Bip bi bip BEEP BEEP Bip bi bip BEEP BEEP-

Ah! It's about time they called. I waited all day yesterday, keeping the Relic close by the whole time. I even brought it along when we took Robert to see his grandparents yesterday afternoon. We didn't get back into town till late. Bloody London Bridge traffic.

The Relic sits just within arm's reach, on the kitchen counter. I reach over, and push the button on the side. It pops open, revealing the keypad. I love that. It makes me feel a little like a spy about to receive a secret assignment from MI6.

"Hello?" K's voice crackles through once I press the answer button.

"It's Deacon," I murmur playfully. "John Deacon." I'm in a wonderful mood this morning.

The one called Tim sounds just as irascible as ever. "Is Julia nearby?"

I hesitate. "Uh... why?"

"Is it those funny people again?" Veronica asks, sitting at the table with her tea.

"The same," I reply. "Be right back."

Once I'm in my study, I snatch up the list of questions that I made out yesterday. These chaps have a lot of explaining to do.

"I heard a woman's voice," K cries, "was that her?"

"No, that was my wife," I reply.

"Yesterday her tracker came back online," Tim says. "She must be close!"

I dunno, probably, is what I think to myself, but over the phone I bluster, "That she is, guv. So near it would make your head swim."

"Then why do you still have this phone? Get it back to her!"

"Hold on a moment," I say. "Not so fast. First I want answers."

"Answers?"

"I know where she is, and you do not. And we only have a minute or so before we cut out, so we need to make this time count!"

"It's none of your concern-"

"It is if I say it is."

I never expected something as weak as that to have any real effect- but much to my surprise, K buckles. "All right, all right! What do you want to know?"

That was easy.

"Who are you people? Who is Julia? Why did you send her down here?"

"Let me answer that, Steve, you talk too much," Tim steps in. "Now, then, Mr. Deacon. You want to know about Julia?"

"First tell me who you are- and please be honest. Are you spies or something?"

"Actually, yes," Tim sighs. "We're a new secret anti-Communism program that EMI and the BBC started up in order to protect, um- Western music from subliminal Marxist messages- and we've had reports that you guys, Queen, are spreading Soviet propaganda."

"What?" I begin to laugh. "Soviet propaganda? What kind of-"

"It's no laughing matter," Tim interrupts. K tries to cut in but he is rebuffed. "There's been talk that your own 'Bohemian Rhapsody' is actually a modern communist manifesto."

I'm roaring now. This is too much. "What decade are you living in? The fifties?"

But this is Tim's story and he's sticking to it. "Laugh if you want, all you're doing is making it worse for yourself."

"And Julia is your woman in the field, Mr. McCarthy?"

"She sure is! You've seen her with her journal, haven't you? Taking notes, observing you in your natural habitat?"

There, though, the evidence sticks a little. Julia does have a journal, and all the time she was with us on Thursday, she was writing in it, and holding up some black thing, almost like a portable voice recorder, perhaps, or one of those ridiculously small cameras from the Bond films.

Still, I laugh it off. "Well, if that's why she's here, I'll wager she's been greatly disappointed, I don't think there's anything Soviet about the songs she's heard from us."

"Well, what's she heard?"

"Oh, God, I dunno. A little jazz song, and we did some of Roger's 'Fight From the Inside'-"

"AH-HA! Bingo! That has U.S.S.R. written all over it."

Roger the Communist. Uh, no. "Um, I think you're a little too excited, we're not Russian tools-"

"Oh, please, it's always the Russians," Tim snarls. "Everyone knows that. The election, the chemical attack, the emails-"

Chemical attack? "Wha-?"

"Jesus, this is so stupid." K's clearly had just about enough. Weary truth resounds in his halting voice. "Look, John, it's like this. Brace yourself. We are scientists, and this was a first test of our-"

"STEVE!"

"Oh, shut up, Tim! She's been gone too long and we need her back! Her family will start asking questions, and then we'll be discovered, and the media will go wild! No- the WORLD will go wild! Literally! And that's exactly what George told us not to do!"

"What are you on about?" I try to interject.

"Besides," K keeps ranting, "he won't remember, he's so far into the past he'll forget. Forty years, it'll be! There's not a chance in-"

"Forty years?" For some reason, there's a twinge in my stomach.

