by K W Taylor
They swept through the downstairs, part lobby and part pub. The bar area was still playing host to a few men muttering into pints of ale, and Polly led Claudio past them to a sparsely furnished room on the second floor. “Not much, but then I s’pect we don’t need much,” she remarked, indicating the thin mattress.
Claudio chuckled and took Polly into his arms. The evening began with a hint of promise, but as the first pink streaks of dawn blossomed through the holes in the curtain, he was listening to her snore and holding his head in his hands.
Goddammit, man, you started a revolution. So why can’t you manage this one simple act?
He looked down at himself, at his thin form and unresponsive organ, and felt the first stirrings of rage. It was her fault, this disgusting whore, and he would make her pay. Never mind that this wasn’t the first time he’d been impotent, never mind that, indeed, he had authority and money and now powerful science behind him.
You’re no man. You’re worthless.
Claudio looked down at Polly and put one hesitant hand on her throat. For a moment, her breathing stopped, her face growing at first a jaunty pink to match the dawn, but then redder and darker. Claudio’s arm trembled. He tightened his grip and watched as the veins in the back of his hand stood out in angry lines like writhing snakes undulating just beneath his skin’s surface.
A little more pressure. One last squeeze…
Before Claudio could clamp his fingers down tighter, Polly emitted an emphatic snore and wriggled away from him. She snorted and fell back into her drink-induced slumber.
I could do it again, though. No one would miss her. She’s of no import to history. The way she bends her elbow, the cirrhosis will take her soon enough. My way would be merciful.
Claudio reached for Polly’s throat again, this time pressing with both hands. A knot in his left hand throbbed, and he gasped as the tiny room spun away from him. He felt himself falling, and then came a rush of wind and a feeling of being punched in the gut. He groaned and doubled over.
Friday, July 4, 2070, Flussville, South Carolina, RAA
When Claudio straightened back up, Ambrose’s concerned face floated above his.
“You all right?” the younger man asked. “Hang about, don’t try to move, got to check you—oh, sir, you might…here.” Ambrose looked around his lab, grabbed a sheet from the exam gurney across the room, and tossed it to his boss. “Seem to have lost your clothes in the transfer. Did that happen when you arrived, too?”
Claudio shook his head, but then thought better of that response. Ambrose didn’t need to know that he’d been nude on purpose. “I…it’s a bit fuzzy,” he mumbled. He looked at Ambrose. “I didn’t mean to come back when I did. What happened?”
“Well, there’s a retrieval protocol in Vere’s notes,” Ambrose replied. “It’s linked with the subject’s left hand, but I didn’t think it would work without installing the chip under your skin. Perhaps it’s a biological connection that’s made, even without that. The chip could make the retrieval more precise, though.”
“More precise would be preferable,” Claudio snapped. He wrapped the sheet around his waist and stood up. “Get me something real to wear, and get to work on this chip. Tell me when you’ve got something.”
Ambrose tapped a pencil against a notepad. “Sir, when we do have something, where do you want to go? Where did you wind up, and it would be more helpful if we sent you—”
“Yes, yes, send me to something around the war, but…” A thought occurred to Claudio. “Keep this time handy, if that’s even possible. I may wish to go back there again regardless.”
“It takes a lot of power for each trip,” Ambrose said. “Just how relevant d’you think o’ that time and place?”
Claudio imagined slitting Polly’s throat, and a shiver of delight coursed through him. It wasn’t anything he’d ever thought of doing before, but the mere idea now stirred arousal in him. None of Polly’s ministrations worked, and yet thinking of killing her seemed to be doing the trick.
“It’s very relevant, Ambrose. Very relevant indeed.” He hurried from the room.
Monday, July 7, 2070, Flussville, South Carolina, RAA
Ambrose pored over the notes he’d transcribed from Edward Vere’s materials. The retrieval mechanism was still more theoretical than actual, and it involved binding a chip to the drive plate’s electronic signature and then implanting it in the subject’s skin. The left palm was recommended, the notes stated, because the biological retrieval was bound to a vein direct to the cardiovascular center. The heart, Vere posited, was the source of the subject’s own electrical functioning; therefore, the mechanism required a jolt not unlike jump-starting a vehicle.
As Ambrose sketched a design before commencing to solder wires and metal together, he fretted.
Too many jolts to the heart could be catastrophic over time. Should I insist the governor get a checkup? What if he’s got an arrhythmia? Poor blighter could drop dead centuries ago, and I’d never know what happened to him. Or would I just summon back a corpse? No, the electricity’s the thing. He’d simply become a mystery. I got to make sure he’s fit for this.
Knowing his employer, however, Ambrose suspected Claudio would resist a medical evaluation.
When Ambrose had a workable design functioning, he read further in Vere’s notes, which cited a projection jump spot that the retrieval device could pinpoint—a safety zone, where within a certain radius the chip could detect if there were native humans or animals present that could get sucked up into the subject’s area. When the chip was activated, the subject needed to find the safety zone and be retrieved there, so as to ensure no one else would come back to the present. Though Vere had an annotation that indicated even he was unclear on that point. In someone else’s handwriting was the cryptic note “Intent—they have to want to go with you,” which left Ambrose more confused than ever.
