north had a sign which gave guidance to walk Through to Terminal A and Terminal B. And above the final door a sign which read Recruitment Agency. Hawthorne nods her head sharply at this door, placing her fingertips on the scanner once again.

The metal door slides open silently and Abernathy is welcomed with an explosive hubbub of activity and noise which he hadn’t anticipated after the eerily silent corridors and the strict security checks he’d gone through to get here. People are talking around large screens and projectors displaying facts and figures and designs and photos of people - candidates for their recruitment program. A large, rather flushed man in a tight black suit is trying to call order to the chaos around a big table but his high-pitched voice is being ignored by the workers around him. Some are carrying archival papers and even books, a rare sight these days. One woman is gesturing wildly in the air, confusing Abernathy greatly, until he realises she is typing using her smart glasses on a screen invisible to him. The technology in this room far surpassed his expectations. Abernathy was starting to realise that life in the Institute was very different to an ordinary life of bread riots and burner phones and surveillance.

The crowd parts as Hawthorne makes her way click-clacking on the marble floors with Abernathy trailing behind her. A large glass dome sits in the centre of the department and its door glides open when Hawthorne approaches. A silky voice over the speaker says, ‘Welcome back Dr Hawthorne, I have 15 incoming files for you to answer.’ And as the door shuts behind Abernathy the glass turns a milky shade, blocking out the chaos in the department.

“Dismissed.” Hawthorne says to the voice as it asks if she wants to deal with the inbox now, and it stops immediately. “Welcome to my office Mr Abernathy, take a seat.” She smiles for the first time and Abernathy relaxes, if slightly, drawing up a seat next to her big antique wooden desk. He sticks out a hand to her again.

“Very nice to finally meet you Dr Hawthorne, Marcus Abernathy.”

Hawthorne looks at his outstretched hand coldly, and then looks away again, tapping on the glass screen situated above her desk.

“So,” Hawthorne starts, peering at her screen, “I have your files here. You come with a highly sought after recommendation from -“

“Professor Heussenstamm!” Interrupts Marcus Abernathy excitedly, earning him another cold look from the woman sitting behind the desk.

“Yes. The professor indicated that your historical, linguistic and technological prowess could prove useful for us here at the Institute. You have passed the preliminary testing, and, let me check …. ah yes, all of your security and medical checks have just been confirmed watertight by my colleagues downstairs. Right, you have a Masters degree in Investigative Historical Journalism, following a Bachelor's in Historical Analysis in the Modern World and International Relations. Is that correct?” 

Hawthorne spins a hologram image of Abernathy’s head around on her desk, looking at the original in front of her with piercing eyes.

“Yes, that’s me.” Abernathy is spooked by the hologram, noticing his crooked front tooth, and looks away. “I also studied-“

“Inter-Era Temporal Engineering at our post-graduate recruitment program, yes I have that all here. So as you should already be familiar with our training, we can speed you through the initiation process. I would estimate that you could be conducting research in the field in less than a year, based on your application files.”

Abernathy’s heart races. He is actually here. They are going to employ him. He, Marcus Abernathy, is going to be a time-traveller.

“Thank you, that is brilliant to hear, I-” His excitement dries up his mouth and his words fail as Hawthorne’s blue eyes darting up from her screen and gives him a piercing stare.

“I am sure you understand what an honour it is to be employed here at the Institute.” She says, not looking away from him. “Here you will be at the very cutting edge of science, at the forefront of Investigative Journalism into the past.” He nods fiercely. Her stern stare softens, and she smiles slightly, “By no means is this an easy job, but it is a rewarding one.” She sighs, reminiscing. “I myself haven’t been in the field for years, but there’s nothing like it, the adrenaline coursing through your veins as you breathe in that air of your first day in the field, to feel your feet on the ground of the past.” She looks back at her screen, tapping something into it as she continues, “Back in the day my speciality was Infectious Diseases.” She tells him.

“We studied your work in my course, gosh it was incredible how that one sample provided all that information about -” He is cut short.

“Now we don’t have time to talk about me.” Hawthorne says sharply, taking out a stylus and spinning her screen around to face him. “I will leave you to read and sign this contract, and will return shortly to take you on the Orientation Tour. Welcome to the Institute Mr Abernathy, where time flies.” Her eyes sparkle behind her stern tortoiseshell glasses, and she click-clacks her way out of the dome, leaving Abernathy behind to sign his life away to the organisation.

