by Mark J Rose
Matt knew Ferguson was trying to set a grappling hold, so he twisted hard, knowing that once the hold was set, it was fatal. Matt caught a blur of movement out of the corner of his eye and then heard a thud. Ferguson collapsed on the ground beside him. In a panic, Matt thrust his arm out and rolled. He struggled to take his feet and back away. His vision was sparking from the punches, and he squinted. Nathan Trent stood in front of him with a leather-covered club while Scarlett Palmer pointed a flintlock pistol at Matt’s face. “What’s this?” Matt shouted. He reached to feel the slash in his side. His shirt was sticky with blood.
“Go!” Trent commanded. He pointed the club toward the open double door. “Now.”
“Why?” Matt said looking down at Ferguson.
“We’ve been manipulated,” Trent said. “Go before he wakes.”
Matt then turned his face to Scarlett. “And you?”
Scarlett flicked the pistol twice toward the door coaxing Matt to go. “Noble deeds, Mr. Miller.”
“Go!” Trent repeated.
Matt grabbed his jacket from the floor, limped to the double doors on his twisted knee, hurried through the warehouse, pushed the front doors open, and walked out into the London dawn.
Chapter 66
Picador
It was 7:30 AM, by Matt’s watch, when he limped from Ferguson’s warehouse. The morning had burned the dew from the cobblestone, and it was already too warm for an injured man. Stains covered Matt’s clothes, and he smelled of sweat and blood. There were no cabstands near, so Matt’s only hope was to wave one down. Two came by while he limped along. Both slowed, but then sped forward once they could see him.
So far, his vision hadn’t left, though he did push back a few sputters here and there. Besides the occasional carriage refusing to give him a ride, Fore Street was mostly deserted. The stairs and docks, here, had fallen into disrepair as commerce activities went further upstream. Bow Street was still searching for him, so maybe it was fortunate that the street was empty. He wasn’t sure how much longer he could walk on his twisted knee, but resigned himself to last until he could reach a cab station. He had nothing else besides putting one foot in front of the other.
A firm punch to Matt’s head, from the direction of one of the Fore Street causeways, sent him crashing to the cobblestone. He automatically thrust his forearm up to protect himself from additional blows, but none came. A man stood behind him silhouetted against the rising sun. The assailant’s arm pointed an automatic handgun.
“I calculated that you had a seven percent chance of leaving Ferguson’s building alive,” Brain Palmer said, “That’s about one in fifteen.”
“Thanks,” Matt replied, squinting to recognize the man standing before him. “I can do the math.” Matt struggled to his feet. “Multivariate calculation or only a hunch?”
Palmer stepped back with the gun to keep distance between them. “Wow,” he said waving the gun at Matt’s bleeding side. “He kicked your ass.” Palmer closed his eyes for longer than was normal for a blink and Matt recognized the gesture. Matt did this, too, when his mind was fading in and out during a severe headache.
“The odds were undeniably against me,” Matt said.
“You kill him?”
“Go find out yourself.”
Palmer waved the gun at Matt. “Don’t make me shoot you here in the street.”
Matt shrugged. “Knocked out, but in better shape than me.”
“You walked away?” Palmer asked.
“What was the probability of that?”
“Trent must have helped you. I’d seen the possibility.”
Matt stayed silent.
“Good for him,” Palmer said. “He’s smart. Probabilities were low.”
Matt was gradually moving in a circle with the eventual goal of putting the sun at his back. Palmer was shuffling his feet, waving the gun for emphasis and had already looked at his watch twice. Matt saw Palmer’s long blink again.
“You’re wondering why I’m looking at my watch,” Palmer said.
Matt shrugged.
“I’m less and less conscious of time with every trip through the portal,” Palmer explained.
“The portal’s making you sick,” Matt said. He tapped his skull a couple of times to affirm.
“I’m smarter than anyone who’s ever lived,” Palmer replied.