"Yes, forty years, Julia was supposed to go back and meet someone else but she flubbed it- and she wound up with you guys. I can't explain it, maybe T-Rod's got a glitch in the system, but she's there and we need to bring her back!"

"Forty years?" I repeat. Now my head hurts, too.

"That's where she's from, Mr. Deacon," K says breathlessly. "Forty years from where you are now."

"Your first story was better," I say. But I can't shake the twinge. There's something wrong here. Something very, very wrong. "But whoever you are, this Relic- it's Julia's way home, right?"

"Partly. The tracker and the- what did you call the phone?"

"The Relic. Julia calls it that."

"You need t- ge- to her-"

Shit! They're cutting out. "Okay, I will, I will!"

"Soo- -s possib-!"

"Straight away! But- oh! One more thing!"

"Wh-?"

"What was the thing about Vegas?"

"Veg- oh, jus- noth- married-"

"Marriage? Whose?"

"Eve-"

Click.

I stand there a moment and rub my eyes. My head feels like putty. Forty years? Scientists? Am I to understand that Julia is not an angel, like Freddie speculates, but a -time traveler?

So Julia, if those loons are to be believed, is from the future?

Too many science fiction books, John, I tell myself. Wake up, get a hold of yourself. Asimov's playing tricks on you.

Suddenly I want to believe their first barmy story about the Anti-Communist thing. At least that, I can sort of accept. For this is so far-fetched, so completely beyond comprehension. Time travel isn't possible! It's a dream, a dream of desperate men who spend their lives looking behind them, wishing they could have fixed that one little mistake they made somewhere along the way. But what happens, happens, and life goes on. Time travel can never be!

And yet- isn't that what they said to Edison when he spoke of harnessing electricity for practical use? And the Wright Brothers, when they schemed to take to the skies in a flying machine? And people across the ages, who fantasized about touching the stars, walking upon the moon, building computers that can do more than twice the work of Man in half the time- all ideas that once were considered pure imagination, pure science fiction, and dismissed as impossible- all ideas that now are mundane and commonplace.

In an age when we can split an atom and thereby lay waste to an entire city, is there such a thing anymore as impossible?

Wow. That was rather profound. Sometimes I surprise myself. Ha.

But I know one thing beyond a shadow of a doubt. Julia needs this back. And fast. I look at the Relic's monochrome screen, which shows the power level down to about half now. And there's nothing here that can recharge its battery. Once this thing dies, it dies.

I rub my face, walking out of the den. "What time is it, love?" I call to Veronica.

"About nine" is her reply.

"That means it's five in Tokyo. Good enough for me." I open the liquor cabinet and pull out my gin. I've got a splitting headache and I haven't even reached the studio yet.

"Banzai," I say to myself, and drain the glass. Hopefully the afternoon will be better than this morning. It couldn't possibly get any more perplexing.

Or could it?

In my infinite wisdom, I leave the Relic at home, partly because I assume Freddie won't be back just yet, partly because I don't want to bother the other boys with its tinny Wagner ringtone, but mostly because I simply forget to bring it along. One glass of gin actually became three, in rapid succession, and I'm feeling quite elevated once more. I hope no one notices.

The minute I walk in, I remember, because of who's already there, but it's too late to do anything about it. Brushing past Crystal, who's stepping out for a moment, I see Freddie's already waist-deep in work, and John Harris is sitting there alongside him to help when the bells and whistles of Wessex's equipment become too overwhelming. Freddie's no techie, but he tries.

"Oi! Freddie, you're back," I say.

He turns and looks at me, forcing a smile. "Hey, Deaks. What'd I miss?"

There's a funny look in his eyes- a subtle warning that I must step carefully. "Not much, really, just technical things- and we recorded that blues-type song of Brian's-"

"Yeah, I know, I was just listening to it," he says. "It's nice."

"Could you, uh," I say cautiously, "hear any flubs on the bass part?"

"Flubs?"

"Never mind." Splendid. If Freddie couldn't hear any of my mistakes, then no one would. John Harris gets up and leaves the room a moment, off to get some bit of tape or something, so it's just Freddie and myself.

He rises from his chair, walking toward me. "So," he murmurs softly. "You fixed the Relic, I suppose."

"Yeah!" I nod. "Nothing to it." I wonder, should I tell him I've been speaking to Julia's superiors? Or would that only make things more complicated?

"Do you have it?" he asks.

"No, I left it behind, I didn't think you'd be back already. Where'd you go?"

