“All right, privates — listen up and listen closely. You’re about to embark on the most vital and perilous mission known to Man. The most dangerous in this unit’s history, at least.

You’re going to travel back in time and save the books! Any questions?”

Harriet’s hand shot up. Of course.

“Lieutenant, sir!” she piped, eager as ever. (There’s always that one in the class, isn’t there? Except this wasn’t a class — not really.)

The lieutenant pressed on, ignoring poor little Harri.

“Moving on. You have your mission briefs in the white envelopes in front of you.”

I shifted my hand, interrupting my doodling. I’d already started sketching an NSFW cartoon on my envelope — the speech bubbles in Ancient Greek right under the big, bold, ominous M.E.M.O.R.Y. top and center, our unit’s name.

“What you got there?” Ernesto whispered earnestly, nodding in the direction of my doodle. Ernesto was from Venezuela. Chances were, they’d send him back into sixteenth century Mexico — Yucatán, that is — most likely.

I tilted it so he could see. The bubble read, “Take off your tunic, woman, hurry to the sweet deeds.” It floated above a hastily sketched, but graphic doodle probably best left to the imagination. Not my best work.

Ernesto just shook his head, barely suppressing a snort. He didn’t read Greek. He was fluent in Spanish (naturally), Latin (required for all of us, for obvious reasons), and Yucatec Maya (his specialty).

“Gutiérrez and Ryan. Sure enough. Care to share?” the Lieutenant asked, towering above us, holding out his hand. Caught charcoal-handed, I sullenly obliged.

The lieutenant pursed his lips to the point of them disappearing and pulled out the papers from inside, slammed them down on my desk with added emphasis.

I noticed a few of my comrades — Harri too — enjoying a laugh at my expense. (Fair is fair.)

“Very clever,” ground the lieutenant, eyeing the cartoon. “Your Koine Greek is on point. Your artistic proclivities perhaps less so. See to your papers.”

I suppose there was no point in delayed gratification. I rifled through the handout; everyone else did, now that the lieutenant had had enough of my tomfoolery.

Again, the big, bold, ominous M.E.M.O.R.Y. stamped top and center — but with more real estate, it was neatly spelled out:

 

Ministry for the Emergency Management of Obstructed Recorded Yesterdays

Below, in neatly typed letters and numerals, the details.

(CENTER-ALIGNED, smaller font than M.E.M.O.R.Y. but still larger than the rest)

 

MISSION ASHFALL

 

(LEFT-ALIGNED) Rewind period: AD 392

(LEFT ALIGNED) Deployment zone: Alexandria, Egypt, Roman Empire

(LEFT-ALIGNED) Mission target: Interfere with Bishop Theophilus’ plans to destroy the Serapeum of Alexandria and prevent the destruction of what’s left of the books from the Great Library of Alexandria.

I was bummed. Thought they’d rewind me all the way to the fire that destroyed the library proper some three hundred years earlier — not to meddle with a besotted Christian bishop and his posse. I had been looking forward to catching a glimpse of Caesar on a mission. One of my personal MVPs, and the reason I was signing up for this unit in the first place. Oh, well.

“Is there a problem, private Ryan?” the lieutenant, hovering above me, asked.

“No, sir.” I shook my head and read on.

(LEFT-ALIGNED) Mission specifications: Avoid lethal force at all costs. Reminder: Field agents must prevent conflict with the first law of time travel… (That would be not altering the temporal pathways by removing any humans.)… Use your digicorder to scan and record as many manuscripts as possible for present-time safekeeping.

(LEFT-ALIGNED) Mission loadout: Solar-powered digicorder, UT not permitted (prototype of Universal Translator currently not fit for high-stakes, tactical encounters in rewinded time)

(LEFT-ALIGNED) Period-specific reminders:

(ALL LEFT-ALIGNED)

I. Do not shave three (3) weeks prior assignment. Greeks like their beards.

II. Use discretion when handling the digicorder.

III. When not in use, keep digicorder C-O-N-C-E-A-L-E-D.

IV. Do not fraternize with Theophilus’ clergy. Previous attempts have proven they are not amenable to reason.

V. Local cuisine may differ radically. Agent caution advised. Pack antacids.

VI. Do not engage in philosophical discourse. It has been designated unsafe at any epoch.

VII. Dress appropriately for both climate and social mores. Modesty recommended.

VIII. Handle open fire with extreme caution and avoid entirely when handling precious scrolls and books. This is precisely the type of occurrence our unit was created to correct. Please do not cause it.

“Psst.” My eyes shot up and saw Harri making signs to catch my attention, mouthing the question: “Where?”

I mouthed back: “Egypt. And you?”

“France,” she shrugged, nonplussed, then mouthed: “Louis IX. 1292. Talmud.” I shrugged back. Harriet spoke French, so it figured. For a split second I wondered whether sending a woman — sure, a fully-fledged M.E.M.O.R.Y. agent, but still — back to the late 13th century was a good idea.

“Recruits, remember. This mission is of capital importance to present-day and future humanity. We’ve run out of novel material to feed our AI models, so your mission is critical: you’ll be retrieving knowledge that no longer exists in the present,” announced the lieutenant gravely.

Yes, we were hopping through time in search of books for a present-day AI. Not entirely sane, but necessary. But history demanded we do our duty to fill the blanks (the Employer footing the bill required no less).

Beyond that, we all sincerely believed the lieutenant. I’d grown up in a household with a mother who was a history teacher; both my parents were history buffs. My passion burned bright for the gaps in knowledge carved by the passage of time — or man’s stubborn idiocy.

Also, the AI hallucinations have been quite bad for quite some time. Fresh copy was needed.

“Save the books!” shouted the lieutenant, boot heels clicking, saluting.

“Save the books!” we saluted back as one, jolting upright to the screeching of chair and table, the brunt of the importance of our mission now sitting squarely on our shoulders.

It was not nothing. But something I was prepared to leave my skin behind for.

….