“How much?” It was a genuine question. IQ was the strongest correlate of success among humans, and a small increase in IQ represented an extreme advantage. If humanity was a horserace, having a few extra IQ points was like having the ability to win every race by a nose.
Palmer looked at his watch again. “The portal stimulates neuronal growth,” he explained. “I’m smarter than you, by far.”
“Have you thought about the consequences?
“Can you see time?” Palmer asked. “I can.”
“Could there be any problem with trying to improve on three billion years of evolution?”
“I thought you religious guys didn’t believe in evolution?”
“Are there any ramifications to trying to improve on God’s design?”
“Stupidity is a disease, and I’ve found the cure,” Palmer replied. He gave a long blink again and reached up with his one hand to rub his temples with his thumb and forefinger. Matt kicked the gun from Palmer’s grasp, and it bounced across the street. Both men lunged at the tumbling weapon. Matt swung his fist hard into Palmer’s stomach, and the blow was enough to send him sprawling. Matt grabbed the gun and turned to point it at Palmer who was on the ground coughing and holding his belly.
“Stand, you son of a bitch,” Matt yelled.
Palmer struggled to take his feet but remained doubled over holding his stomach and retching. He checked his watch and smiled through the pain. “You don’t have much time,” he said.
“You’re coming with me,” Matt replied waving the gun.
Palmer still doubled over, held his hand up. “Dr. Benjamin Franklin and Lord George Beckham have conspired together to give a speech today in front of Parliament. They will present their plan for full representation of the colonies.” Palmer rechecked his watch. “Speech is scheduled for 9:00 AM.”
Matt raised the gun. “What else?”
“Don’t kill me yet,” Palmer said calmly. He stood straight now with one arm still at his stomach. “At exactly 9:15, a bomb will go off under their podium. The evidence will lead directly to you.”
Matt pointed the gun at Palmer’s head and looked at his Rolex. He had an hour. Matt lifted his head to Palmer. “Why are you doing this?”
“Because I can.”
There was buzzing noise around them and a feeling of spatial disruption. Matt had never forgotten the sensation from the night they had tried to pull him back to the twenty-first century against his will. He looked around frantically trying to determine where the portal would open.
“Back up unless you want to join me,” Palmer said. A bright green field formed around Palmer. Matt stepped back and cocked the hammer of the gun. There was every reason to rid the world of this man. Palmer put his hand up and smiled. “Not yet,” he insisted. “You should know this. An assassin left for Virginia on the Hunter this morning.”
Matt waved the gun. “Who’s his target?”
“Thomas Jefferson…and you,” Palmer replied. “Ferguson’s right, that damn country should never have been formed.”
Matt fired the pistol as fast as he could pull the trigger at the same time that the snap of a bullwhip ripped Palmer from the eighteenth century.
Chapter 67
Beckham
Matt’s watch said 8:20 AM. He had fifty-five minutes to reach parliament and diffuse a bomb. He’d never make it on foot. He ejected the cartridge from the chamber of his gun, put it back in the clip and thrust the pistol into his belt. Another cab was coming. He ran out in front of it and waved. He knew the driver did not intend to pick him up, but there was no way for the cab to advance without running Matt down.
“I already have a fare,” the driver said threateningly.
“Official business,” Matt said. “It’s necessary that I go to Parliament, now.”
“Official business, hell,” the driver yelled. “I’m not driving a beggar anywhere.”
Matt reached up and held the bridle of one of the two horses. “You’re not going anywhere until you take me to Westminster. A lot of people are going to die if I don’t make it.”
The driver slapped the reins against the horse, but Matt had a sturdy grip on the animal, so he refused to move. Realizing the futility of the situation, the cabbie finally agreed. He turned to the side to talk to his passengers. “Make some room; we’ve pledged to fit another.” He looked down at Matt and pointed to the side of the carriage. “Get in.”
Matt let go of the horse and stepped to the side.
“Hiya!” the driver yelled as he slapped the animals.
