No Time Like the Present

by Ellison Blackburn

  Without glancing at him, Dad says, “I’ll have your seat, Quinn.” who immediately moves to the chair across from Kinnari. In an oblivious and patient silence, I contemplate our father and smile a little just because he’s Dad, although I’d seen him just over two hours ago.

  “I’m sorry that this had to happen,” he begins, pinning me with a tender blue-eyed gaze. “Of all people, not to you, my girl.”

  “Nothing’s happened to me. Like I said at dinner, the implementation—”

  “Yes, of course, you’re fine,” Dad interrupts. After a short pause, he says, “When you were just a little thing and you got in some kind of scrape, Willow would remind me: ‘Don’t worry too much about River, Marlowe. What she lacks in bulk, she makes up for in might. She has the most vital, truest spirit of all of them. And her brothers could learn a thing or two about real strength from their little sister.’ Did you know she said that? No, never mind. Don’t let me get caught up in nostalgia. My point is, I know you can handle this.” He squeezes my shoulder and gathers my hands in his.

  His words and manner don’t quite click in my brain until he makes this small gesture. Uncertain what’s going on here, I peek down at our hands. Mine looks like a child’s in his, and I’m tempted to snatch them away. I feel self-consciousness and vulnerability niggling at my senses. I dislike being singled out, even among our family.

  “I have no doubt,” he again asserts.

  Sensing this has something to do with Vale, the gumption Dad wants for me to possess is nowhere to be found. Instead, tension slowly snakes over my body. Had Vale been injured on assignment? The very thought makes my heart pitch hard once against my ribs. And my head starts to buzz so loudly someone else might hear it. Reid probably can. No. Vale’s recovering from trauma. There’s no reason for him to leave the labs or the complex. Besides, he’s in biotech innovation. He’s not an agent. He wouldn’t be out in the field. I forcibly swallow the lump lodged in my throat. But … you met on assignment.

  All eyes are on me but Archer’s. It doesn’t matter. I can read everyone in the room without my ERR implant’s help. Quinn’s head is cocked at an angle, but his attention is heightened. He knows our mysterious family conference involves Vale somehow too. Kinn frowns, her brow creased with worry lines. Reid’s shoulders are tight and his expression frozen, although he’s leaned forward, readying himself for action. Even Archer’s profile reveals a grimness about his mouth, the muscles of his jaw triggering on and off as if on a toggle switch. Whatever has happened, he knew it was coming, which explains why he’s been avoiding looking at us. Me.

  I open my mouth to speak. “If—” I utter. Unable to form words into poignant questions, I ask dumbly, “What, Dad? What is this about?”

  “My girl,” Dad says in a too-gentle way, “was there any other way for me to soften what I’m about to tell you, I would. But it can’t be helped. You have to hear it like I did, hm?”

  “Yes, okay.”

  “Well, Vale said … now, this is verbatim you understand. He said: ‘Too bad we didn’t get there first, Marlowe. Had Clarion thought of selling the tech, the St. Clairs would be rich or richer. Beyond our wildest expectations. You have to know that. Yeah? You know that?’”

  Dad knows. Of course, he does. Everyone knows. It’s also plain now what this gathering means. Marlowe St. Clair, Clarion’s founder, the originator of mission statements and maker of inflexible rules, suspects Vale Hennessey, my significant other and a Division biotech engineer, is disloyal to our cause, a potential liability. I shake my head vehemently. Damn. Damn.

  Reid blurts out, “Impossible.”

  In a stupor, I blink at my brother, my sightless gaze then falling to his strong St. Clair jawline. When I turn to face Dad, I register the scathing look he’s giving Reid, who is glaring back at Dad.

  Reid edges closer to me, his eyes roaming over my face for clues to my state of mind. “River?”

  Before I respond, Dad continues, “And that’s not all. He had the audacity to say, ‘I mean, what’s the point of missing out when the intel will end up in their hands, anyway?’”

  I begin, “He wouldn’t …”

  “There’s more, River. It’s best you hear it all.”

  “Fine.” I’ll have my say in a minute.