Ambrose worked through the rest of the evening and into the next day, interrupted every so often by his impatient boss urging him to work faster.
“You want to get stuck centuries in the past?” Ambrose demanded at one point, feeling exhaustion and hunger overtake him. “Then, sure, bloody well let’s shove this thing right into your hand and just hope everything sorts itself out. I’m sure your citizens will be comforted knowing you died needlessly from your own fucking hubris.”
Claudio stalked off, muttering about Ambrose’s retirement plan getting smaller by the hour.
Saturday, June 7, 2070, Avon, Vermont, NBE
Several days after he’d first arrived, it was time for Wilbur to return home, leaving Vere and Alison to work out ideas in the present.
“Now, now, none of that.”
Alison turned around to face Wilbur, who stood with one foot on the plate. She readied the retrieval mechanism, a flat square of metal fitted into the palm of a fingerless leather glove. “I don’t know what you mean,” she said. She gestured to Wilbur’s left hand. “Let’s see if this fits.”
“I see the shimmer in your eyes,” Wilbur said. He held his hand out.
Alison had assumed he would take the glove from her and put it on himself, but this seemed to indicate otherwise. She took his hand in hers. His skin was rough, with callouses along each fingertip. As she tugged the glove onto his hand, her thumb brushed one of the hardened spots. “Does that hurt?” she asked. “Is it from controlling the plane? I imagine that’s not easy, keeping everything level and steady without electronics.”
Wilbur looked at his hand. “There? No.” He laughed softly. “That’s from the winding key on my Kodak. I do have other interests, you know.”
Alison felt her face grow warm.
Wilbur cleared his throat. “I have to go. It’ll be fine, Miss Keller. Not to worry.” He finished pulling on the glove and gave her a salute. “If I’m able to influence my present, perhaps your future will be brighter.”
~
“How long before we can tell if it’s worked?”
&nbs
p; Vere looked around his still-shabby laboratory. “It didn’t,” he said. “It’s been hours, but for him it’s been a lifetime. If it had worked, my equipment wouldn’t have to be cobbled together like so much driftwood after a hurricane, and I wouldn’t have shrapnel in my leg or memories of young people being blown to pieces around me. We would have funding, and I wouldn’t have only you here to assist me.”
Alison tapped at one of Vere’s data pads. “His encyclopedia entry hasn’t changed,” she noted. “Still dies the same date, the same way.”
“And, honestly, it may have nothing to do with the machines that hastened his demise,” Vere said. “Disease and contagion aren’t uncommon back then.”
“But my shots are all up to date,” Alison said. “If Wilbur wasn’t able to do anything on his own, what if I gave him some help?”
Friday, July 11, 2070, Flussville, South Carolina, RAA
A full week after Claudio’s return, Ambrose knocked on his door, a small box in his hand.
“Got it,” he said. “But Mister Florence, before I do the install, I think…” He hesitated, running his hands together and staring at the floor.
“Spit it out, boy.”
“I’ll say again, sir. We ought to run you through some medical tests.” Ambrose flinched as he spat out the words.
Claudio saw himself running a scalpel along Polly’s abdomen, pictured feet of blood-slicked intestines spilling from the incision, and almost cried. More stupidity delaying him from his release, getting to feel so much warm, coppery blood slipping between his fingers? No. He wouldn’t allow it.
“Medical tests?” He stood, pounding a fist on his desk. “What the hell for?” There was no way some stupid, arbitrary thing was going to delay his power, his revenge, his feelings any longer. When he dreamed of murdering the London prostitute, Claudio felt alive, real, and in control. Having that control taken away now was not acceptable. He wanted to smell her fear, see her eyes cloud over and the light behind them flicker out like a candle.
Ambrose gave his boss the rundown of cardiovascular considerations. When he finished, Claudio was still determined to avoid the test.
“You’re going to believe some fucking Empiricist scum over me? I’m fine, you idiot. Get that in me and send me back. Now.”
“But, sir, if you die—”
“If I die, then God intended it, and our citizens will understand. They already look to Spaulding, and I’m sure my team could advise him.”
“If you die, Mister Florence,” Ambrose said, his tone a little more forceful than usual, “forgive me, but Mister Spaulding is an idiot. Who d’you really feature takin’ over for your real duties, hmm? Me? I’d wager not. If you don’t want a medical test, then at least finally appoint a lieutenant.”
Claudio studied the young man. He was educated—despite his woeful lack of street smarts—capable with his science, and his values were right. But he was a foreigner, born in the NBE, and despite his defection and apparent allegiance, one could never be quite sure of someone’s lingering feelings about his homeland.
It occurred to Claudio that he himself was trying to get back to England—an England of centuries ago, but still the country of Ambrose’s birth. Still the seat of power of the NBE in present day.
But I’m going back to kill one of them. An inconsequential one, but a citizen of that future nation nonetheless. I’m doing my work back there. I’m getting rid of a whole Empiricst bloodline, perhaps.
He took a deep breath, urged himself to calm down for appearance’s sake. Claudio walked around his desk and clasped a hand on Ambrose’s shoulder. “Son, you know I value your contributions, no matter how much I point out your shortcomings.”
