The Time Corps Chronicles (Complete Series)

by Heather Blackwood

  “I shouldn’t look at this,” he said. But he opened the cover anyway and paged through.

  “Why not?” asked Hazel. “If it has the information to get Miss Sanchez home, you should know.”

  The Professor closed the book and put it back into the opening from which it had come. But he did it so slowly that Hazel was certain he was going to grab it again. Instead, Miss Sanchez took it.

  “If this thing can help us, then we’re going to use it,” she said.

  “There’s a problem,” said the Professor. “If I wrote that, and it does appear to be in my hand, and I read it now, then I’ll be learning the information in an unnatural manner. It’s called a time loop. The information has no origin, but will simply be passed from future me to past me and back again unendingly. And, as McCullen and I learned a few days ago, such things have dire consequences.”

  He described the void wyrm to Miss Sanchez in the same way he had described it to Hazel. But with Hazel, he had made her promise not to try to close any time rips without both him and McCullen present. Apparently, McCullen had saved the Professor’s life, and the Professor now trusted him to do the same for Hazel, if faced with the need.

  “Professor? Do you think you’re the one who set up the failsafe in the machine so it could only make one last trip?” Hazel asked. “That way, we couldn’t use it to travel all over creation and make more time instabilities.”

  “That’s what I’m thinking,” he muttered. “And yet, I would have known that I would want to look at it, to learn from it. And I might be able to repair it. This is a delay, not a prohibition on travel. I’ll work on it immediately.”

  McCullen was now standing in the doorway. “Along with taxes and death, the only other constant in the world is Seamus Connor having an uncontrollable need to start digging into an unknown machine.”

  “So perhaps, looking at that book won’t cause an unstable time loop,” said the Professor. “I would have known my own nature and planned for it, wouldn’t I?”

  Hazel shrugged. The Professor was brilliant and worked well under pressure, but he was also erratic, moody, and occasionally irrational. Planning ahead was not his strongest suit.

  “Let me look at it,” said McCullen. “Then we can use the information. You will originate it in the future, and I’ll read it now.”

  “No, because I’ll learn from you. It’s still a time loop.” The Professor paced to the end of the hallway and back. “Blast it all, I’m going to look. I’m going to trust that I knew what I was doing when I allowed it to come to me.”

  He took out the book and flipped it open. Then he took it to the laboratory worktable, and McCullen and Miss Sanchez pulled up stools on either side of him. Hazel watched them, bent together and talking. McCullen began writing something.

  Hazel dragged the time machine into the laboratory, and picked up the dishes and pieces of food from the fallen tray. Then she thought of Mrs. Washington downstairs. She would want to know that Miss Sanchez had returned.

  “Hazel?” called the Professor as she headed down the hall. “I hate to ask, but could you bring up another lunch tray?”

  She said she would, but as she did, she felt much younger, still the small girl whose only purpose was to fetch and run errands. That was nonsense, she thought. If she had wanted to, she could sit at the worktable. Perhaps later, she would. But for now, she didn’t feel right sitting with the three of them. She was an outsider to their little group.

  She glanced back at the three of them, and the Professor looked sideways at Miss Sanchez. Her finger was on one of the pages, and her arm was touching his. Hazel could only see the side of his face, but it was changed. He was happy.

  She hadn’t seen him like that in so long.

  Chapter 14

  December 31, 1863

  New York, New York

  Neil Grey pulled his hat on more firmly and shoved his hands into his pockets. Necessity had driven him to purchase warmer clothing, including a scarf and a heavier coat, as New York in winter was painfully cold. He was a little grateful for the insulating cloth stuffed into the toes of his shoes. He could have purchased better shoes, or a complete outfit of finer quality, but he didn’t know how long his money would need to last him. He would be prudent and endure the discomfort.

  He had spent the day touring the city and thinking. No Statue of Liberty held vigil, torch aloft in the harbor, and Ellis Island had yet to be built. The subway did not exist yet, but there were a few areas of the city connected by elevated railroad tracks where steam-powered engines puffed chains of smoke, trailed by cars filled with people going from one part of the city to another. Commuters, he would call them. But that word did not exist in their vocabulary.

  Times Square did not exist, but was simply an area in town that was being gradually developed by various hotels and shops. In his own time, a ball would drop in Times Square tonight and the crowd, decked in glittery hats and light-up necklaces would count down to the New Year. Here, nothing at all would happen. Perhaps somewhere in the city someone hosted a gala event where the rich toasted with champagne. But every other tired soul would work, trudge home, sleep and then do it all again the next day.

  Neil reminded himself that this was a city struggling, and a city at war. Still, it was probably one of the safer cities, comparatively speaking. He had seen the future in this world, and the North would win the Civil War. New York was so far North that it wouldn’t be attacked.

  Yet here he was, hoping to get on a train and leave. He would not stay in New York to make his fortune. No, he would head south, or west, or both and see where fate took him. He refused to return to Mr. March. He couldn’t, not with the weight of what he had done in Las Vegas. He wasn’t completely sure that Mr. Gallo hadn’t murdered those show girls, but it was a safe bet, which meant that he had killed an innocent person. Mr. Dubois, the child molester, and the others, so many others, might have been guilty or innocent. There was simply no way to know.

