I’m hauled past the table and down a corridor lined with cells. The barred chambers are occupied by a variety of morose-looking individuals. Some are sleeping, a few are pacing their cells, and several are hanging on the bars slinging what I assume to be curses at the guards. The curses are in a colorful variety of languages from Chinese to Spanish, to strange tongues I’ve never heard involving clicking. I spot Adolf Hitler with a sour expression on his face, sharing a cell with an Asian man I vaguely recognize from my history studies. I’m ninety percent certain he’s Pol Pot, but the lighting isn’t the best.
The guards stop at the gate of a cell occupied by a single man lounging on a cot. He’s dressed in an elaborate black coat trimmed with red. His narrow face and sunken eyes follow my movements as I’m shoved into the cell. The bars clunk solidly behind me as the guards lock me in. They retreat without a word and disappear back down the corridor.
“Hey,” I manage, addressing my new cellmate. His mustache twitches slightly but he doesn’t get off the cot. I look around the dingy cell, finding nothing remotely pleasant about it, then turn back to the door.
I need to get out of here.
Despite having been a captive for over a day, I still have a fair amount of my possessions left. My sunglasses are still in my jacket pocket, as well as the broken chronometer. I wish I still had my phone or pocketknife, but those were a no-brainer for getting confiscated. My pen was also stolen, but I guess that’s to be expected too. I pull the sunglasses out again, however, and power them on. Perhaps there is a lock picking tutorial somewhere in the menu of apps? I’m cycling through the index when I hear the voice.
“Benjamin? Is that you?”
I lift the glasses from my face and look around. “Hello?”
“Ben! Over here!”
I locate the face behind the bars the same moment my mind registers the voice. It’s coming from a cell across the hallway and a couple doors down. “Abe? Oh man! It’s good to see you! Are you okay?”
Abraham Manembo is about the last person I’d expected to find down here, but if there is any time for a friendly face, now seems like a good one.
“I’m okay,” Abraham replies, pressing himself up against the bars to see me better. “Where’s Mym?”
I glance down the corridor, noting several faces at the bars listening in.
“You don’t have to worry too much about them,” Abraham says. “At least most of them. Only a few know English. Be careful of the one behind you though. He has a mean streak.”
I glance behind me to the cot and my reclining cellmate. He has his arms behind his head but is watching me with curiosity.
“Who is he?” I ask. “Anyone I need to worry about?”
“That’s Vlad III,” Abraham says. “Or Vlad Dracula as some called him.”
“Vlad the Impaler?” I ask. “Holy shit.” I turn and look again, mostly to make sure the man is not currently in the act of murdering me from behind. “Just how many of these creeps have they got in this place?”
“The numbers seem to be dwindling today,” Abraham says, “now that the festivities have started.”
“They’re a bunch of loons with this,” I say. “An arena full of the worst people in history? With time travelers as spectators? I can’t help but assume they didn’t think this one through all the way.”
“ASCOTT would be most displeased with tourists making this kind of excursion,” Abraham says.
“I doubt many of these tourists will be seeing the Central Streams again,” I say. I recall what Carson had said about the Gladiator’s previous line of work—kidnapping and abandoning time travel tourists. It seems he’s gone right back to it after his escape.
“How did they get you?” Abraham asks.
I give him the abbreviated version and fill him in about Piper.
“You mean they have her up there right now?” Abraham asks.
“Until I can get her back. You have any ideas on getting out of here?”
“None that I haven’t tried already.”
Abraham’s features are hard to make out in the dim light. From what I can tell, he looks exhausted, possibly bruised as well. My fingers find the chronometer in my pocket. “Did they make you tell them about the warp clock? Did they hurt you?”
“Only as much as can be expected,” Abraham says. “I didn’t have much choice. Once they got the device, I knew it was only a matter of time till they’d figure it out. It would have been worse if they had broken it in their attempts. As it is now, there’s still a chance we could salvage this. We just need to get it back.”
“Any idea where they’re keeping it?”
“No. Not anymore. I doubt it’s here. They have someone higher up. Someone directing their efforts.”
“I heard the name,” I say. “They called him TRIK. Sounds like whoever he is, he’s the one who sprung them from Rookwood Penitentiary. You haven’t seen him?”
“Not that I know of,” Abraham replies. “You don’t see much from a prison cell.”
“If we do somehow get our hands on the warp clock, how do we get it back on?” I ask.
Abraham grips the bars. “It’s not difficult. With the training you’ve had working on chronometers, I’m confident you could operate it, but until we find it, we won’t be getting any help. The chronometers our people have will only work in limited capacities. Even Harry would have trouble getting from time to time now. I wouldn’t expect a rescue.”
“Wait, you mean there’s still a way for chronometers to function? I thought the warp clock totally disabled them.”
“It has disabled their temporal tuning,” Abraham explains. “It’s impossible to jump from timestream to timestream. The frequencies won’t modulate properly. But there would still be some limited functions in a timestream you already occupy.”