"Just ran an errand," he says briefly.

You call Vegas an errand? I think to myself. "Did you take Julia?"

Freddie's eyes widen, and too late I realize my slip of the tongue. "Who's Julia?"

"Uh..." I stand there like a moron, my throat dry. Well, so much for that.

He hesitates a moment, thinks to himself, then says, "Is that Eve's real name?"

"Well, yes, actually," I answer.

"How do you know?"

"The Relic. I got to talk to the people she, um..."

"Her Boss?"

"Sort of, maybe, I don't know, they're certainly above her, though."

He nods, his expression melting a little. "I suspected that might be her name. It was a tie between that and Penny. But she looks much more like a Julia. Her eyes, you know- and her lips..."

What do lips have to do with a name? But he's obviously not thinking about names. Odd, that he doesn't ask me who she is- who those people are. He's simply not curious. Maybe that's for the best; now doesn't seem like a good time to tell him that Julia is an alleged time traveler from the future- and I can't believe I just said that and meant it.

Freddie's drifting away, reflecting on something. Reflecting on her. My God, he is distracted by that girl. He's usually so much more focused than this, no matter what's happening in his private world.

I try to pull him back down to Earth. "So she didn't tell you? Her name, I mean."

"No. She didn't. What else is new." He sits back down, looking much more unhappy then perhaps he would have liked for me to notice.

"You all right?" I ask, expecting a non-answer- which is not what I get.

"I'm fine, I suppose. I just- the past twenty-four hours have not been the best." He speaks more to himself than to me, so for a moment I just stand there.

"How is the stray kitten, anyway?" I venture.

Freddie shrugs. "She's herself. She made me breakfast this mor-"

I don't notice the way he cuts himself off, and how much further his face falls. "What did she make?"

He looks down at his lap, then at the door, then back down. "I don't know."

Right, maybe I should let this go. I start for my bass guitar, which is sitting there waiting for me. I call over my shoulder, "It's good you're back, though, we missed you. Things were far too quiet around here the past few days-"

"She's so ready to get out of here, John," Freddie suddenly blurts.

I turn to see Freddie staring at me, looking altogether helpless. It's an odd air for him, I don't like it.

"That's only natural," I say with a shrug. "She's got a family too, very likely."

"She does," he nods, his voice almost bitter. "A nice friendly gingerbread family, complete with a gingerbread dog, and they all live together in their tight little gingerbread house."

There's a rustling outside the studio door. Freddie throws a furtive glance at it a moment, then when no one steps inside, he continues. "Thing is, she's not gingerbread."

I cock my head. "But her family is?"

"Eve- I mean, Julia doesn't know any different, because I mean- you long for what you're used to, and living with me- it's probably still terribly jarring, my manner of life, compared to hers, but- but it's not just that, you know, it's something else too."

He's begun to ramble. Now I'm really listening. Sarcastic quips aside, he trips pretty hard over his words when it means something. This must genuinely mean something.

"What?" I coax.

"She thinks she is gingerbread- or she wants to think she's gingerbread, OR she wants me to think that she thinks she is gingerbread, just like she wants me to think that she thinks that I think she's a noose around my neck."

I blink, a little dizzy. I've had too much to drink too early, and that was too many "thinks" at one time to keep up with. "I caught 'noose'."

Freddie huffs in frustration, rolling his eyes. "What's the use, she's so set in her mind."

"About what?"

"Everything. I know it's true. God, she's terrified. Even now, after our trip, after everything, she's so f---ing scared."

"Of what?" I pick up my bass and seat myself in the control room. It's here Freddie says something odd, that he doesn't get the chance to explain.

"Either the little minx I know is in her- or the absolute monster she sees in me."

I'm bent over my guitar, about to start tuning it. My thumb plucks the E string, and it sounds a little sharp. Taking the knob in my fingers, I start to loosen it, when I feel two eyes boring holes into the top of my head. I glance up to see Freddie looking directly at me. His face is blank, but there's something very serious going on behind his eyes.

Quietly, he says, "I'm not a monster, John. I'm really not. Why can't she accept that?"

I've been asked awkward questions before, but this leaves them all behind. Of course he isn't a monster, but how do you even say that and sound sincere- and say it to him? I open my mouth, about to answer if I even can, when the door flings open - and Freddie's disposition does a complete turnabout. I'm saved by Brian.