Abernathy moves the screen towards him. That’s a hell of a lot of writing, he thinks, so many clauses and parts A and B and C. He scrolls through it, nodding to himself as he reads about the circumstances of repatriation in the case of Employee death in situ. Most of it sounds like a foreign language, yet it slowly unravels the clandestine Institute before his very eyes, the final pieces of the jigsaw he has spent the past six years working towards, are slotting into place. His heart beats fast at these first glimpses into the inner workings of the Institute. It felt as if he were Indiana Jones and James Bond and the Doctor combined into one time-travelling secret kickass agent archaeologist! A very professional one, of course.

He ticks accept terms, and signs his name on the dotted line. Marcus Henry Abernathy. He adds little flourishes to the Y’s, and immediately regrets it.

The door slides open again with a pneumatic woosh.

“I take it you are finished.” It wasn’t a question, even though Abernathy has hundreds of them spilling out of his brain. Hawthorne checks her screen, smiles serenely again, and closes it with a brief wave. She slides open the top draw in her desk, taking out a small black box, like a ring box, and hands it over. Abernathy opens the box, and inside, nestled among the silk packaging is a silver badge, almost identical to Hawthorne’s own, but his reads M. H. Abernathy, Journalist-in-Training. Abernathy happily pins it to his lapel. He is really part of the Institute now, finally a Journalist, after all these years.

Hawthorne click-clacks her way across the forecourt of her office. Abernathy adjusts his tie and follows her. An attractive young recruitment agent smiles at him and gives a friendly wave, almost dropping the towering pile of files they are carrying.

The doors slide closed behind Abernathy and Hawthorne, cutting them off from the hubbub of the office, and they step in the eerily silent hall again.

“Place your hand on this scanner here.” Abernathy does as he is instructed, and suddenly the wall springs to life, opening with a high-pitched beeping noise, and a glass platform slides out of the cream marble wall. “Step onto the platform.”

“Onto it?” Abernathy says incredulously, receiving a withering look from his superior. He hastily follows her instructions. Abernathy had never even seen lifts like these. He wonders how on earth they installed such a complex system into such an old building. The glass platform, now with him on it, slides back into the wall and, with some considerable force, rockets skywards through a glass tube.

‘Welcome to your office, Mr Abernathy.’ Announces a silky disembodied voice as he steps out of the platform into a library. Thousands of books of every shade and size and shape line the shelves. Abernathy is gobsmacked. He hasn’t seen a library like this, with so many real, hardback books, not just political pamphlets on reused newspapers, in over a decade. A glass cube, designed similarly to Hawthorne’s office, is sat in the centre of the library. Inside he can see people in white suits wearing long pink gloves, carefully recording and compiling ancient papers. On the bottom floor, people in the same white suits are polishing jewellery and cleaning artefacts. The AI connected to his ear informs him quietly that he has now entered the Jones Collection of Artefacts and Records, and the whole space was the Lady Stewart Library. Abernathy gazes around in awe.

His office, unfortunately, turns out to be one of the numerous small white cubicles which surrounds the glass square. Inside the cubicle, Abernathy finds a transparent screen, a high-backed chair and a filing system. Empty and anonymous. He watches as people step out of the tubes in the walls and walk to their cubicles to fill out information, or file an artefact, or write a report.

Abernathy approaches his desk curiously. He pulls out the chair and sits down. It isn’t that comfortable, but it is warm, which is nice. The screen is blank in front of him, he peers around the glass frame, looking for a power button. He places his hand on the desk, leaning into it, but jumps back in fright as the screen comes to life with a jarring sound. The symbol of the Institute spins around on the clear screen as it loads.

‘Welcome, Mr Abernathy, to Files and Records, would you like to sign in?’

He signs in and is given a swathe of Initiation information. His head swims. He straps the watch from the filing draw onto his wrist. Its face appears to be cloudy, but Abernathy knows that this watch will be his lifeline in the field, it’s a tracker that could display the date, time, location of any timeline in the known universe. He stares at the peculiar watch, and sees that beyond its cloudy surface it appears to be an ordinary clock, but strangely enough, it has no hands to tell the time. Instead the mist moves around the face in a swirling motion. He shakes his wrist and the watch face glows softly, telling him the time, 11.03 GMT, London, the present. He taps it, accidentally illuminating a small-scale hologram replica of the building, and a pulsing red dot indicating Hawthorne’s location, reminds Abernathy that he is running late to meet her. 