  “He said: ‘What do you think? Maybe I can still negotiate a piece of the deal? Maybe there’s something more—a lot more—in this for everyone. I don’t know. Just think about it. Seems to me that the Division’s at the forefront of bio-crime tech, behind no one else in the game, but we’re not reaping the rewards. Like, I’ve always thought Clarion was cheated with the Apparency IV. Vaccination is standard practice now, and all the Division gets for the innovation is a measly grant for further research and product development? The criminal intent vaccine was a revolutionary idea. IV is revolutionary. So, that’s just bullshit.’”

  “No. See, that doesn’t even sound like Vale. He would never …”

  “But he did say it.” Dad jabs a finger into his own breastbone. “To me. He said this to me. And you know we don’t tolerate that kind of talk. Our code has gotten us where we are today. Without it, we are nothing. Those others, those who question our methods are not Division people.” While he talks, I blink away the many thoughts crowding my brain like strangers boarding a transport vehicle; none are getting off.

  “We’re not sure when his mind began to slip, River, but Vale is not himself. Do you understand?” Sympathetic wrinkles fan around his eyes. “He can no longer be trusted,” he says, tight-lipped.

  I register his thumb stroking my hand and pull it free. Bouncing to my feet, I ask, “Where is he?”

  Dad remains seated. He sighs and then mumbles, “We can’t have that here.” With a little more gravel in his tone, he adds, “So I would advise you not to go looking for him. You won’t be allowed to see him even should you find him.”

  “You don’t know what you’re asking, Dad.” I look up at Archer. Obviously, he’ll ensure the necessary doors are opened for me. Vale is practically family. “Now, where is he?”

  “We’re having him detained until his trial. He will be transported within the next few hours.”

  “Archer? What’s wrong with you? Turn around. Tell—” Then Dad’s last comments permeate my brain. “Wait … he’s been condemned already?”

  “River. Now, this wasn’t an easy decision.”

  “No. This is just absurd. You’re handing him over because he said something that doesn’t even sound like something he’d say. So that’s it, Archer? The investigation’s over?”

  “This didn’t happen overnight, River. Quinn told me a while ago that he suspected a component of the malware was still active, but Dr. Mayhew suggested Vale would be all right so long as he didn’t act on any stimulants. And when Archer finished his investigation of the big intel property breach, he tracked the source back to Vale. We have confirmed it. Several times over.”

  Archer nods, and I pierce him with my stare. “Tsk.”

  Fighting the urge to mock him with a few tsks of my own, I suck in as much air as my lungs can hold, exhausting it in a huff. He can’t be bothered to turn and face me, so I round Dad’s chair and hurl a punch at his shoulder with all my strength. But ever the boulder, my unfeeling brother doesn’t budge, invoking in me a kind of frenzied madness I can barely contain. I hit him again, imagining my fist shattering his arm, ignoring my own pain. Nothing short of a sledgehammer will dent that armor, rationality tries to intercede, and my mind flickers to the battle-ax mounted above the hearth in the mudroom.

  “You did this,” I hiss through clenched teeth. My fist itches to make contact with his nose. If any of this is true, given an ounce of familial caring, Archer could have handled the situation better for my sake at least. I bite my tongue to keep from renouncing him as my brother or any relation of mine. “Only you could. Because you care nothing for people, do you, Arrow?” A tiny crease appears at the corner of his eye. “Sometimes, I think you aren’
t one yourself, and everyone just forgot to mention it to me. Because a real person would get tired of being so goddamn righteous all the goddamn time. And you’re tireless.” I pause, both to take a breath and to give him a chance to respond. We’re all waiting for Archer to say something, maybe even Dad, but my provocations are met with a stony silence. “My whole life I’ve wanted to believe you gave a shit. But finally, you’ve made it crystal clear. You may have a high IQ, but your emotional quotient is practically nil. Our android butler has more feeling than you do, Ah—” I can’t even say his name right now. Suddenly, I want nothing more than to be away from him and Dad. I let my feet rush me out of the room.

  “River, wait!”

