by Jana Oliver
“That’s ridiculous.”
“Not to them. Why else would TPB have issued an Open Force Warrant with her name on it?”
Hamilton was right.
“We need damage control, sir,” Fulham counseled. “We need the public to know who’s the victim here. It may be very important down the line.”
“Exactly what I was thinking.” Morrisey swiveled toward Hamilton. “Get the real story out there; just don’t mention the Null Mem treatment yet. That’s our ace in the hole.”
“On the message boards?”
“No. Go where you and Miss Lassiter are known. They’ll trust your word better if they hear it in person. ”
Hamilton thought for a second. “The Time Pod. All the Rovers and groupies go there.”
“Then do it. It’s time to strike back.”
The favorite bar of both the Rovers and their groupies, the Time Pod was the marketing ploy of a man who’d made only one trip into the stream and then realized that time travel scared the living hell out of him. Dan Mead promptly resigned his job and opened the bar. It’d been an immediate success, and now the guy was earning way more than he would have as a Senior Rover.
“Hey, Ralph!” the owner called out from behind the cherry wood bar. He was still thin as a pipe stem. Ralph had always joked that Dan and Cynda had been separated at birth.
“Hi Dan, how’s it going?”
“Good. Eisler Lager?”
“Yup. Full pint this time.”
“So when are you going to come to work for me?”
That was a recurring proposition, one that Ralph had never taken seriously…until now.
“Don’t know. Maybe soon,” he replied. He’d had about as much of Morrisey as he could handle. It was like working for Albert Einstein and Marie Curie’s love child.
“How’s it goin’ at TEM? Is Morrisey like they say?”
“Worse,” Ralph replied, waiting as the amber fluid rolled into the glass.
“What’s this I heard about your buddy, Lassiter? Do they really have an OFW out on her?”
“Yup. I don’t know why they’re bugging her.”
Dan placed the pint on the bar with a grin. “On the house.” His way of garnering information from those in the know. He lowered his voice. “So what’s really goin’ on?”
Ralph took a sip of the beer and leaned closer. “You won’t believe it.”
“Try me.”
Later, Ralph settled himself in his favorite corner under the giant movie poster of H.G. Wells’ Time Machine, the 2029 version. Dan was already moving the tale along, customer by customer. A few were Rovers, and that was the key. Every now and then, someone would shoot Ralph a questioning look and he’d nod. If they wanted more details, they’d come to him.
The bar began to fill up, like someone had fired a starting pistol. It was easy to tell the groupies as they came in two flavors—the geeks and the women. Not that women couldn’t be geeks, but it just seemed to fall out that way.
He glanced up at The Wall, as it was called. It was like a scoreboard, but the Rovers were the players and the groupies were the ones who awarded the points. The Emeritus Section was for those who’d contributed the most to the profession. Harter Defoe was the only name listed. Time Rover One was the perennial favorite, not subject to the day-to-day rankings. He would always be Rover One, if nothing more than for having the sheer balls to take the first inter-dimensional trip.
The In the Stream section changed on a daily, if not hourly, basis. Currently, a Rover named Hubbard sat in First Place. Ralph had never heard of him. The run report that had moved him so far up the rankings was blinking below his name. On a whim, Ralph tapped on the console embedded in the table to download it.
It was pretty compelling: Hubbard had managed to save a tourist from the jaws of a Bengal Tiger in 1864 India, without harming the animal. Since the tourist in question was the son of a prominent politician and Bengal Tigers were nearly extinct in 2057, he’d received quadruple points.
Cynda was in seventh place and sinking rapidly. That trend had begun even before the bad press. Arguably the best Rover besides Defoe, she rarely broadcast her exploits and resisted having her run reports uploaded to the TimersNet. That had been a longstanding point of contention between them. He’d always ascribed to the “if you’ve got it, flaunt it” philosophy. If the groupies didn’t know what she’d done, she couldn’t rise on the list.
There was another entry in the Memorial section. Ralph didn’t need to download the final run report to know the specifics of Chris Stone’s death. Cynda had told him everything. It still hurt. He’d liked Stone a lot. Chris been good for Cynda and for a time Ralph had thought she’d finally found her guy. Then he was gone.
What a lousy way to die. Beaten, overdosed on chloral hydrate, then dumped into the Thames. It was a miracle she’d ever found his body.
His attention moved to the Deserves to Be Lost in Time section. That was always good for a laugh. Davies, the head of TPB, was on there, posted anonymously, probably by some furious Rover who’d been fined for violating some mindless regulation. Chris’ killer was there too. Dalton Mimes had six times as many votes as the chairman of the Time Protocol Board and was currently in the lead. The time periods suggested for Mimes’ trip all had one thing in common: zero survivability.
After another long sip of beer, Ralph eyed the patrons again. As if on cue, a young lady headed toward him. She was petite, cute, and appeared to be in her late twenties. Just my type. He smiled in welcome. He had his reputation as a Lothario to consider and Cynda’s illness had kept him out of circulation too long.
“Are you a Rover?” she asked breathlessly.
“Chron-op.”