Abernathy hurriedly shuts off his screen, leaving it blank, and slides his briefcase under the anonymous-looking desk. He joins the queue of white-suited Reporters and Librarians that lead to the glass tubes that line the north-facing wall. He watches as a reporter scans his hand on the door of the tube, which acknowledges him, and the platform slides out. The man steps onto the platform, which slides back in, and then the tube rushes downwards, carrying the man with it. The next colleague to step forward does the same, but this time the tube rushes skywards. Abernathy wonders where the tubes lead too, but soon it is his turn, and in a moment he is back in the sparse marble corridor.

“You’re late.” Hawthorne is waiting for him in the doorway which says Through to Terminal A and B. Abernathy starts to explain that it had taken longer than he had anticipated, there had been so much information in the welcome file that he wanted to get through, when Hawthorne cuts him short. “Here at the Institute, Mr Abernathy, we do not tolerate tardiness.” She turns on her small white heels, and starts off through the doorway, which opens at her touch. Abernathy gulps and rushes after her.

*

By the time Abernathy catches up with her, Hawthorne is talking to a bald man in a navy boiler suit who is gesticulating wildly as Hawthorne attempts to calm him.

“Yes, I am aware of the situation, Smith-Reynolds, but I assure you it is out of my hands. You will have to consult the CEO about any major technical issues.” The engineer starts to complain again, but Dr Hawthorne glares at him. Abernathy was starting to realise quite how intimidating she really was, as she snapped. “Mr Smith-Reynolds, I am very sorry but you and station 1757 B are going to need to move out of my way, I am taking Abernathy on a compulsory orientation of Terminal A. That is quite enough now.”

Hawthorn turns to Abernathy, and by way of admission, says in a low voice, “I used to work in 18th-century engineering, but you must understand, we stick to our roles here at the Institute to keep it all running tickety-boo.” Abernathy is pleasantly surprised by her sudden openness, and is unsure of how to respond, but deciding it would be better if he kept his mouth shut, he nods. “Now, here we are.” Hawthorne says, as they enter the cavernous station with the beautiful art-deco design which many of the city’s stations had once looked like, preserved to the minutest details. “Terminal A, or what many people like to call it, the Tardis.”

“Because it is so big on the inside?” Abernathy jokes, gazing around.

“No, because of its functional similarity to the time-travelling machinery known as the TARDIS in the British Broadcasting Corporation television show Doctor Who which ran from 1963-2026.”

Terminal A is where departures are located. Running along the length of the room, more than two hundred bullet-shaped cylindrical containers, about 8 feet tall, and 12 feet long, sit encased in their glass charging points. The room hums with the energy that powers each cylinder, energy produced in a mysterious engine room deep in the Institute, enough energy to power a time-travelling capsule to its destination, and back again, carrying an Inter-Era Journalist and their equipment. Each metal cylinder bears the symbol of the Institute, and beneath it, a number is engraved, which Abernathy knows indicates the date and coordinates of the ship’s destination.

“Isn’t it a wonderful sight?” Says Hawthorne admiringly, as the engineers frantically ran about the room, connecting and disconnecting the cylinder’s from their charging points. “There, look, let’s go watch this Journalist set off.” Hawthorne makes her way over to a nearby cylinder. A man, in his mid forties, dressed in early 20th century aristocratic clothing, complete with a large moustache, is checking his supplies case, a large metal box with his name; H.G. Doyles, printed on the side. He looks up and smiles as Hawthorne and Abernathy approach him.

“Eliza! How nice to see you. I was thinking of popping up to recruitment to say goodbye before I set off, but I got carried away in Costumes trying to grow this moustache.” He twirls it dramatically. “Isn’t it fancy?”

Hawthorn grimaces slightly at the extravagant moustache. “Yes, quite. Are you all prepared? Back to 1916, I take it?”

“Yes, I have more data to gather about the occupation, that last report was particularly eye-opening, and I must go and confirm for myself. Here,” He opens his box to show them. “I have all the guns and grenades a man could possibly want!”

Hawthorn hurriedly turns to Abernathy. “As you will know, we completely disapprove of any attempt to kill or maim any historical persons. However in order to look, and act, the part, Mr Doyles is required to perform as an early 20th-century British general, and take with him a complete costume; including papers, ration cards, his army uniform, and of course, weapons.’ She says gesturing to the items that Doyles is checking in his box, “in order to effectively pass off as a True Timer, as we say, someone from the time.” She explains, but Abernathy’s six years of dedicated preparation to enter the Institute mean he is as familiar with the jargon as many employees. 

