Chicago Basin, Colorado
2039

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THE HELICOPTER'S propellers buffeted Lale in his face as the sand that rested on the Needle Bank lashed his uncovered skin. He didn't move to rake back the dark brown hair that now rested in his face as Sergeant Major Fereldson climbed from the chopper's chambers, her greying gold crewcut having no such problem. His leave had taken effect.

"Staff Sergeant Jacobs, thank you for agreeing to meet me here at such short notice." She walked briskly across the hastily-set tarmac, her handshake as firm as ever. "As you've probably heard, this mission is of no normal means. So that means utter secrecy. If the public so much as catches a whiff of this, then..." Fereldson trailed off. It was the first time he had ever seen her look uncertain.

"You know you can trust me, Sarge," he replied. Of course she could trust him; she'd been his superior and mentor for more than three years. But his own hesitation in joining her here, next to a dirt-bowl at the foot of rugged mountains, had probably been noted. He was on leave, for goodness' sake. He'd had a right to refuse, but his sense of loyalty to Fereldson had won out. Lale hoped he wouldn't regret it.

"But what the hell did the NSCOA drag us out here for?" Lale followed Fereldson as they marched off of the landing pad, into the dirt and gravel surrounding the tar. Army soldiers darted forward to aid their descent down the mound, but the Sergeant Major waved them off. "At ease, gentlemen," she instructed them as they walked down a smoother dirt path, heading right towards a metal fence spanning the entire area. Lale estimated it was at least fifteen feet high, with barbed wire encircling the top ridges. Probably electrically charged.

"The National Security Guard felt that he wasn't entitled to tell us the objective of this field trip," Fereldson snorted. "They've led us on a right goose-chase - I've half a mind to call Jerry to give him a piece of it right now."

Lale hid his own irritation, making the appropriate amused sound. Projects to install receiving towers to act as semi-effective satellites around the continent were only partly successful; at this range, with the Rocky Mountains surrounding them, there would be no chance at reaching Jerry of National Security Co-operative Assistance's administration.

Truth be told, Lale was not looking forward to whatever proposition was going to be given by people who hid behind fences and mountains. Missions, he could handle. The need for secrecy was understandable for half of them - he'd killed more terrorists and illegal immigrants seeking to take advantage of America's already-failing economy than he cared to count. The Big Man in Washington didn't like reading about that. He wanted results. He didn't want gore or blood or the memory of having a conscience, which Lale believed half of his comrades did not possess.

But this one would be different. He could sense it. From the critical need of expending funds on fuel to fly over from Utah, and the hush-hush of even the most senior officials, Lale was feeling more and more uneasy. And he hardly ever felt uneasy. Maybe it was because he didn't have his handy Glock in his waistband; security measures had demanded it.

Tension hissed as loudly through the air as the volts running through the fencing — apparently electric — next to him as a padlocked gate was opened from the inside. A nervous-looking soldier, a first lieutenant by the single silver bar crossing his uniform, guided them from the fencing to a concrete base. A memory niggled in the back of Lale's mind - the Wolf's Lair, Berlin. Hitler's final stand, pictured in a history book that probably no longer existed. Chills ran up and down his arms beneath his Marine overalls.

"The Secretary of Defense is waiting for you inside," the lieutenant gestured into the musky darkness of the open reinforced steel door, bearing similar looks to a submarine's hull exit and entrance. (Lale would know - the Caribbean's Conquest had held his queasy excuse of a squadron for exactly sixty-four days while they awaited orders on whether to attack the Salt Cartel or not. He had vowed to himself that he would never join the navy after that trip.)

Lale stepped aside for Fereldson to pass, before he too, stepped into the bunker. The cold metal and concrete added to the eerie atmosphere, before the man behind them closed the door, and only florescent lights lit their path down the arrow-straight hallway. Various doors that he didn't bother trying to open lined the sides of the small space as the two Marines walked in single file, following the passage's slight turns until they came to a larger chamber, seemingly packed with people and tables and files.

He had never been claustrophobic - but the sight of suited men and women, and the briefcases and documents they held, sent a spark of panic through him. Was he way out of his league here? Lale tried to qualm this fear, knowing that he was here for a reason. These suits needed he and Fereldson, for some reason.

"Sergeant Major Fereldson, and Staff Sergeant Jacobs," the voice came from the crowd of people in front of him, though he was unable to identify who had said it. The suits seemed as nervous as he was internally, which made him feel marginally better. "Come on in, sit down." There was a flurry of movement as the suits moved their cases, and the screeches of plastic seats across the floor made him wince.

Fereldson sat down. He followed, his eyes darting from person to person warily. Rooms full of people, and unknown briefcases, had never ended very well for him.

Lale flexed his hands, nervous energy flowing through his limbs. Get a grip, he told himself. And preferably not around someone else's neck.

"We appreciate the time and effort you've taken in order to get here." This time, the speaker was in the front of the cram of expensive clothing. The slightly portly man gave them a wide smile, which was perhaps meant to be reassuring. It was not. "And I must say, Mr Jacobs, your record is certainly commendable. I am pleased that you decided to take time out of your vacation to hear what we have to say."