“Oh,” she said, deflating. “Who do you work for?”
“TEM Enterprises.”
“Oh.” She perked up. “Have you met Mr. Morrisey?”
“Yes. I work very closely with him.” Far too close.
Her next question would tell him if she was a geek or Timer.
“Do you know some of the Rovers?” she asked, leaning closer.
A Timer.
“Sure do.” He patted the bench seat next to him. “Have a seat. Have I got a story for you.”
Chapter 23
“Where’s the bald guy?” Cynda demanded, trying to pull on her sandals. When the footwear didn’t go on quickly enough she flung them aside, narrowly missing Morrisey.
“Dr. Weber won’t be returning,” he informed her. “We should talk about what happened.”
“Nothing to talk about. I hit him. He deserved it,” she replied, glaring, her fists bunched.
“The problem is—” he began.
Cynda left him talking to himself. With an exasperated sigh, he trudged in her wake. His nephew Chris had gone through that stage during adolescence: surly, volatile, and distrustful of any authority figure, even his favorite Uncle Theo. Chris had finally outgrown it. There was no guarantee that Jacynda ever would.
She just has to. He’d made a careful study of potential medical treatments, hoping to find something to ramp down her anger. Nothing had panned out. She was truly on her own.
Though her volatility was definitely going to be an issue, for once she sounded like the old Jacynda. The docile girl was gone, replaced by a high-strung, outspoken hand grenade. It had all begun the moment she’d received the medication.
TPB may have just done us a favor.
He found her at the top portion of the Zen Garden, busily drawing with her chopstick, her face tortured in the effort. “Miss Lassiter?” She ignored him. “I’m sorry for interrupting, but we do need to talk.”
The chopstick continued to move with determined precision. “I don’t like people who bother me.”
Sensing a potential explosion, he opted for a change of subject. “It’s coming along nicely.” No reply. “Miss Lassiter?”
She dropped the chopstick and began to tug on the band on her arm like a fox caught in a steel trap. “Take thi
s damned thing off.”
“As you wish.” It’d served its purpose. Tracking her now would be as simple as following the trail of bleeding bodies. He inputted the code, and the band fell away. She resumed the sand drawing.
“We still need to talk,” he reminded her gently.
“You didn’t keep them from hurting me.”
He’d wondered when that would come. “No, I didn’t. I tried my best and I failed. I sincerely apologize.”
“Means nothing.”
“Jacynda, I—”
“Go away! I hate you!” she shouted and pointedly turned her back on him.
Morrisey spun on a heel and left her alone in the middle of the sand. If he remained, he’d say things neither of them were prepared to handle.
The moment he’d left, Cynda settled back on her heels, biting her lip.
What did I just do?
Maybe she shouldn’t be mad at him, but she was. He’d failed her. All of them had. None of them had kept her safe.
At least the bracelet was off now. When she spied it, she snatched it up and buried it deep in the sand, pleased to have the wretched thing gone.
The ants sprinted up and down her spine again. Any slight noise made her grit her teeth. She closed her eyes and tried to think of kittens and string. Instead of the vision calming her, the ants captured the kitten, tied it up in the string, and ate it alive.
With a throaty roar, she channeled that fury into action, battering the sand castle into nothingness, methodically destroying the towers, the moat, the great hall and the drawbridge. When she was done, she used her index finger to draw a sandy version of the bald man’s face. Then she pummeled it with her fists. Smoothed the sand, redrew the face, obliterated it. Smooth, draw, hit. She repeated that sequence until her knuckles were raw.
“Miss Lassiter?” a mechanical voice asked.
She glared toward the walkway. A tall silver contraption patiently awaited her response.
“Who are you?” she snarled.
“Sigmund. I am Master Ralph’s HB Series Domestic Robot.”
“So?”
“You requested that I visit. If you prefer not to speak with me, I will visit at another time.”
She leaned back on her haunches, thinking things through. A silver robot with a name that started with “S”. That did sound familiar. While she debated, he, or it, waited patiently. No annoying beeps or blinking lights. That won him points.
Still, there was one more test. “Do you know what those are?” she asked, pointing at the figures on the pagoda.
His electronic eyes swiveled up to scrutinize the figures. “They are T’ien Lung, celestial dragons, who are believed to protect the houses of the gods.”
She stood, dislodging the clinging sand from her clothes. “What did you say your name was?”
“Sigmund.”
Cynda waved him over. She had questions. Perhaps the silver creature had answers.
~••~••~••~
Morrisey sat in his sanctuary, as he called it, attempting to find some balance. He tried another round of deep breathing to calm himself. Outwardly, it worked, but his mind was still warring with itself. It was all or nothing now. If Jacynda translated her anger into another assault, he would have no leverage to keep her out of an asylum. He was at the end of that rope. TPB and the judicial system had made that crystal clear.
Did I do the right thing? Maybe he should have allowed the psychiatrists free rein. Maybe he’d made a mistake.