“Secrecy is of utmost importance!” Doyles says, with a mock-serious salute. “Anyway, Eliza, mon cherie,” he says, after closing his box with a clang. He bows to Hawthorne, and then briefly to Abernathy, “And your young companion of course. Adieu, I must be off!” He looks at his watch, a battered version of the one that Abernathy now has on his wrist. “Ahah!” He declares, “It is nearing 6 o’clock in Bloomsbury, London, November 28th 1916, I’d better get going.” He waves goodbye, and, with the help of an engineer, hauls the box into the waiting cylinder, and follows behind. He sits on the tall seat, leans it backwards, and straps himself in, lifting the goggles over his head, and sliding the screen around his face so he can see his control panel. The engineer scans her own hand, types a code into the internal interface, and steps out of the cylinder. Doyles’ brow is furrowed in concentration as he plans his manoeuvre out of the station to his logged destination. The door slides shut, obscuring him from view and Abernathy glances at Hawthorne who looked concerned as she mumbles, “November 28th? God, that man is always so reckless…” and then there is a roaring sound and Abernathy covers his ears and suddenly the cylinder is gone. In its space steam obscures the tracks beneath, and the team of boiler-suited engineers quickly slide a new pod onto its charging point.

“Well.” Says Hawthorne wiping the steam from off her glasses with a small white cloth. “there you have it, the departures. Mr Doyles will shortly be arriving in November 1916, in an unused back room of the British Museum. A guide, from the present, of course, will be there to meet him and secure the pod in its landing position. There is no charging point there, due to the lack of energy resources, so the pod he has taken is one designed to hibernate and retain its battery for the return trip, which should be in 8 weeks, if all goes to plan. We currently have two other journalists in that time, so in the Head Office we will be carefully tracking their progress. The guide will pass Mr Doyle, who has been fully briefed by The Department of Languages, Costume and Culture, on to the alliance coordinator, who will take him to his first meeting.” She pauses, consulting a handheld screen, before continuing. “Which will occur at 8 o’clock in the morning, at Paddington Station. It will appear as though Mr Doyles has just got off the locomotive.”

They leave Terminal A, through a tiled tunnel like a disused underground station. Abernathy realises that a tunnel this far under the empty streets of London could well be a disused Underground tunnel. After the last war the Underground had been all but abandoned; in some areas slums, mostly full of refugees, had sprung up in the tunnels, as they provided shelter from the surface, but the trains no longer ran, and hadn’t since he was a small child. Abernathy remembers going to a train station, with running trains, tapping his Oyster card against the entrance barrier, being washed by the sea of commuters onto the train, holding tightly to his father’s hand.

The main building of the Institute is raised above ground, its grand marble frame rises out of the dirty flood-stained streets lined with burnt-out cars and slums made up of brightly coloured canvas. A small flight of steps reaches toward the grand entrance hall that Abernathy walked into this morning. But everyone knows, even those who don’t care for the Institute and what it stands for, know that it really spralls far underneath the city.

“This way is the main route to arrivals, or Terminal B,” Hawthorne says. “Of course, it is mostly used by engineers who need easy access between the stations, but some returning journalists use it as a shortcut back to the main hall. As you will see shortly, there is an arrivals lobby where the journalists have to undergo strict security checks and download any recorded files. Any objects of permanence they have brought with them have to be placed inside one of these.” They have arrived at the lobby, and Hawthorne points to the vacuum-like tubes on her left. “Where our analysts will conduct various testing to corroborate the anecdotal evidence from our journalists; as well as determine the danger level of an artefact, and clear it of any potential contamination. We also run it through our systems to ascertain whether the artefact in question has not survived in modern collections. This is quite a vital part of our collection process, as if we have doubled up artefacts it will greatly affect the time-space continuum. We have in the past had some significant incidents with this so have recently increased efforts to make this procedure 100% accurate, which is of course, somewhat difficult considering the state of international coordination at the present.” She raises her eyebrows. Abernathy waits for her to elaborate, not taking the liberty of assuming the rumours about such incidents which run wild on the streets of London are true. But Hawthorne, clearing her throat gracefully, gestures to the analyst who is carefully taking swabs from a small ring, perhaps of mid-2nd century Egyptian origin, and placing the swabs in test tubes. “It is a complex process, but our analysts are well-qualified and have access to hundreds of years of files to compare to the artefact brought by the journalist.” The current journalist, while waiting for the ring to be passed, takes a nap on one of the chairs in the waiting room. Next to him a very worn, cheap magazine, from at least two decades ago, lies discarded. It’s quite a contrast to his elaborate 2nd-century BC Egyptian courtier clothing. Abernathy realises this sight is one he will have to get used to, as he watches the man snoring softly.