  He wished he could know, if only to clarify things in his mind. If he had killed one innocent, then it was an evil of a different magnitude than to kill five, or ten or twenty innocents. But what would knowing accomplish? In a way, not knowing was the better option. If he knew for certain exactly how many innocent people he had killed, then he might try to atone for it. Wouldn’t he? Was that the sort of man he was? The sort to spend a life atoning for his evil deeds? Was he free because of his ignorance? Or did it simply imprison him with the knowledge that nothing he could ever do would erase his debt?

  He took a streetcar to the train station and purchased a ticket for the next train to Louisville, Kentucky. From there, he could head west, perhaps to the Dakota Territory or to the Arizona or New Mexico Territories. He was a Californian by birth, and it was a recognized state. Perhaps he could go there. The gold rush was over, but the Central Valley was full of fertile farmland, and San Francisco and Los Angeles both had ports where he could find work at a dock or on a ship, perhaps.

  It was a three-hour wait until boarding time which gave him plenty of time to think as he strolled through the surrounding streets. He decided that instead of heading west from Louisville he would instead travel to New Orleans. He could leave a message with this September Wilde woman. With the war on, he didn’t completely trust that she would receive a letter through the regular post. If Neil left a letter with her himself, he would be assured that Mr. March would receive it. Then, Mr. March would not seek him. He would be free.

  Still, he knew that Mr. March might not be so easy to escape. Simply telling him good-bye would not be enough. March would pursue him, maybe in a year, maybe two. He would reappear at some unexpected moment, and Neil wondered what would happen then. Would March force him to come with him? Again, he had the feeling that Mr. March might become very persuasive and could make Neil obey him. But how could that be? He had free wil
l, as did any person. He was faster and stronger than other people too.

  He knew better than to think that he could persuade Mr. March to bring him back to his own time. If the only choices were obedience or abandonment, he would choose the latter.

  If Mr. March left him in the 1860s, then so be it. He had no loved ones in the 1990s, nor did he have a job, money or anything else. It was merely a time familiar to him. But he was a person of flexibility and resourcefulness. Mr. March had been correct to say that Neil was young and strong. He could make a life, not one with a television and a swimming pool and a car. But perhaps he could work on a ship for a bit, find decent work, perhaps buy some land for farming later on.

  One thing was certain: He would become harder to find. That was within his control. He made a decision. Once in New Orleans, he would take a ship, whatever ship was leaving the port that day with an interesting destination. Then, if Mr. March accepted his resignation, all would be well. And if not, he would be safe so long as Mr. March could not find him.

  He headed back to the station where the train waited. He boarded, and after an hour of looking out the window, he wished he had a book to read to pass the time. Perhaps one of the books about that hawk-nosed detective in London. Now, what was his name? The memory was the same as before, no fresher or clearer. He leaned his head back in his seat and let the jostling movement of the car and the staccato beat of the wheels on the rails become a relaxing rhythm.

  His stomach was full from the ham sandwich that he had purchased from the passing cart and the train compartment was warm without being stifling. More than that, he had money in his pocket, was literate and was vaccinated against smallpox, measles, polio and who knew what other deadly diseases. Perhaps life might not be so bad, all things considered. But though his mood improved, he could not recall the name of the book or the detective in it.

  “Fancy meeting you here,” said a man from immediately beside him, and Neil’s eyes flew open.

  A man had taken the seat next to him, a blue-eyed blond man in his fifties wearing a tweed jacket. It was the same man who had purchased the little Viking ship in a bottle in Las Vegas in 1982.

  “It’s you!” was all Neil could sputter out.

  “Yes, it’s me.”

  Neil sprang to his feet, cursing himself for being so careless as to relax, become unobservant and then to allow himself to indulge in even a moment’s hesitation. This man was a time traveler as well, and that meant he worked for Mr. March.

  “What do you want?” Neil demanded.

  The man remained seated, smiling up at him with serene amusement. “Not to harm you, I promise.”

  “Yeah, right.”

  A few of the passengers were turning around and craning their necks to see what was happening. Neil was ready to punch this man in his grinning face, but he didn’t care for an audience. He also didn’t care for being stuck against the wall of the train car with this man between himself and the aisle.

  “Please sit down,” the man said. “Like you, I don’t care to draw too much attention to myself.”

  “I’ll bet. You get your hands where I can see them.” If this man had a syringe, Neil wasn’t about to let him use it.

  “Look, let’s take a walk to another car. We can talk quietly.”

  Neil didn’t move.

  “And I’ll keep my hands where you can see them,” said the man.

  Without waiting for Neil to answer him, the man headed toward the back of the car. If this man was sent by Mr. March, then Neil couldn’t very well wait until he was asleep in his sleeping car or drowsy over his morning coffee to be ambushed. Best to deal with him now. He followed.

  The man was already seated in the dining car, leaning back in his chair. He looked completely relaxed, and Neil had to admit, happy. Well, killers could look any way they pleased. Not looking like killers was precisely the talent they needed in their line of work.