  “Give her a minute, Reid,” Archer says before I’ve made it very far. I plaster myself against the wall outside the study, inwardly cringing at the prospect of hearing his account but needing Marlowe’s story seconded all the same.

  “For what? Come on, Archer, don’t be an ass. You just heard me tell her we’ll stick by Vale to the end, no matter what.”

  “Deal with it, Reid. It is what it is, and you’re not helping the situation—”

  “Situation? Your sister’s emotional wellbeing is a situation, huh? Vale’s life, his freedom amounts to nothing more than a situation to you? Are you serious? My God. Quinn, say something.”

  “Enough, Reid,” Dad barks. “In taking the risks we do, we have to accept that people are sometimes not what they seem at first or that they are influenceable and therefore changeable. No one readily cast Vale as a villain, but what’s done is done. Archer is right in this. So, do not make it worse for your sister. Supporting false hope would be cruel of you.”

  CHAPTER ONE

  Sunday, April 5, 1873

  THE WIND IS high tonight. Debris and the occasional insect pelt the windowpanes in a cacophony of soft clicks, and my mind strays to the hansom parked out front earlier. Its black shadow lent an ominous October-like air to the evening, though it’s only April. With the moon hidden behind cloud cover, it was impossible to tell if the gig’s driver was within. I’m sure it’s nothing, I console myself. Just a neighbor or someone coming to appreciate the view of the lake. Still, I’ve had this niggling feeling of being watched for weeks now. A loud thwack of a leafy branch hitting the glass jolts me from my thoughts.

  “You’re making strides,” Archer states, leaning against the doorjamb like a toppled stone pillar, his arms crossed over his broad torso, his chin propped between a thumb and a knuckle. He might be a model advertising a hitherto unavailable wristwatch, an item any self-respecting gentleman should have.

  “I’d rather be fencing,” I reply offhand.

  He exhales as though blowing out a plume of pipe smoke. “Okay, I’ll bite.” Taking three long strides into the room, he opts to sit across from me.

  “When an agent was training for a mission, he or she would learn some cool new skill.”

  “Mm-hmm. But never fencing.”

  “I should have said a useful cool new skill. And as I don’t consider impersonating a man a skill nor is it very cool in my book, I’d rather be fencing.”

  “Ah.”

  “Really, though? I’m getting better?”

  His eyes skim the room and land on the drinks cabinet in the far corner. “Would you think me very unsupportive if I answered that question a different way?”

  “Well, fudge,” I say, snapping my fingers. “I was practicing reverse physiological conditioning. That’s the technical term—just to give it an officialness, you know? I thought Mayhew would approve. With RPC, I—”

  “It has an acronym. That is official.”

  Hm, the treatment is working. Prior to our fantastic arrival to 1871, Archer was a no-nonsense bore as well as too severe for anyone’s good, including his own. As the resident expert on bio-dysfunction, I’ve diagnosed him with latent personality disorder. I have since discovered that the only known remedy for the condition is abstinence from the Clarion Division. What a relief. I almost thought I’d been wrong in my judgment, and he had an incurable case of absent personality disorder.

  This emerging person reminds me more and more of Reid, who died in the same time-altering fire that claimed his wife and daughter and our dad. But I’ll admit that for several months after we were reunited (I was MIA for quite a while) I resented Archer. Next to wishing I’d died the night of October 8th too, I wished he had died instead of Reid. My immediate world had been an emptier place without Mom. Without Reid it was downright dismal. Especially as afterward, as if we were ever close, Archer seemed to think he could just take over Reid’s and Dad’s roles, like he was my caring big brother and stand-in father all of a sudden.

  Unable to control the situation of our new environment, but still walking around with the air of a man used to being obeyed, he had opinions to offer on my personal life. His nerve irked me, but we were all so raw then, and I couldn’t work myself up to snarking back as was my usual with him. I didn’t think I needed to explain that no one could replace Reid or Marlowe, least of all Arrow Up-my-ass. Also, there was and is the small matter of a grudge I bear against him. I don’t fault him for what Vale did, but I still think Archer could have been a twinge more brotherly when I needed him to be before.