“With great frequency, sir,” Ambrose said, narrowing his eyes and standing up straighter.
“I’m just trying to challenge you,” Claudio said. “You have great potential.”
Ambrose relaxed and smiled. “Thank you, Mister Florence.”
“However, I can’t make you my successor. And you’re right about Spaulding. I appointed him because he’s malleable. You’re not. But you’re also not native born.”
Ambrose shrugged. “Didn’t think it would be me, sir, but still. Fellow has to ask, right?”
“Of course.”
“But you have to appoint somebody,” Ambrose continued. “Won’t do it otherwise, unless you want to consent to the physical.”
You aren’t immortal, but what if you could bring someone forward in time, someone who could really lead Rénertia to greatness? That should be your successor, someone bold who understands keeping this young country great, pure, and strong.
“You’re right, boy,” Claudio said. “Go ahead and check my ticker. I’m sure you’ll see it’s in tiptop shape. I’ll draw up some paperwork about any necessary change in power.”
Ambrose nodded and led his boss to the medical suite.
Friday, August 31, 1888, London, England
Polly Nichols wandered out of the inn when her rent was used up. “Oy, I got me a nice new bonnet, and it’s bound to earn me enough for tonight’s bed!” she shouted at the owner as she left.
“We’ll see, girl. Now out with ya.”
Polly adjusted her bonnet and headed for the pub across the street, but when she spotted the scrawny man who’d left her the night before she turned to head the other direction.
“Miss Polly, please, dear, don’t rush off so.”
She turned with some reluctance. “You got a lot of nerve, gov. Didn’t pay me nothin’, ’spite me doin’ me best, and didn’t even buy me breakfast.”
The man withdrew a small leather purse from the inside of his coat. He smiled as he shook it, coins inside jingling together like bells. In one hand he carried a smart bag, cornered like a doctor’s.
“Blimey, you got a bit of a windfall there, eh?” Polly imagined how much was inside and what it might do for her—a bed for a week, perhaps? Food? Drink? Oh, glorious drink. Polly could enter that beautiful oblivion that took away memories of her father’s yelling, her husband’s other women, her children…oh, God, her beautiful children whom William never let her see since he turned her out. Henry would be almost ten now, yet the last time she laid eyes on him he hadn’t even been walking yet. When she drank, Polly forgot her womb had ever been full, forgot the rough men and unforgiving women who’d made her resort to this life.
“Polly, we’re going to have to send you off.” Anna Cowdry, her last employer for her last respectable position, had held out a satchel to her. “We can’t have you drinking. This is a dry house, girl, and my husband—”
“Your husband’s been givin’ me eyes like he wants to wet his whistle,” Polly spat out. “Fine. You lot put on your airs and your do-goodings and whatnot, but I know why I bother the both o’ ya, and it’s got less to do with the cooking sherry ’n’ more to do with my unlocked bedroom door.”
The satchel held a week’s worth of funds and a list of addresses of inns in the city. Polly spent the shillings on alcohol; it had lasted her two days.
Was this man, this gentleman, going to fund her better? Going to give her some respectability? Fellows just wanting a night with her didn’t flash their money like this one did. If he was the sort to have trouble with the act itself, maybe he just wanted companionship, someone to keep house. And if he let her have her whiskey, Polly wagered she’d be right chuffed to sweep the man’s floors. Doctors needed housekeepers, ’specially poor bachelor doctors who also might need a bit of company without the hassle of a wife.
“It is quite the windfall, Polly.” The man’s grin widened. He held out an arm to her and escorted her into the alley.
~
An hour later, a horse-drawn carriage stopped short near Buck’s Row. The driver got out to unlock the stable doors and nearly tripped on Polly’s corpse as he did so.
Across the street, a man drew the brim of his hat down over his eyes, pressed the center of his palm, and walked ten feet to his right to the alley from w
hich he’d dragged the woman’s body. He never exited the other side.
Saturday, July 12, 2070, Flussville, South Carolina, RAA
“You do what you wanted to back there, sir?”
Claudio felt a rush of information enter his mind—articles, books, documentaries, comic books, all of it soaked in blood and shadowy sketches that resembled his own slender frame clad in Victorian garb.
The press-bestowed nickname hung in his mind like a slap in the face, like a cruel playground taunt.
“Jack the Ripper.”
“Sir?” Ambrose gasped. “Oh, hell, sir, I don’t know why I didn’t warn you about that first time you…you didn’t see him, did you? Were you near the scene of one of the murders?”
“Ambrose,” Claudio said, “do you remember the first time you heard about Jack the Ripper?”
Ambrose looked puzzled. “What? I don’t know. Back home, it’s somethin’ you ’ear ’bout soon as you’re old enough to get told not to run off by yourself at night.” He took another step back. “Why d’you ask?”
“Just curious, son.”
“With all due respect, sir,” Ambrose said, “you can be right barmy, y’know that?” He placed a blood pressure cuff on Claudio’s left arm. “Did you decide who you’d like to bring back as your successor?”
“Virginia Dare.”
“Don’t think I’m familiar. Surprised you’d want a woman.”
