The Rise and Fall of D.O.D.O.

“I’ll tell it to the hundreds of millions of people who would be dead without basic antibiotics,” he retorted impatiently. “This is a ridiculous conversation.” He got up from his seat and paced in the small triangular space described by the table, the hearth, and the kitchen door.

Then the doorbell rang. Everyone looked surprised except for Tristan, who invited the rest of us to remain seated while he took care of it. Through the windows we could see a FedEx truck idling in the street. A little surprising, on a holiday, but we had been receiving deliveries at the strangest times as rush orders came in for the ODEC project, and so we all assumed it was another shipment of exotic superconductors.

“Erszebet,” said Rebecca, speaking for the first time. “Are you arguing against fighting Gráinne?” She asked it in a very neutral tone, simply a request for information, all judgment reserved.

“No,” said Erszebet. “I am happy to fight her. She is too powerful. Every witch is enthralled with Gráinne, except Julie and you, who are still learning how to do good magic. I myself was in thrall to Gráinne, and I almost did her urging, even though I knew it was evil. Luckily for you, I am too good a person and too loyal a colleague to kill you off.”

Tristan came back in carrying a small package that he had received from the FedEx man. He carried it into the kitchen, set it on the counter, and carefully slit it open with his pocketknife.

“Give me an ODEC,” Erszebet was continuing, “and I will help you to preserve the world as you know it, which you seem to think is the best world.”

“Even though you don’t agree,” I said.

“I do not think there is any ‘best’ world. I am not judgmental that way.” But there was a hint of a smile in one corner of her mouth, as if she understood, and enjoyed, how maddening she was.

“With all respect, it seems to me,” said Mortimer, “that the operative part of this conversation is: give Erszebet and Julie and Rebecca an ODEC and they’ll help us stymie Gráinne. We have the ODEC. We have the three weird sisters. No offense.”

“None taken,” Julie said. “I like being weird.”

“Am I right? And then if you guys want to get into philosophical bickering, you can do it on your coffee break or something.”

Erszebet’s face suddenly fell. “Only we do not have a Chronotron.”

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