Into the Dim by Janet B. Taylor

Then looking down, her gaze gone soft and sweet as she held a newborn lamb in her arms.
    Either she liked to look at herself—a
lot
—or whoever ran this operation had a major thing for her. When I touched the mouse, her image faded to reveal an Excel spreadsheet with thousands of numerical notations.
    A piece of paper was taped to the edge of a shelf just above the desktop. Handwritten on it were the words
“The universe is big. It’s vast and complicated and ridiculous. And sometimes—very rarely—impossible things just happen and we call them miracles.”
The Doctor.
    Doctor? My gaze flicked to the picture beside it that showed a plain-faced, floppy-haired guy sporting a bow tie. He didn’t look like any doctor I’d ever heard of.
    Shrugging, I checked out the other taped-up printouts. Pictures of Einstein. Steven Hawking. Isaac Newton. Leonardo da Vinci. In the center hung a large glossy photo of a young Nikola Tesla.
    Alongside the wall monitor was a large rectangular black board. On it, digital lines of yellow text flipped by so fast, even I barely had time to commit them to memory.
    Â 
Antwerp 111713.21
    Istanbul 041099.12
    Brighton 071817.07
    Vienna 111938.18
    Boston 011788.06
    Â 
    I studied the strange panel for a long moment. I’d seen one for the first time only two days before.
    â€œAn airport arrival and departure board?” I whispered, frowning as the letters unscrambled and replaced themselves with astounding speed. “Why? What is it tracking?”
    Some of the lines changed more slowly than others. One, near the bottom, reappeared again and again.
    Â 
London 121154.04
    Â 
    A bundled series of color-coded wires ran along the wall. On this end, they spread out, terminating at the backs of the powerful computers. The other ends disappeared through a small hole in the bricks, near the door.
    I stepped toward the row of tall cabinets. A series of black cords emerged from the side, plugged into several wall sockets behind them. As I cupped my hands to peer through one of the frosted glass doors, I felt a hum, then a click and hiss as pressure from my hands caused a magnetic latch to release. The door swung open.
    What. The. Frick?
    Going down the row, I pushed on each door, until they all gaped open. Until I could see that inside each and every one hung a variation of the same thing.
    Costumes. Very expensive, very authentic costumes. Organized by era and size, each lot labeled with three-by-five cards pinned to one sleeve.
    Â 
LATE EIGHTEENTH. FR. COURT GOWN. W-SZ 6
    300 B.C. SENATORIAL CLASS MATRON. W-SZ 14
    EARLY TUDOR. MERCHANT CLASS. M-SZ 40L
    Â 
    Pull-out bins of matching hats and shoes lay beneath each set, along with stacks of coins from the corresponding era.
    There must be hundreds of thousands of dollars worth of stuff here,
I marveled as I thumbed a pile of ancient gold coins.
    My fingertips traced the ivory lace of a frothy gown more ruffles than dress. A cowgirl getup with red leather boots. A scratchy wool cape trimmed in white fur. A starched white apron covering a severe black dress labeled LATE SEVENTEENTH. AMERICAN QUAKER. W-SZ 12 .
    The last cabinet held shelves of wigs secured to dummies’ heads, the hair colors ranging from ebony to auburn to a silvery blond, their strands bundled in neat mesh nets.
    I nipped at a ragged cuticle until I tasted blood.
Okay. Costumes. Hidden staircases. Underground computers.
    The puzzle pieces rattled around in my head. No matter which way I turned them, nothing would click into place.
    Cursing under my breath, I started shutting cabinets, hiding the evidence of my snooping. Just as the last one closed, a vibration pulsed up from the floor beneath my feet. It rolled up through my body.
    Earthquake? Here? Oh God. Gotta get out. Gotta run. Move!
    I couldn’t. My body froze up as the files in my mind whipped through everything I’d ever read about earthquakes in the British Isles.
    Uncommon.