"With all due respect, please get to the point, sir," Fereldson replied, before Lale replied in a much nastier way. The man seemed to monetarily pause - perhaps not expecting this demand - before continuing.

"Of course, of course. Time is money, especially in these circumstances." He chuckled, seeming to be delighted that he knew a joke that others did not. Lale was growing less and less impressed, and was already picturing the pina colas he had left behind in Melbourne for the mosquitoes. What he would've given to be in that insect-infested swamp at that moment...

"My name is Carson Lawrence." The man introduced himself, and Lale forced himself to pay more attention. He'd heard the name distantly before; probably in Marine gossip about the higher ranks. "I'm the Under Secretary of Defense, and one of the investors of this mission. As a businessman, it would probably be described as a 'less than profitable' escapade, but many institutions were willing to reimburse for humanity's survival." Lale got that feeling again that he was way out of his element - the words were colliding in his head and scattering space dust over his thoughts.

But he wasn't here to question. Needless to say, he started listening.

"The goal of this institute, the one you see here before you today," Carson spread his arms wide, motioning to the cement walls that Lale would probably be able to touch if he extended his own in the cramped, official-filled space, "is to preserve the future of the Homo sapiens. But not in a regular way, oh no."

The light of an official PortScreen glowed a holographic blue across the room, picturing a slowly-spinning, tinny Earth. A layer, presumably the ozone - or what was left of it - appeared in an orange color, and enveloped the miniature planet. Carson's face was highlighted, and his white teeth were also stained blue as he swiped the surface of the Earth, making it spin faster. "It's no secret that our unsustainable activities have wrecked our planet. Attempts at relocating into other Goldilocks Zones have proved unsuccessful; we have exhausted that option."

Lale continued to watch the spinning Earth, frowning when he realized that the ozone layer seemed to be growing back together. Whatever these guys want to do, it'll obviously work, he thought wryly. Just because a small hologram was showing a perfect sequence of Carson's hopes and dreams, didn't mean it would become reality.

"So we need to dig deeper," he continued. He jabbed the Earth aggressively with his finger, and it froze, the ozone layer complete. But that wasn't the only thing that had changed. Lale leant forward in his seat, confusion pulsing with the beat of his heart at what the hologram was presenting.

"Laurasia and Gondwana. The supercontinents of the Jurassic Period." The blue landmasses were only slightly tethered to one another; the swollen shapes were unrecognizable to the continents that existed that day.

"Permission to speak, sir," Lale leant back at Fereldson's words, knowing that she would ask the right questions. Intrigue sparked in his chest, though he was still suspicious. What did a landmass from years and years ago have to do with the salvation of mankind?

Carson inclined his head, and Lale's mentor continued. "What exactly does this entail, sir? We came here to discuss a mission; not receive a history lesson."

"Ah my dear madam," Lale wasn't too sure Fereldson would be very flattered at being called 'madam', but concealed his amusement and misgivings beneath an exterior of experience. "Do neither of you see? This 'history lesson'," he gestured to the rotating Earth, "is the mission."

"And that's where I come in." A well-bred black man with graying temples stepped forward from behind Carson, putting his hand on the Under Secretary of Defense's shoulder. "Thank you, Mr Lawerence, I'm sure I can take it from here."

Lale became interested in several things at once about the new speaker. One; he held the posture of a man of military standards. Two; he didn't exude mass enthusiasm about holding a secret from the two Marines, and three, he seemed of a much higher rank than any of the other men and women around him, despite the names and faces he was sure belonged to government sectors. He was more inclined to listen to Robert Quillan, as he introduced himself, than a guy who had gotten muddled between his fore- and surname.

"I am from a private sector, which has been working under the jurisdiction of the president only. Up until recently, we have been a secret organization operating among many individuals of impeccable scientific and military standards. PAST is a campaign, set with technology that many people would be unable to comprehend, that may be the final stand against humankind's extinction." He paused as an assistant hurriedly handed them leaflets. Lale passed back the two extra, before examining his own.

PAST
PRELIMINARY ACTION, SCIENCE and TECHNOLOGY

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there is nothing permanent, except for change.

Confusion was not an emotion Lale was often familiar with. He frowned as he tried to make sense of the small text; relaying numbers of the population and ecology, percentages and graphs he couldn't understand, and underlying the need for something to change. Or give. "Permission to speak, sir."

"There's no need for that," Robert waved his hand, which Lale took as invitation to ask his own bubbling questions.

"What exactly does your science... program," the word popped from his mouth (there really was no better one), "focus on? Crops? Agriculture?" Then the imagery of Laurasia and Gond-whatever would make sense; obviously the land will have been more fertile before human activities and interruptions. Something else niggled at the back of his mind, but he payed it no attention.

"Actually," Carson began, but Robert cut right over him.

"Why, Staff Sergeant Jacobs, we specialize in TSPs," obviously noting his confusion, he added, "or, simply to the public;

"Time travel."

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