"There you are," Brian greets him. "We actually got a good head start on a few things- recorded a chief bit of 'Sleeping on the Sidewalk' on Saturday."

"I know, you darlings have been so productive," Freddie replies. "I'll try my best to catch up. Also, that other thing, kind of followed Sleeping-?"

"That's the 'Feelings Feelings'-"

"Oh, right, right, right! You mentioned that about a week ago, yes, that needs vocals, maybe a little more guitar in some places, we'll see if that song will take off. My God, Brian, you've just been on a blues tear lately, I love it. I want to get to 'Spread Your Wings' today, too. We can't let that slip through the cracks, it's too nice. Sound good to you, John?"

I nod, grinning. Seems to me like Freddie's already caught up and we haven't even done anything collectively yet today.

"Well, look who decided to make an appearance!" Roger coos, striding in as cockily as ever. "Where've you been, old man?"

"Had a little errand to run," Freddie says, sweeping his hand in a lofty circle. Now there's a sly grin spread across his face. The rather pleading, lonely expression has vanished. Yes, indeed, he's back in action.

"God, Freddie, you look like you know where the bodies are buried," Roger remarks.

"It's not where, darling," he says. "It's who."

Roger takes his drumsticks out of their pouch, snickering. John Harris comes back, muttering to himself, with two extra spools of tape in his hands, likely asking himself "Where the f--- is Mike?" Crystal also walks in and starts fiddling with Roger's drum set.

"But in all seriousness," Freddie hums, "I've got a rather rude surprise in store for you, perhaps you'd better sit down."

"What's that?"

"Sit down first! I won't have you fainting dead away on the floor."

So Roger plops down in the chair beside him, leans back, and puts his feet lazily up on the counter. "All right, I'm in position, let's have it."

Freddie claps his hands once. "Right! So, you know how adamant you were about how my little friend isn't married?"

Brian groans, "If you two are going to start that again-"

"It's so quick, darling, two seconds and I'm finished!" Freddie dismisses him.

"Yeah?" Roger nods. "Go on."

"Well, it would seem," Freddie croons, "that she actually does have the paperwork to prove it."

"And how'd you go abo-" Roger cuts himself off. "Hold on, do you mean to tell me you went all the way to-"

"We did!" Freddie replies. "There and back in one weekend. And we have it."

"The license?" Roger's brows shoot up. He obviously never counted on Freddie being so hardcore over something apparently so trivial. As for me, my suspicions are confirmed. They went to Vegas- but how'd they get a marriage license? Did they forge it? Or-

Or is there a secret within the secret? It's too dangerous to ask for certain. So I don't. But still, how would Julia's K know anything about that? Was that what she was supposed to do? Get Freddie to Las Vegas? Answer one question, two more stand in its place. Why do I bother. Freddie's a myriad of secrets all wrapped up in a single flesh and blood package, and Julia is just the same. And here I am, stuck in the middle, burdened with bits and pieces that are leaked to me and me only.

"The license!" Freddie repeats. "And I- oh, f---. Left it at home."

"Convenient," Roger sniggers, rising from the chair and putting his arms up for a stretch.

Freddie shrugs it off and gets up too. "I'll just have her bring it by. One moment." So Freddie slips out of the control room to reach the phone outside. The rest of us get going with work, tuning things, jamming quietly to ourselves. It's about ten minutes before Freddie reappears.

"So's Okoy going to pay a call on us?" Roger asks.

"No, she didn't answer. She's probably busy." Freddie's mouth twitches, and for a split second I can see that flash of guilt spark across his features. "Mary's bringing it over."

That's nice, I like Mary. We all do. Still, I'm growing rather fond of the stray kitten, and the slightest disappointment flares up in me. No matter. Mary's a sweet girl, even if things seem a little strained between her and Freddie lately. But that's none of my business.

About an hour and a half later, while we're working on Brian's "Feelings Feelings," the control room door opens and Mary steps in. All of us are in the studio proper, about to do our ninth take on the song.

"Take 9," Freddie announces. Mike starts the tapes, and Roger counts off. Away we go, this time with Mary watching. Freddie sees her and waves, and she waves back with a smile. She's got something like a book in her hands, but that's all I see, and I've dried out considerably since earlier so I'm concentrating almost exclusively upon the bass line now, closing my eyes and jerking my head back and forth to the beat.