“Like what kinds of functions?” I ask, my mind starting to race with possibilities.
“I’ll be sure to give you a lesson in temporal frequency modulation if we ever get out of here, but right now I’m afraid the discussion wouldn’t be very relevant.”
“Might be more relevant than you think,” I say. I pull the chronometer from my pocket and flash it at him before hiding it away again.
Abraham straightens up. “You have one?” He lowers his voice a little. “Here? That’s incredible!”
“They seemed to think they’re just dead weight now,” I reply. “The cons that had them are just throwing them away.”
“That may work in our favor,” Abraham says.
Someone shouts something from down the corridor. They sound mad. They try again in broken English. “American. Shut up!”
I ignore them and focus on Abe. “How do I get it to work?”
“It’s going to be difficult,” Abe says. “You’ll have to get it open and detach the power supply. Once you set the time interval you want on the face and reattach the power supply, you’ll have a set increment to jump. You can travel forward or backward but only in this stream. Problem is, you won’t be able to change the time increment without taking it back apart again. The settings dials won’t work like normal.”
“So what do you pick for an interval?” I ask.
“Hard to say. Any idea how much power it has left?”
I shake my head. “No idea.”
“Better stick to something short then. You won’t get far around here anyway. It’s a long way from anywhere, at least temporally speaking. There won’t be an easy escape by chronometer.”
“I’ll figure out a way,” I say. “I have to. Piper is counting on me.” I take the chronometer from my pocket and study the small screws of the backplate. I don’t have any way to get them out right now. “I’ll get us all out of here,” I say.
“You don’t worry about me,” Abraham says. “It will be hard enough sneaking away with two, let alone three. You get that little girl away from this place, and find a way to call for help. When you get the warp clock back, you can bring the cavalry down on this place and c
ome back for me.”
“You can’t expect me to leave you here,” I say.
“This is time travel we’re dealing with, Ben. You won’t leave me for long. You can find a way back in time to help me.”
“Assuming I can get out of this cell.”
Abraham looks as though he’s going to speak, but then his eyes flit down the corridor. He puts a finger to his lips.
A few moments later, I hear what he’s worried about. The guards are back.
“Looks like you get to skip the line,” one of the guards says as he reaches my cell. I guess he does know English. “Back up,” he adds, shooing me away from the bars. “The boss must be excited to see your match-up. Bumped the whole afternoon agenda.”
“Match-up?” I say. “What are you talking about?” He gets the gate open. The other guard marches in and pulls me from the cell.
“Everyone gets a match-up sooner or later. It’s your turn. You’re headed into the arena.”
16
“Throughout time, no matter the century, people believe they are the pinnacle of historical knowledge and modern science. None are. As a man of science myself it’s a humbling reminder that every truth I hold may one day be proven wrong.” -Journal of Dr. Harold Quickly, 1615
“You get to choose a weapon.”
The guards have guided me to the armory under close supervision. Two bulky men in armor have joined us in the room, and a moment later Vanessa walks in.
“I can handle this one, boys. I’ll see that he gets sorted out.”
The two burly guards share a glance, but when Vanessa continues to stare them down, they exit.
“You have something to do with this?” I ask. “Why I’m getting tossed into the arena?”
“You have yourself to blame for that. You shouldn’t have upset Franco. He was planning to let you live. None of us wanted to kill you. Except maybe Jorge. Now that’s going to be more difficult.”
“You could still let me out of here. I know you don’t want me dead. You could have taken me out on top of that train but you didn’t.”
Vanessa narrows her eyes. “I had my reasons. You think I’m the sort of person who shoots a man right in front of his daughter?”
“Apparently not. But what good is saving me if you let me die now? Help me again.”
“I’m trying,” Vanessa hisses. “But there’s no letting you go. That little girl is in trouble now, and you’re the only chance she’s got.”
“What are they doing with her?”
Vanessa tilts her head toward a grated window that’s admitting dusty light and the sounds of the crowd high above us. “She’ll be out there too.”
“What? You’ve got to be kidding me!” I say. “With the tyrants and killers greatest hits collection?” I move to the table of weapons and angrily sort through options. “It’s psychopath city around here.” I inspect the rusty armor and dented helmets. There are some bows and quivers of arrows and a few swords. Vanessa adjusts her grip on her rifle as I pick up a dinged blade.
“You’re going to have to be smart out there. Franco will have some game in mind. He likes a story to his events. If you’re lucky, you’ll be playing the role of a hero. I tried to talk him into that. Some of the people in the audience might recognize you and see you that way.”
“I might be playing a hero? That’s how you plan to save Piper?”
“I have limited influence here. This is Franco’s world. I’m doing what I can.”
“You’re a real saint,” I say.
“You want to be dead? That’s fine. I can let you figure this out on your own.” Vanessa spins on her heel and makes for the door again.
“No! Wait.” I hold up a hand. “I do need help. I’m sorry.”
Vanessa turns around slowly.
“I need to know what I’m up against, and how to get Piper back.”
“Listen, that little girl is the only reason I’m down here. That and because . . .”