  “Two sweet teas,” said the man to the waiter. Neil took a seat, but kept his eyes on the man’s hands. He could have a gun, a syringe, anything.

  “I don’t believe we’ve properly introduced ourselves. I’m Elliot Van Dorn.” He reached his hand across to shake, but Neil was not so foolish as to touch anything the man offered him, even his own hand. His skin could hold some sort of poison or sedative. The future held wonders, ones at which even he, widely traveled as he was, would marvel.

  “How do you know who I am?” asked Neil.

  The man did not answer.

  “What were you doing in 1982?”

  “I had to find something,” said Elliot. “I’m making a delivery.”

  “That ship in a bottle?”

  “That’s it,” said Elliot. “I make deliveries. I do lots of things. But killing people isn’t on my resume.”

  The sweet tea came, and Neil kept hold of his, not allowing this Elliot man to get anywhere near it. In his dying moments, he did not want to feel like an idiot for allowing his drink to be drugged.

  “I’d like to offer you a job,” said Elliot. “Not killing anyone. Just doing good work. Honest work.”

  Neil wanted to say that he had heard that line before, but he didn’t want to give the man any information he might not already have.

  “It pays well,” Elliot continued. “It’s dangerous, but nothing out of the ordinary for someone like you. And you wouldn’t have to kill anyone.”

  “Who sent you?” Neil asked.

  “I came on my own.”

  “So you know about me? How?”

  “Because we’re friends and we work together in your future and my past.”

  Neil wasn’t sure what to make of that. Certainly, it was possible, but improbable.

  “Prove it,” Neil said.

  Elliot sighed. “You’re not from this world, but another one where instead of Breckinridge being president in this year, a man named Lincoln is. You take your coffee with two sugars and no cream. You love classical music, especially Baroque. And you appreciate art, with a special love for the Dutch painters, but you never play music, draw or paint. You sleep little, rarely laugh and spend most of the time with the expression you have now, mostly unreadable by anyone who doesn’t know you well. Right now, you’re angry and distrustful, but that’s understandable. You were born in California, though you remember little of your childhood. You like to read, and your favorite author is Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.”

  That was it. That was the name on the cover of the book about the tall detective. Neil still couldn’t remember the title of the story. But he did remember Holmes. That was the detective’s name. Like a little burst of light, the memory clarified itself.

  “It’s a new start for a new year. A new job. New possibilities,” said Elliot. “Besides, I doubt you want to stay here and be conscripted into either the Union or Confederate armies.”

  “Definitely not the Confederate side.”

  “Right. I don’t blame you. Neither of us is a big fan of what they call the ‘peculiar institution.’”

  “It’s an evil institution if you ask me,” said Neil. “What time are you from? Originally, I mean.”

  “Born January 10th, 1993. So I’m not used to slavery either. But even the Southerners in our circle of colleagues who were born in this time agree with you. But don’t get it into your mind to try to change anything, like teaching the Union to make better weapons or telling them where the big battles will be.”

  Neil hadn’t actually thought of doing either.

  “And don’t think of helping the abolitionists or escaped slaves or anything like that. Our job is our job. We do the job and then we leave.”

  “You talk as if I’ve accepted your offer. I haven’t.”

  “Well, do think it over. I’ll be disembarking in Louisville, so you have until then.” Elliot then
told him the train car where he would be staying, drank down the last of his tea and left. Neil noticed that he hadn’t asked how long Neil would be on the train. Nor had he said where his final destination was with this ship in a bottle.

  A job with no killing. A job traveling through time. Now that might be even better than taking a ship out to Cuba or sailing to Argentina or India. He could truly evade Mr. March if he went between worlds. It would even the odds.

  Chapter 15

  January 1, 1864

  New Orleans, Louisiana

  “Now you look more like yourself,” said Hazel to Miss Sanchez.

  She was back in one of her old dresses which were now a few years out of date, but not terribly so. Many women in town had not been able to update their wardrobes much during the war, and Miss Sanchez would not stand out. At least she was out of the woolen skirt and blouse that she had been wearing when she arrived. The thing looked like the clothing a little girl might wear and with no hoop skirt or even crinolines. The skirt only just covered her knees and clung too closely to her body. And she had no structured undergarments like a corset save for something she called a “bra.”

  “I’d be more myself back in my jeans and sweaters,” said Miss Sanchez. “But I’d rather be here with you and the Professor than in the 1960s.”

  Hazel and the Professor had saved all of Miss Sanchez’s old clothing, including her mobile phone which, oddly, the Professor had never taken apart. Hazel hadn’t noted the fact until now, as Miss Sanchez looked at the black screen with longing. The thing could be used to talk to her family or to send them messages. It had lost its electrical power a few days after she had arrived, and had sat in a drawer since then. And yet, as wondrous as the machine was, the Professor had not disassembled it. Leaving Miss Sanchez’s clothing and room as it was had been a simple matter. If he hadn’t taken apart the phone, it meant something significant, but Hazel did not know what it was. Could the Professor be in love with Miss Sanchez? Yes, that had to be the reason. It was not simply duty that had motivated him all these years. All of Miss Sanchez’s things were as she had left them, down to the hairbrush with a few strands of her hair still in place.