April 14, 1865

Ford Theater, Washington D.C.

10:12 P.M.

“Ford Theater was always the same. Hazy, dark, a faint musty odor about it, and the floors were a dark wood which were warped in certain places. Benjamin Jericho could not count how many times he has sat and watched this show. How many times he’d heard the man sitting two rows to his left, wearing the green cotton shirt, whisper to his wife, ‘I overheard the barman, sounds like the President will be sitting up there.’ Pointing to the Presidential Box, an American flag draped over its railing.” Jericho did not look out of place. He wasn’t allowed to, wearing a black cotton jacket with a white undershirt, with black cotton pants, he felt more like he was going to a funeral than watching a comedy--fitting. He wasn’t a fan of the show per se, or even a fan of the theater; he was just doing his job. He sat near the back of the audience, near enough to the entrance, with a clear view of the rear stairwell that led to the Presidential Box. Jericho listened to the light laughter of the audience, “Our American Cousin,” was a pretty funny show, the lead part was played by a man named Harry Hawk, a star in his time, short, stocky, with a moustache you would’ve had to see to believe. “It’s sad,” Jericho thought, “this show isn’t bad, but it’s going to leave such a sour taste in the mouth of America from this night forward. Nothing will ever change that.” It wasn’t allowed to be changed. Jericho scratched the back of his neck, he could feel the small bump where the new HMT had been implanted, it itched like hell, but there was some small comfort he felt knowing he always had a way to get home. The only bad part of the HMT was how much it burned whenever you “traveled.” He pulled a pocket watch from his inner coat pocket.

10:13 P.M.

Two more minutes until he would see the 16th President of the United States of America, a man so revered, so respected, he would be considered one of the greatest Presidents with a history of some pretty great Presidents. Honest Abe. Jericho glanced back to the bottom of the stairwell. The theater was crowded, nowhere else to sit, standing room only. There was a large group of people standing near the stairwell watching the show intently, some held small glasses of whiskey, most everyone in the room was smoking. “How the times have changed,” Jericho thought.

Jericho saw Stanton standing amongst the crowd of people near the stairwell, how could he miss him? Stanton Dix was a taller, heavyset black man. Actually, he was the only black man standing in the crowd, Jericho noticed some of the white men standing near Stanton actually giving the big man dirty looks, he’d have to remember this and find Stanton a different position next time. He’d have Evey take that spot. Stanton’s hair was much grayer than Jericho remembered, but then again, they’d known each other a long time now. “Since the beginning,” he thought. Jericho watched as Stanton drew his own pocket watch and looked at the time, he then glanced up, and caught Jericho’s eye, and nodded. “It’s getting close to time.”

10:14 P.M.