  My eyes were opened following the Aubrey Milner case. “Taking over the operation of Clarion investigations was a mistake on my part. … I never intended for it to consume my life,” he’d said. This admission allowed for the possibility that he was grieving in the only way he knew how, and he likely felt the loss of our brother and dad as acutely as I did.

  “Anyway, my new strategy is to exaggerate my actions to get a better handle on each component of a specific behavior and the level of force or subtlety used to express it.”

  “Interesting technique,” he says, regarding me with a measured air. “What I want to know is on what occasion you’ll be spanking your thigh like you were just doing? Or wait …” He taps a temple with an index finger and continues. “The reverse. Got it. You’re going for a kind of petting.”

  “No, …” I start, planning to elaborate when the twinge of a grin lifts one corner of his mouth. He, in particular, challenges my ERR abilities more than anyone I know or have known. And that’s saying a lot since I consider myself relatively unschooled in Victorian mannerisms and expression of emotions. Unfortunately for me, Archer is also my primary exemplar for male behavior. “I was going for something else,” I say with a shrug.

  “Such as?”

  “I need to retrain my actions when interacting with other men,” I explain.

  “Other men,” he remarks, his tone both dry and drawling. “Hmm. Is that right? You’re identifying as one now, are you?”

  Ignoring him, I continue, “Women are more open with their affections toward one another, but also, their touch is gentler, overall, and not localized. They’ll touch a forearm, hold a hand, squeeze a shoulder, hug, and even stroke another woman’s back. Whereas men embrace on the rare occasion and otherwise only pat each other on the shoulders, I’ve noticed, although sometimes with gusto. I was practicing that. My hands are far less meaty than a man’s, so it’s tricky getting that not too-hollow or too-sharp sound exactly right, which I think is key.” I cup my hand as if to put the target acoustics on display. In doing so, the line that I believe is my “life” line seems to sever my palm in two, and for a moment, I’m lost in an ungraspable thought. My palm tickles as I trace the arc with a finger. Perhaps palmistry will reveal what I need to do to affect manliness in this still strange, alternate reality.

  “I suppose,” Archer concedes. “But as far as exaggerated gestures go, whatever that was didn’t look like something a man would do. Besides, wouldn’t your strategy work better in character? I mean, for one thing, you’re sitting like a woman, legs pressed together, ankles crossed. Why does your hip jut to one side like that? Also, your elbows … I never realized how pointy they are. Put them away for Christ’s sake. You’re liable to jab a person somepla
ce valuable.”

  I straighten and run my hands down the wood trim of the chair, retracting my sharp elbows. “Maybe he deserves it. Did you think of that?”

  “No, I hadn’t.” His eyes narrow. “But now I know you’re diabolical and judgmental.”

  “Hm. Thanks for the constructive criticism.”

  “Of course.”

  “I was being sarcastic.”

  “Of course.”

  “What happened to ending how you started? Because I find I appreciate the false support and that Archer a smidgen better.”

  “Just trying to be helpful. Seeing as how you could use it. You’re absurd, you know that?”

  “Why must you be so difficult?”

  He gives me a tight smile and nods once. “You might get bored with me otherwise.”

  “For shame, Hercules, you do need to work on those insecurities of yours.” But he’s right. If we didn’t have this running repartee, my existence would be dull indeed. After all, my split personality gets half of my public front that’s not really me, and the remaining 50 percent of my social life takes place under this roof with my three roommates. Two of which are more than a little unsociable, even less so than Archer and me—a consequence of how we were raised.

  The peal of the doorbell interrupts our evening’s pleasantries. Odd. Most everyone in the city had sequestered themselves in their homes a good two hours ago. Could our caller be the mysterious spy? I wonder. I get to my feet and take a step toward the double doors off the foyer and lean surreptitiously behind one massive panel.

  The rap of Allen’s heels on the hardwood floor echo from down the hall before being muffled by the long carpet that leads to the front entrance. There’s the rattle of the doorknob, the raspy clunk and slither of the first door then the second being unlatched, followed by a distant mumbling of voices. Another thirty seconds later, Allen shuts the doors, and all is quiet again.