“Because what?”
“It’s nothing. Look, whacking tyrants from history is one thing—Hitler and the rest of this bunch would have had me dead in short order in their time, so I’m not going to shed tears there—but orphaning little girls is something else entirely,” Vanessa says. “I know she isn’t even really your kid, so if I help keep you alive, you’d better do right by her. I’m risking my neck for this.”
“I intend to get her home safely if I can,” I reply. “As soon as I find her real dad.”
Vanessa looks away quickly.
“What?” I ask. “You know what happens to him? Do you know if he’s alive?” I don’t ask the follow-up question. Whether she knows which version of me has been shot.
She looks back at the table. “Listen, I think you might be up against animals. I heard roaring in the pens this morning.”
“Roaring? Shit.” I pick up the bow and search around for the arrows.
“Take the spear. Everyone with a bow has been dying today. Unless you think you’re Robin Hood.”
“Is he here somewhere? Can I get him on my team?”
Vanessa rolls her eyes. “Just pick two items, okay? You only get to have two.”
I look at the table of weapons and realize I’m not especially adept at any of them. “I need a screwdriver.”
“What?” Vanessa says.
“A screwdriver. A small one. Has to be a number one tip or smaller. Preferably the kind you might use on eyeglasses.”
“That’s not a weapon. Take the shield and the spear. That’s your best bet.”
Footsteps sound in the hall. The guards are coming back.
“Screwdriver. That’s what I want.” I cross my arms.
Vanessa glares at me and puts a hand to her hip. “You’re being an idiot. Come on and hurry up. They want you up there.” She casts a quick glance toward the doorway, but then she reaches into the pocket of her trousers and extracts a stainless steel multi-tool. She tosses it to me. “You happy now?”
The multi-tool has several screwdriver options.
I knew a pilot would have tools. I slide over to the weapons table as the guards appear in the doorway. I grab the dented circular shield and a wood-handled spear. The shield looks like someone jumped up and down on it, but it feels solid.
The guards aim their rifles at me.
“Selection time’s up. Get a move on,” one of the men says.
As I move past Vanessa, she grips my arm and whispers though tight lips. “1958. It’s an option on the time gate. If you survive the arena, she’ll be safer there.”
I nod to her, then make my way back into the corridor.
The guards usher me onward.
The straps on the shield are frayed and worn and it takes me a few attempts to get it fitted over my forearm. It’s heavy. The spear is likewise heavy but at least it seems well balanced.
I’m guided to a metal gate that leads to a ramp. The steady incline ends with a second gate at the upper end. One of the guards gestures with the barrel of his gun. “Go stand up there. When the gate opens, you fight.” He doesn’t bother with any additional instructions, but merely slams the door, locking it behind me and trapping me in the ramped corridor. I have no choice but to walk up to the exit.
Fight. I feel like I’ve received a death sentence.
I reach the crack in the gate and attempt to peer through. I can’t see much, just a stretch of sand, then a barricade of some kind. Where is Piper?
Vanessa’s words come back to me. Roaring.
I take a step back from the gate. No use getting eaten instantly.
I set the spear against the wall, pull my newly acquired multi-tool from my pocket and flip out the screwdriver attachments. It has pliers and a knife as well, which may come in handy. I palm the tool in the same hand I’m using for the shield, then dig around in my pocket for the chronometer.
Someone is speaking outside. A loudspeaker. It’s muffled by the door but I make out a few words. Dangerous. Heroic. Heartbreak. Then a sympathetic �
��Awww” sound coming from the crowd. They must think this is a show. All some kind of act. Who in their right mind would come to see real people getting mauled or killed in an arena?
I get the chronometer into my shield hand and have just started unscrewing the grounding plate screws when the gate groans. I take a step back as someone lifts a locking pin from the top of the doors. They are swung open via ropes and sunlight streams into my corridor.
“. . . but will he find and save her before she is discovered?”
I catch the last snippet of someone’s voice as I pocket the chronometer.
“Let’s hear it for our heroic warrior from the far reaches of time, Benjamin Travers!”
The crowd erupts into applause. I put away the multi-tool and pick up my spear, then cautiously take a step forward.
This doesn’t look good.
The arena has changed since I last saw it. Instead of an open oval like a racetrack, someone has dragged various barriers and barricades out. It reminds me of a paintball course. There are stacks of logs and bales of hay. An electric bulldozer is parked in the corner, a leftover from the rearranging. Franco is clearly not a purist with his recreations. There’s no sign of Piper.
“Get to the middle!” someone from the stands shouts. I look up to find several people in the crowd pointing and encouraging me onward. I take a few steps in that direction.
“Hurry up!” someone shouts.
I break into a cautious jog. Are they really trying to help, or are they going to get me killed? Not sure arena death matches are a time for polling the audience. But what choice do I have?
I stay within shouting distance of the wall and call up to the crowd. “Where is she?”
“That way!” a woman shouts. She points toward the center.
In Times Like These Boxed Set Page 174