Jericho stood up and walked towards the rear of the theater; he passed Stanton and nodded to him as he continued past. The hard wooden floors creaked beneath his feet, it was a quiet point of the show and it seemed that every step he took was louder than the last, “I stayed in my seat too long, should have moved into place two minutes ago during the funny part.” Jericho cursed himself under his breath. He finally made his way to the back of the theater, through a door and found himself in a narrow hallway, with doors on either side, at the far end of the hall was a door that opened to an alley behind the theater, it was the door that John Wilkes Booth would be entering in about two minutes. “He’s here,” a chirp in his ear piece said. Evelyn Thomas – Evey as he liked to call her, his eyes and ears, let Jericho know that Lincoln’s Stage Coach just dropped the President, First Lady, Major Rathbone, and Ms. Harris off at the more secluded and secretive side entrance of the theater. “He’s so damn tall,” Evey’s voice said through the ear piece again. Jericho had to admit he didn’t like having to bring a Rookie with him during live missions, but Evey had proven herself time and time again, and was doing a hell of a job this time around. Jericho actually gave her the reigns from the get go, he wanted to see if she was as smart as the reports filed on her claimed she was. And Evelyn had yet to disappoint. She was well read on the History Docs, well enough that she had a schematic of the entire floor with the names of everyone that was in the theater, in the exact spot they would be in. The entire team had been impressed with her so far. “And she’s not bad to look at,” Jericho thought. Evey happened to be a blessing to the department, what with the budget cuts, and forced reductions in pay that have been plaguing his particular office for the past few months. The truth was, times were not good, the economy was terrible, and even though jobs were hard to come by, funding for the Preservation Department was by no means large; in fact, funding had gotten so bad that there had been quite a few infractions lately that had cost quite a few people their jobs. Placing bets on large games to get petty cash had become a regular thing for some of the most well respected agents. Being an agent for the Time Travel Preservation Department didn’t have that same luster that it did twenty years ago when the office stood up, and there were fewer and fewer applicants every quarter. Jericho frowned, “stay focused,” he thought, that was the other thing, Benjamin Jericho was a very distracted man. Two kids he never got to see, kids that lived with their grandparents because dad was incapable of being a parent. It was hard for Jericho to think of his kids, and not picture his wife’s face. He missed her. “Shit, I forgot Janet’s birthday.” Jericho thought, his daughter would not be happy with him, Jericho was a goner for sure. Jericho sighed and re-focused. So far, he hadn’t seen anything out of the ordinary. The hall had people milling about, talking, laughing, drinking, and smoking. Jericho caught sight of a tall blonde man standing at the back of the gaggle; the man seemed to be watching Jericho. This was new, and somewhat unfathomable, Jericho had been to this moment numerous times and hadn’t seen this man before, he was pretty sure of that. He casually glanced back at the man, but the blonde guy was again talking to a person next to him, and smoking a cigarette. Jericho sighed, he was jittery, a bit too much coffee before he left today. He sighed, and noticed the lack of security was astonishing; it was hard to accept that the President was in the same building as most of these people. Jericho could see that some men openly had pistols on their belts, “Really anyone could have assassinated this man,” Jericho thought, “there is absolutely nothing that could have stopped this from happening.” Benjamin Jericho had always been into history. It was his major in college; he had a mind like a steel trap, for dates, names, and places. For instance he knew that at this moment, John Wilkes Booth was just now finishing the last of his whiskey in the bar directly next door to the theater, his mind made up about the act he was about to commit weeks ago. Jericho also knew that originally Booth didn’t plan on murdering the President; he was going to kidnap him and hold him ransom until slavery was once again legal and the South was allowed to have its independence. Booth viewed himself as the savior of the Confederacy. Jericho heard muffled clapping coming from the theater. He knew that at this moment the President, his wife, and their guests were taking their seats in the box, but still Stanton’s voice came into his ear, “President’s in his box, nothing out of the ordinary here. These white boys are giving me the eye though.” Jericho smiled; Stanton always had a good sense of humor, even in the face of adversity.

10:15 P.M.

The back door swung open, a breeze of cool April night air whipped across Jericho’s face, the shape of a man stood in the doorway. Jericho waited for the door to close and as the flickering light from the nearby lantern caught the man’s face, Jericho recognized one of the most infamous men in American History. A famous actor in the 1860’s, John Wilkes Booth was an avid supporter of the South, and in the end couldn’t believe that he was on the losing side of the Civil War. His mother made him promise not to enlist in the military, something that Booth had regret since the start of the war. Never one to disappoint his mother, he kept his word; however, John Wilkes Booth would do more in the name of the South within the next couple of minutes than any Southern soldier had done throughout all of the bloody war. Booth had the resigned look of a man ready to die etched on his face as he strode past Jericho, without a glance he walked through the hall and out into the crowded area near the stairs.