Matt jumped back to avoid being tangled in the spoked wheels. He picked himself off the ground and watched the carriage drive away. “Asshole,” Matt whispered. He pulled out the gun, chambered a cartridge and waited behind a mound of abandoned wood that was stacked at the top of some old stairs. A single rider on horseback approached after ten minutes. Matt waved his arms in the air and stopped the rider. Both the horse and man were oversized.
“Get the hell out of my way,” the man said.
“I need to borrow your horse,” Matt replied. “It’s official Parliament business. I’ll return him when I’m done.”
“Out of my way.”
Matt pointed the gun. “My name’s Matt Miller and my friend is Doctor Benjamin Franklin.”
“King George is my uncle.”
Matt waved the gun again. “Off the horse now, or I’ll shoot.”
The rider shrugged doubtfully and with some humor. “With that?”
Matt pointed the gun at a water-filled wooden barrel next to the rider and shot twice. The two bullets entered the front cleanly, exploded out the back, and water soaked the man and his horse. The horse reared on his hind legs shaking the man off. He scrambled to his feet while Matt kept the gun trained on him.
“Back away,” Matt said pointing the gun threateningly. The rider put his hands up as he moved away from the horse. Matt put his foot in the stirrups while keeping the gun trained on the man as he mounted the horse.
“What kind of gun is that?”
Matt pointed the weapon at the man. “Tell me your name.”
“No.”
“If you want your horse back, tell me your name.”
“Oliver,” he said hesitantly. “Oliver Pascoe.”
“Make your way to Parliament, Oliver Pascoe,” Matt said. “Tell them that Ben Franklin has your horse. What’s his name?”
“Who?”
“The horse.”
“Admiral.”
Matt kicked his heels into the horse’s sides. “Git!” he yelled, and the horse jumped forward. Matt had forty minutes to go five miles through the most congested and guarded part of London to thwart the murders of Benjamin Franklin and George Beckham. He wondered what probability for success Brian Palmer had calculated.
Chapter 68
River Fleet
The sound of the horse’s shoes hitting cobblestone echoed back and forth between the buildings that lined Narrow Street. The paving stones alternated between uneven, smooth and slick. Though the road was empty, Matt resisted the temptation to put the horse in a gallop and risk his slipping on the hard cobblestone. The noise the animal’s hooves made softened as they left the surrounding buildings and entered the fields. It was a welcome change from the clomping and a small respite, if only for a moment.
Matt turned onto Butcher Row. He was familiar with the roads that lined the river, but the water snaked through London. The only way Matt would reach Westminster in time was to cut through town in a straight path. The pavement along Butcher was less treacherous, so he kicked the horse faster, passing by Broad Street. Butcher ended at a Y-shaped intersection blocked by a stone guardhouse. Matt eased the horse back to thread him along the left. Some official looking characters manned the building, but they only stepped out of his way as he approached.
Matt turned onto Brook Street. The footing here was better, so Matt urged Admiral into a gallop. “Come on, boy!” Matt coaxed. Matt had never been on this road before and prayed it wasn’t taking him too far from the river. He passed a sign that said Blue Gate. The road here turned to dirt and gravel and became better footing. Matt galloped forward, now too quick to see the names of the streets as they passed.
“Slow down!” a man screamed up at him as he blazed past a vegetable stand sitting on the side of the road. The street was crowding, so he eased into a rapid canter, trying to guide the horse around the wagons that blocked his path. He threaded recklessly between vehicles and horses.
“Arse!” someone yelled.
The Tower of London
Seeing the Tower of London reassured Matt that he was still on course and that it had been an appropriate shortcut. He looked up at the sky and said, “Thanks!” He galloped through the courtyard of the Tower. English soldiers, on horseback, waved for him to slow, but he left them behind. He turned to see them gather for a conference and then start forward to begin to chase. He brushed it off; he had a head start, and they’d have trouble navigating the narrow and congested London streets with three horses.