“No,” he whispered. If he had, the Jacynda Lassiter he so admired would be gone, that exceptional personality subsumed, all in the name of conformity. His nephew had often spoken of her tenacity: once Jacynda made a decision, right or wrong, she’d move heaven and hell to get the job done. It’s what had made Morrisey hire her in the first place. She’d proved herself over and over, and if his intuition were right, she’d do the same this time.
Not everything was grim: her adrenalin-fueled temper had worked as a catalyst. In an unguarded moment, she’d admitted to the company physician that memories crowded her like neglected children, all howling for attention. Filing them away was what proved the problem.
“A significant lack of context,” was how the doctor had described the situation.
“But how do I help her now?”
He heard the outer door open and the soft pad of footsteps. Fulham and the rest of the staff were gone for the day, expect for a handful of security guards. They never came here unless summoned. He retrieved a second cup from the Chinoiserie cabinet, then set it close to its mate and the iron teapot.
The footsteps would stop every now and then as the visitor moved toward him. He didn’t call out. She’d find him eventually. For her, the journey was every bit as important as the destination.
The moment Jacynda stuck her head inside the room, he waved her forward. To his delight, he saw that her hair was combed and she had her sandals on. She was wearing one of the silk kimonos he’d given her. Clearly, she’d thought enough about this visit to tidy up. That meant it was important to her. Her face was scrubbed clean, but that wasn’t what caught his notice. It was her expression. Not contrite, nor was it defiant. More troubled than anything.
Let this go well. The last thing either of them needed was more conflict.
“Have a seat,” he said as casually as possible, gesturing to the pillow across from him. His heart was beating too fast, and he attempted to calm it.
“I—”
“Tea first,” he said. Jacynda settled opposite him, looking around the room in wonder. He gave her the time. She’d never been here before.
As she peered around, he poured a cup and then handed it to her with a bow. She took a sip and then smiled in surprise.
“That’s good.”
“White tea with pomegranate.” Only then did he pour himself a cup. To his annoyance, he noted a faint tremor in his hands.
“What kind of place is this?” she asked, her eyes still taking the tour.
“My sanctuary. You’re one of the rare few who’ve been in here.”
She frowned. “Why?”
“I like my privacy.”
“Why?” she repeated.
It was clear she would not allow him to evade the question.
“Because I’m not sure if people want to know what I’m really like.”
Before she could pursue that personal admission any further, he gently prodded, “Is there something you want to ask me?”
“Ah…yeah.” She pursed her lips, deep in thought. He waited her out. “Can you make the ants go away?”
“We have ants in the compound?” he asked, mystified.
She shook her head. “They’re inside me,” she explained. “Marching up and down, under my skin. I can’t get rid of them.”
Morrisey shoved aside the image of actual insects.
“The robot…Sig…Sigmund told me that the stuff Weber gave me might have done it. The ants make me angry. I don’t want to be this way. It’s not right.”
Her voice quavered. “I need…your help, Theo Morrisey.”
He sighed, long and low. She had just turned a corner.
“I think we need to find something to dampen that anger.”
“No medicine,” she shot back.
“No, that doesn’t work for you.” He rose. “Come with me. I have an idea.”
As Cynda followed him through the rooms, it seemed like she’d stumbled into a private world. She delighted in the waterfalls, the reed matting on the floors and the green carved bird nestled amongst a small bamboo forest. She gently touched the bird’s beak. It felt cold.
Noting her interest, he paused. “It’s a jade egret,” he said proudly. “I found it in China. It’s magnificent, don’t you think?”
She nodded. “Must be really heavy.”
“It is. It cost me a fortune to have it shipped here, but I treasure it.”
The practice room, as he called it, had bamboo flooring and one full wall of mirrors
. Her eyes were drawn to the swords on the other wall. She wondered what they were for.
“Have a seat and just watch me for a while,” he told her.
She found herself a corner and settled into it. He gave a strange look at her choice of location, but didn’t comment.
He stood in the middle of the room and then slowly began to move, bending his knees and then moving one foot to the side. Then he began to move his arms around. He turned on a heel, waving his arms around again.
For a while she thought he was playing games with her, but the longer she watched she realized there was a pattern. He’d take a step and do that strange hand waving, then aim in another direction and repeat the gestures. He kept at it, deftly shifting from position to position. It was like a dance for people who couldn’t make up their minds which way to go. Sometimes, he would shoot his fist out and make a funny noise.
He did that now. She chuckled. As he turned toward her, a dark eyebrow arched.
“You find me amusing?” he asked, not halting his movements.
“It looks silly,” she said.
He curved around into another pose. “It all depends on your point of view.”
She’d seen him do this on the sand early in the morning. At least he had until she’d started the drawing.
“What’s a…mother ship?” she asked.
His concentration broke for a fraction of a second. “What?”
“Ralph said that when you’re doing this, you’re signaling the mother ship.”
A sour look came her way. “He’s being sarcastic. This is Chen Style Tai Chi Chuan. It’s a martial art. It teaches you how to defend yourself. And how to calm yourself.”
“Would it help me get rid of people who annoy me?”
“Not necessarily.”
“Then what’s the point?” she asked.
“To help you find balance. That’s something we both need right now.”