This is when it should happen. Jericho had followed Booth back into the theater. The intel pointed to this moment. Jericho could see that Stanton had already spotted Booth and was actively searching for the perpetrator. Jericho couldn’t help but glance up at the Presidential Box, Lincoln sat beside his wife, it was dark and hazy, Lincoln’s features obscured, and Jericho couldn’t help but feel a pang of sadness for the man. A hiss of static burned in Jericho’s ear, he glanced at Stanton just in time to catch him flinching at the same static, “Gents, you should see him within the next few seconds. He’s there already. Tall, gray hair, blue eyes, might be dressed out of place,” Hugo Combs spoke. He was the last member of the team, short, skinny, Hispanic. Hugo was the team’s Techie. He was kind of like the tech support to a computer company. “You know, I never realized how many homosexuals there were in 1865,” Hugo said, “But I’m pretty sure that the bar next to the Ford Theater was a gay bar. Lots o’ dudes hugging and what not.” Hugo was also really annoying, and immature. “Hugo, let’s keep the chatter to a minimum. I’m still not seeing him.” Jericho said with a touch of harshness in his voice. “I got him,” Stanton said hurriedly, Jericho watched Stanton slowly begin moving in the direction of the stairs. His eyes scanning every face, looking for the odd one out, squinting into the ever present haze of smoke. The crowd was much thicker out in the theater, almost like more people had shown up to watch history be made. In the small time that Jericho had walked to the rear entrance and back the crowd near the stairs had doubled. The smell of B.O. was tremendous; Jericho wondered how Stanton could handle this stench for as long has he did. “Just goes with the job,” Jericho thought. He finally spotted “the difference,” a term the agents lovingly applied to whoever it was that was trying to change things. Standing in the shadows of the stairwell was a tall gray man; not even attempting to fit in, the man was wearing a white T-shirt, and blue jeans. Jericho knew the man’s name before the burn had even occurred. To the departments’ credit, even with the funding issues, they always managed to snag the best intelligence officers, and you mix them with the history buffs that were in the department, and you had all of the intelligence that you would need to “preserve” any event. Timothy Leare, a nobody from nowhere. Most of the “jobs,” that the T.T.P.D. carried out, had to do with a Mr. or Mrs. Nobody from nowhere, that’s how the agents viewed them, and that perception applied now, they were just people that either wanted to make a difference in the world and get recognition, or they were curious of the ramifications of creating a different future. Jericho began moving through the crowd as quickly as he could. Stanton was already at the foot of the stairwell, Leare didn’t seem to notice him though, Stanton blended in too well. “Waiting for your word boss,” Stanton whispered in Jericho’s ear. “The difference has a concealed 9mm, hollowed point bullets, and according to the reports shoots John Wilkes Booth on the stairwell, Booth will die on the seventh step. And Leare will disappear into the crowd.” Hugo reported.

10:18 P.M.

Jericho made it through the crowd, and was standing beside Stanton as John Wilkes Booth approached the stairwell. Booth didn’t seem to notice the two men near the stairwell or the strangely dressed man on the stairwell. Booth’s mind was too busy calculating his odds of survival for what he was about to do. “The Difference’s” blue eyes were scanning the crowd, his hand was behind his back probably clutching the 9mm, and sweat beaded on the area between his eyes, just above his nose. When he spotted John Wilkes Booth a nervous smile appeared on his face. “Evey, are you set up?” Jericho asked. “All set up, I’ll see you guys in a minute,” Evey replied. Jericho looked at Stanton, “Let’s do this buddy.”