Matt’s best bet now for keeping his course was to stay in view of the river. He heard a commotion behind him from the chasing soldiers as he cantered the end of Thames Street. They were gaining more rapidly than he’d predicted. “Out of the way,” Matt yelled at a merchant in a cart who was taking up the whole road. “Official Parliament business.”
“Parliament can go to hell,” the merchant shouted back. “Bunch of lazy bastards.”
Matt stopped the horse on Water Street, now prancing back and forth, not knowing which way. The river blocked a southern path. There was frantic clomping from where he had come, and now there were red uniforms visible. Matt gambled on leaving the road eastward on a dirt path, hoping to come out onto another roadway. He galloped across a field and ran into the Fleet Canal. His path forward was now completely blocked. Damnit!
He pranced again, trying to sort out a route. The canal bridge was north with no easy way forward. The soldiers were almost on him. “We gotta jump, boy!” Matt said. “It was far, and neither he nor the horse would survive a fall into the canal. He turned Admiral and trotted back towards the soldiers. They were now in the field coming straight at him.
“Stop! You!” a soldier yelled.
Matt raised his hands, and the soldiers slowed, then he pivoted the horse around again to face the canal. “Gi ya!” he shouted as he kicked his heels. “Admiral!” The horse accelerated and jumped. Admiral’s front legs came down hard, but there was enough space to land a single back hoof. His other back leg slipped, and he stumbled, but he gained his footing and continued forward. Matt turned to see the soldiers on the opposite side of the canal with their pistols. He ducked in time to hear the black powder explosions followed by musket balls whistling over his head. “Good boy!” Matt shouted, patting the horse’s neck and turning him north to pick up Fleet. Admiral was unfazed.
Matt galloped Admiral along Fleet Street and then on to Strand shouting, “Out of the way!” to the dirty looks of pedestrians and people in carts. Admiral hissed like a steam locomotive. Matt finally eased him back at Parliament Street when Westminster Hall came into view. His watch told him he had ten minutes.
Chapter 69
Procedure
Matt hurried the horse through New Palace Yard. It was difficult for him to thread his way through the crowd to the entrance of Westminster Hall. Half a dozen soldiers were standing guard outside. They recognized Matt intentions and came forward to meet him before he could come anywhere near the tall double doors that stood at the entrance to the meeting hall. Matt hopped from Admiral’s back while the horse was stil
l moving, and pain shot through his side from the sword slash. He pulled his coat tightly around his torso to hide his bloody blouse.
An officer rushed behind the soldiers to confront Matt who they now considered a potential threat. The soldiers weren’t pointing their muskets yet, but it was obvious they were thinking about it. Matt checked his watch; eight minutes to go. He pressed the straps of Admiral’s bridle into the hand of the first soldier that reached him. “Hold him,” Matt commanded. “My name’s Representative Matthew Miller of the Virginia House of Burgesses. There’s a bomb in the hall. I want to get in there.”
“We’ve men inside to protect the MPs,” said the officer, who had now stepped between his soldiers to confront Matt. He motioned for Matt to stop. “Members of Parliament only—occasional gathering.” The commander glanced back at his two subordinates, one of whom was now holding Admiral. “Inspect the hall,” the officer said. The young soldier dropped the leather straps, and then the two men hurried inside. Matt watched them open the doors. He could hear Franklin’s voice echo through the building as he gave his speech.
“It’s a time bomb,” Matt said. He looked down at his watch. “Slow-burn fuse.”
“The hall’s been swept, and it’s been under guard since morning. If a fuse were burning, my men would smell it. They’re trained to protect the MPs from Papists and their ilk. You’re not in Virginia anymore. ”
“This bomb won’t smell,” Matt insisted. “Let me inside.”
The officer stood his ground. “My men are doing the inspection.”
A moment later, the guards were back. “Looks clear, sir. No sounds, no smells, and no commotion,” one reported.