When we finish, Mike stops the tapes from rolling. Freddie makes a few rather unintelligible comments about what could be fixed about this or that. Brian looks visibly confused as he talks. Freddie really is not the best at explaining things, the thoughts fly so quick in his head that his tongue can't get them out fast enough to sound intelligent. Often he relies on "ba-dum-dah-tssh's" for the drum critiques and either "nyah nyahs" or "blingablings" for tips about the guitars. But we know not to laugh. We know it well.

Then Freddie slips out of the studio into the control room, takes Mary's hands in his, and kisses her cheek. He leaves the door open so we can hear a bit of the conversation.

"...In there, I think," Mary says, pointing at the book. "She said it was."

"So J- Eve was there?" Freddie asks, confused.

"Yes, we had a nice visit," she replies.

"Hm," Freddie says.

"Anything else you need me to do?"

"Oh, no, dear, thank you."

"Then I'll see you tomorrow." She smiles.

"Ah yes! I will, it's going to be fun. Thank you again, darling, you're lovely," Freddie says, and kisses her lips this time, putting his arms around her. When he pulls away, Mary looks intently at his face, which I can't see since his back is turned toward the window. After a moment, she turns, head lowered, and walks out.

Freddie wastes no time. "So! Here it is, hot off the presses," he calls to us, marching back in. He opens the book and pulls out a folded piece of lined white paper that has handwriting all over it. Freddie's not looking to see, though, and hands it to Roger.

"Read it and weep," Freddie says triumphantly.

Roger turns the folded paper over in his hands. He wrinkles his nose. "Freddie, these are song lyrics."

"Huh?" Freddie looks and sees. "Oh, Roger, you silly ass, open it up! it's wrapped around!"

"Ohhh..." Roger opens the folded paper up, handing the "Melancholy Blues" lyrics to Freddie, and there it is. After a few minutes of Roger reading silently to himself, he puts his hands up in concession.

"All right, man, you win," Roger laughs. "The bet's off. It's official. Your little girlie is free. Was it worth it?"

"Every mile, every penny," Freddie winks, then looks down at the lyrics, idly turning them over. "If you had just believed us the first..." He trails off.

"Witnesses: Steven J. Kurzweil, and Rudolph C. Barnes," Roger reads aloud, then muses to himself, "Who's Steven?"

A light goes off in my brain, and suddenly everything fits together. Steve, also known as "K", who knew about the Vegas trip, and knew Eve Dubroc by name. They are the same person. My blood goes cold. Forty years ago, he said that one time. Forty years ago, he had been present at the wedding. He was a witness forty years ago, but this had only happened last weekend!

My stomach churns, and the world suddenly becomes much more alien than it was this morning. I believe it now. It's still such a mystery, then hows and the whys, but I believe it. And my friend needs to know just who is living with him.

I look at Freddie, but he doesn't look back. He's still staring at the paper in his hands. His face is pale, his eyes wide with shock. His jaw clenches. Very slowly I see his lips move, forming three words.

That... little... bitch...

I gulp. What's he reading? Does he already know?

Slowly, then, he looks up, crushing the paper in his fists and throwing it down. His eyes, burning fiercely, drift to the book itself, which is sitting on the piano. Freddie glides towards it and flips it open, the pages naturally falling to the last line written. Brian's chatting quietly with Roger by the drums, Mike's talking to the sound guys in the recording booth. All of a sudden-

BROONG BROONG BROONG BROOOOOOOOONG!!!

Freddie slams his fists down incoherently onto the keys. Everyone looks up, startled. We stare at Freddie's arched back, his shoulders moving up and down heavily with his breathing.

Slowly, then, he lifts his head, and turns, the blood now flushing his cheeks. His jaw is still set, and his fists clenched, but his eyes are flat, the way they are on stage. For some reason, my thoughts float to Julia. What did he just read?

"Sorry, darlings," he murmurs. "Let's get back to it. Let's do another take, shall we?"

Take 10 is much better than the one before it, but Freddie sounds rougher, a little distracted, and angry. The journal sits open on the piano, which he casually flips to the first page. By the end of the day, he will have finished the whole thing.

And as busy as we become, I still think of Julia, keeping her in the back of my mind. I stand here on the sidelines, biting my nails, involuntarily caught up. My hands are tied, I can't involve myself unless they drag me into it- and something tells me I will be. I know what that look said. I know what it means.

It means, Man the lifeboats, Julia.