“Booth,” Leare shouted through clenched teeth. It was only then that John Wilkes Booth noticed anyone in the stairwell. “Do I know you?” Booth asked nervously, suddenly suspicious his eyes began darting around, noticing Jericho and Stanton. “Timothy Leare,” Jericho said, “you old devil you. Don’t bother the talent.” Leare’s jaw dropped open. Stanton moved quickly, his age not factoring into his speed. He was standing beside “The Difference” in seconds. A flash of silver and the needle was buried in the back of Timothy Leare’s arm, there wasn’t time for a struggle, and the extraction was going smoothly. The sedative took immediate effect. “I’m sorry, but do I know you people?” Booth asked again. “Hell no, I doubt you know us,” Jericho said, using the best southern accent he could produce, “just fans is all, you making an appearance in the show?” Something flashed in John Wilkes Booths’ eyes at that moment. Jericho noticed it, he wondered if Stanton did as well. Booth didn’t say a word, his eyes unfocused, slowly they came back into focus, studying Jericho’s face, “Not in the show,” he finally said extending his hand to Jericho, “but thanks for the support. Stick around, the show is about to get really good brother.” Jericho shook the assassin’s hand, Booth’s hands were clammy and cold. Jericho looked at Stanton, who was holding Leare up, the sedatives doing what they were supposed to. “Sorry if my friend startled you,” Jericho continued, “He’s been drinking pretty heavily tonight.” “No worries, excuse me.” Booth pushed past the three men and walked up the steps. Jericho helped Stanton support Leare’s weight as they began moving through the crowd, making their way to the front entrance. The sedatives would keep the big man unconscious until they could put a Halo on him and get him back to headquarters.

10:21 P.M.

The three men stepped out into the cool night air, Jericho inhaled a lungful of the freshness. The sound of the gunshot was muffled by the sounds of the bustling city, but the screaming and shouting from inside the theater was loud and clear. “SIC SEMPER TYRANNIS!” a loud voice screamed a voice that easily rose above all of the other shouting and screaming. THUS ALWAYS TO TYRANTS, the Virginia state motto. Jericho knew that it was Booth’s voice. President Lincoln’s assassination happened just as it should have. Sadly, a job well done by the agents, “we’re in the business of death,” Stanton said, he was looking at Jericho a sad expression on his face. You couldn’t help but feel bad for letting things like this happen; this job was not for the weak of heart. They made their way to the hotel room, Leare was still heavily sedated and Jericho was beginning to notice his weight.

The hotel was nothing spectacular, a little shack really, but it was one of their burn sites. Stanton and Jericho finally approached room 14 and Jericho reached out and knocked. Evey opened the door quickly and helped haul Leare in. Hugo was already there, earphones in, listening to music on his iPod. “Hugo,” Stanton yelled, “You’re not supposed to have that on you, what if you lost it?” Hugo shrugged, as he pulled out his small Halo Transponder, he put a Halo Bracelet into a small compartment at the base of the Transponder and pushed a few more buttons. The Transponder made a sound and the Halo Bracelet came out of the Transponder, Hugo smiled, put the bracelet over Leare’s “And we’re ready to go,” Hugo finished. He tucked the Transponder into his pocket and smiled at Evey. The room was nothing spectacular, a bed, a dresser, and a small lantern. It was dark, smelled like rotting wood; the worst part about this particular site though, was the aftermath of the assassination. Jericho could hear the screaming and crying out in the street. The hotel was adjacent to the theater. He was sure that if he cracked the door he would see Lincoln’s body being carried across the street, still alive, but only for another day. In the end, he would succumb to his injuries, and his name and face would be etched into the American psyche for all time. If they had allowed Leare to stop Booth, what would the future have been like? Benjamin Jericho shook the thoughts away as he began to feel the familiar burn in the back of his neck. His chip was coming online. This was the worst part, he always felt nauseous after burning. The room began to blur, and it appeared to be collapsing in on itself. Jericho looked up at the ceiling and could see himself standing looking down at himself. Relativity had it right; the only way to travel was to fold the universe in on itself. There was a bright flash, and the burning in his neck stopped. Jericho opened his eyes and he was standing at the station. Artificial lights, tile floors, and a window looking in on the burn room where busy technicians were running around like crazed insects to determine if the team made it back in one piece, or if the team had accidentally changed anything in the past and would have to go back to correct that mistake.

Quite unexpectedly Jericho’s neck began to burn again, the room became a blur and he couldn’t support his own weight anymore, he slowly turned his head up in time to see himself looking at himself. “I’m burning again?” He thought. But it was too late, he was unconscious.