*

Six months later, Abernathy steps from the chill wind into the towering marble building. Graffiti is scrawled across the door in red spray paint. Those who control the past control the future. Another rebel protesting against the Institute. Scanning his palm over the entrance pad, Abernathy enters the familiar entrance hall, and swiftly places his briefcase on the security scanner. He shakes out his scarf and coat, and folds them neatly over his arm. The silver badge on his lapel, reading M. H. Abernathy, Journalist, glints in the bright light of the Institute. It’s early in the morning and the marble hallways are all but deserted. Abernathy hurries into the Department of Languages, Costume and Culture, where he is met by an older man who ushers him into the costume department. His recording device is implanted, and should last the duration of the trip. His shiny new trunk is full of clothes and goods for the era he is heading to. Abernathy notices the corner of a brightly coloured purple stola poking out, so he shoves it back in and closes the trunk with a bang.

The old man quizzes him endlessly, but Abernathy is prepared. He knows his mission, get in, get the artefact, get out. He has ten days to do it. But it is highly unusual for an inexperienced Journalist, on his first mission to the field, to go so far back in time. He repeats the conversational Latin back to the Head of the Antiquity Department and ensures that he knows exactly how to tie his robes.

The older man is ticking off items on a list on his portable screen as he continues. “Number Three hundred and twelve, the treatment of enslaved people as a Journalist must be aligned with those actions of a True Timer Citizen male.” At this instruction Abernathy’s gut wrenches, dreading treating people the way his own ancestors had been treated, but he bites his tongue and nods firmly. “Number Three Hundred and Thirteen; the treatment of women as a Journalist must be aligned with those actions of a True Timer Citizen male; you will treat the domina with respect, and be firm and instructive with every other woman. You are allowed and encouraged to act flirtatiously with the unwedded women, but be reminded that it is against our policies for Journalists to engage in sexual relations with any True Timer, especially of the opposite sex.”

Abernathy nods, but he knows that at least that last point will be easy. As if by magic, he hears the door open behind him and the attractive reporter who waved at him on his first day enters quietly. They are silent as the head of the Antiquity Department finishes his quizzing and Abernathy makes his way to the door.

He grabs their hand tightly and they smile.

“River…” Abernathy says softly, but River shakes their head, soft blond curls bouncing around their forehead.

“Not here.”

The two of them make their way to Abernathy’s office in the library. He places his briefcase under the desk, and hangs his coat and scarf on the chair. His books and discarded research litter the desk.

“What a mess!” River jokes, nudging Abernathy as he ties his robe carefully, the way he was taught.

“Don’t let anybody touch it. I have a system.” He says, taking River by the waist and holding them tight. “I won’t be long. Ten days.” Neither of them want to say goodbye.

“Well,” River clears their throat. “I better get this report back to the office, don’t want to keep Dr Hawthorne waiting.”

Abernathy checks his watch, shaking its milky surface until it displays the time and date. “I’m running late.” He kisses River, and leaves.

Terminal A is almost deserted at this hour in the morning, its cavernous space echoing with the throbbing noise of the engines. His cylinder hums in its charging point, its silver surface shining in the bright light. An engineer disconnects it as Abernathy hauls his trunk into the storage compartment, and tightly screws the bolts back into place. His heart is in his throat as he straps himself in, sliding the helmet over his face, confirming the coordinates and preparing for launch.

“Ready?” The engineer asks.

“As I’ll ever be.” Abernathy says. He signs the universal OK symbol, and smiles at the engineer, who wishes him good luck and places his hand on the control panel to the left of the door. It slides shut with a pneumatic hiss, and seals Abernathy in. The pod is dark, the screen of his helmet grows green as it counts down. Abernathy feels it shaking around him as the engine heats up. Three, Two, One. And then he is gone.

Steam rises in the place the silver cylinder left, and the engineer wipes the sweat off his brow. He’ll be back soon, but first, to the place where all the roads lead.